Letter

LA is mostly sitting in traffic.

My first day here I get stuck in gridlock on Santa Monica Boulevard between two art supply stores. I see the fire burning just north of there before turning east. I need mural paint and stupidly don’t check whether the first store stocks it before driving out. Now I’m sitting here watching traffic lights turn yellow, red, and green several times over before making it through a block.

The house is many miles from the fires but all social plans I’ve made have been canceled because of it. I’m getting off easy. I hear my parents and my brother and sister-in-law talking about awful pictures and video and stories of movie star homes burnt to nothing. I haven’t seen or heard a thing myself. I don’t follow the news.

At dinner one night, my brother asks if I feel better ignoring current events and I don’t know how to answer. It’s what I feel I have to do in order to function. I say that short of helping people evacuate or riding on a fire truck the information and images of this disaster being in my head wouldn’t serve any purpose to anyone.

I’d done a lot of work to prepare ahead of time but painting the wall is still a challenge. It’s by far the biggest picture I’ve ever made and stucco’s not paper or canvas.

After the first day, I’m not sure whether I can pull it off; on the second day, I find some sort of rhythm. All the research and sketches aren’t necessarily evident in the final result but that’s to be expected. I don’t generally make things with a guide map or strategy. I like to discover the thing while I’m in it.

I’ve never gone snorkeling or scuba-diving. I don’t have a particular interest in the ocean deep. This is a commissioned picture made for a baby girl whose mother works in aquariums. I hope the girl gets something out of what I’ve made.

It feels like a reach. Time will tell.

I salvage a TV box with a bunch foamcore packing from the alley. I wrap a large drawing, a collage, a gouache, and a couple oils in and tape it all up. I balance the box on my bathroom scale and round up the weight to twenty pounds. I buy postage and print out a label. I bungee-cord it to the back of my bike and drop it off.

The tracking number is scanned the next day. The package is estimated to arrive in LA five days later.

Since starting to publish my own books, this is a sequence I’ve repeated well over a thousand times. Usually, within a few days of the estimated travel time, the package arrives at its destination without incident. It’s a wonder how rarely things have gone wrong but everyone’s luck runs out. It’s the law of averages.

On the appointed day, my package of pictures is loaded on a truck somewhere in the Los Angeles area and a delivery window is provided for afternoon to early evening. Sometime after that window has closed, tracking informs me that the receiver has refused to accept the package and that it’s being returned to sender.

I know this is a lie but I call the receiver to make sure. I call the shipping entity and find out that their customer service representatives take weekends off. This being a Saturday, I’ll have to wait till Monday to find out what happened.

On the phone Monday, I’m told that the package is damaged and is being returned to me. The woman on the phone says I should file a damage claim. She emails me the link to do so. But when I begin to fill out the form, I run into a problem. They won’t accept the claim without photos of the damage. I don’t have the package so I don’t know what’s been done to it.

A week later, tracking gives an ETA for delivery at my home. The day comes and goes. Next day on the phone, the operator assures me it will be delivered by the end of the day. This is another lie. A couple days later, another representative instructs me to file a lost package claim, even though the box appears to be sitting at the hub in Chicago.

I send the intended recipient a list of other art to choose from, pack up their choices, and drop off the box at the same place as the one that vanished. The new one is scheduled to arrive by the end of the week. I’ll believe it when I see it.

My loss claim is marked as approved. It even says it’s been paid out. I haven’t seen a cent so I can’t say whether that’s true. I’d love to know what’s left of my pictures. I hope they’ve made a nice Christmas present for whatever official decided not to deliver them.

I’m flattered that they liked them enough to pretend they disappeared.

Surfacing soon…

The other day at the bookstore, Lisa wanted to talk about the drones over New Jersey. I just looked at her blank-faced. I haven’t read or listened to the news since November 6th. She was disappointed she couldn’t speculate about flying saucers with me but I felt okay about it. I don’t intend to start paying attention anytime soon.

I read an article about something I’d forgotten about that might help in getting through the coming years in this country. The idea is to get myopic. To only concern yourself with friends, family, and work; as if nothing but what’s literally or figuratively gathered around your kitchen table matters.

A serious compartmentalizing effort is required. I’m at least a few steps ahead by not carrying around a smartphone. For me to engage with mass media is more of a conscious effort than for most people nowadays.

I spend more time than I should on the internet but the impulse to click on this or that news site isn’t very strong and gets weaker the longer I don’t do it. It’s like quitting any vice. It gets easier.

Is this making me stupider? More ignorant? I wasn’t that smart when I was reading the news every day all those years. Whether an article made me angry or happy or confirmed something I sensed or undermined a core belief, I can’t say whether cramming the information into my head was a positive or a negative.

Now I only watch, listen, and read things related to what I’m working on or that concern something or someone in my immediate sphere. I don’t know how long I can keep it going like this but I’m game to find out.

It’s a lot darker out there than it is in here.

I recorded a talk with novelist and former ghost writer, Avner Landes.