Easter Sunday. This year, Russian Easter falls on the same date as the most of the rest of Christianity. I’m Russian and was brought up in the Russian Orthodox faith. I am not a regular churchgoer nor am I particularly religious. But I do care deeply about the Russian Church. It is a strong part of my childhood and my culture.
What I have always deeply appreciated about this particular religion is its simplicity. Unlike Western Christianity, the Russian Orthodox Church doesn’t preach in a strong, bombastic, “You’ll go to hell if you don’t believe as we do” kind of way. It doesn’t send missionaries out to convert people who already have their own spiritual beliefs that sustain them. The Russian Church isn’t a fashion show or a parade on Sundays. Dress simply or very nicely: it doesn’t matter. You come and go as you please during the service; you are not noticed. You stand for hours during the service (a few chairs are placed for older and disabled people) and pray – if that’s what you wish. No one is paying any attention to you; most people there are focused on their own communion with God.
No, instead of long-winded sermons about how selected “truths” from the Bible can change your life from some charismatic, photogenic preacher (“today’s service available on DVD for $24.95 – operators standing by!”), there is a calm peaceful feeling in a Russian Church. Beautiful choral voices sing lovely harmonies to accentuate the words and blessing from a Russian priest. The strong smell of incense along with hundreds of burning candles adds another important level of sensation. All of these elements combined for me create a peaceful, reverential spiritual dimension that is not oppressive, not intrusive but rather calming and reassuring. A part of my soul feels at home here.
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My Mother was very displeased with me this afternoon. It was Palm Sunday and she had wanted me to go to Church to light a candle for her. (Because of pool health, she cannot go herself; she will be 98 years old in July.) Sometimes, the fact that all of her friends and relatives have died weigh heavily on her spirit. Her faith in God and her love for me are what sustains her.
My Mother survived the Russian Revolution in 1917. She survived many horrors (one of her young brothers was shot to death and her father died a broken man - both as a result of that era’s atrocities) and many life challenges. Besides her own personal courage, the one quality that has always kept her going was her complete and total faith in God. The God that she discovered in the Russian Church. Despite being torn away from the Russia she loved, throughout the many years of her life she never gave up the faith that had been deeply rooted within her soul.
So, on this Palm Sunday, she was sad that I had not gone to the Church on her behalf. Besides lighting a candle, she had wanted me to bring back some pussy willow that the Church passed out. When Christ entered Jerusalem, people greeted him by waving palm branches. Since Russia didn’t have palm trees, the Russian people instead substituted the branches of a pussy willow bush – which thus had special meaning for my Mother. So, even though I had been sick with the flu for several days, I went to the Church (near my home), lit some candles, said a prayer and managed to get some last, remaining pussy willow.
My Mother almost cried when I walked into her home with the little branches with buds on them. I told her that I had lit a candle for her as she touched my face with both hands and thanked me. My little endeavor meant the world to her. As I walked out her door, she continued to thank me and tell me how much she loved me. Having heard so many horror stories from so many people, over the years about terrible parents, I am incredibly grateful to have a loving Mother who took care of me when I was a very sickly child, nurtured my spirit when I was down and continues to inspire me with her presence. I am a very lucky man.
12/4/2006 4:30 PM
“A Quickie”
Two workers I hired have been toiling all day to help me create a model train platform. They need some special screws to complete the project. It’s late, almost rush hour, but I tell them I’ll race over to nearby Orchard Supply Hardware and get back fast.
I instead have a Mind-Adventure Detour.
I only drive about 2 blocks when I see a tall, lovely blonde woman trying to hitch a ride at a bus stop. She looks young and fresh; doesn’t appear to be a hooker. Because of traffic, I can’t pull over to where she is, so I decide to loop several blocks around to get back to where she is. I arrive at the spot and she’s still there, with her thumb up (“why hasn’t someone else picked her up by now?” I wonder).
I’m driving my favorite work car (“Scoodle”): a banged-up, very dirty 1979 Chevette hatchback. I’m dressed in dirty, torn jeans, beat-up work boots and a worn, red flannel shirt that’s too large for me. I haven’t shaved in days and my hair is a mess. A strange, old guy in a strange old car.
The woman gets in my car anyway.
I’m surprised; I had already assumed she probably wouldn’t get in and that I was wasting my time. She is very pretty. Large eyes, sensual, full lips, longish, wavy blonde hair. Her figure (dressed in tight jeans and a short blouse) is slender and girly. Her voice is strong and pleasant. She is very sexy. She tells me her name is Sondra and that she needs a ride to the Guitar Center (about 2 miles away on Sunset Blvd.). She plays guitar and is part of some band. I tell her about the Sunday Salon parties that I host which feature many different kinds of live music. I give her a S. Salon card flyer and encourage her to attend, some day. She tells me that she enjoys traveling and isn’t sure when she’ll be back in Los Angeles. She finds the quality of life here skewed. She feels much more at peace and at home in nature. She loves the Rainbow Gatherings that take place in rustic, rural areas.
Sondra had just finished teaching a nutrition class for young people at Children’s Hospital (about a mile from Gemini Manor) and is a Vegan (extreme vegetarian). She is very concerned about her health. She tells me that because of various physical and mental problems, she also prefers being away from cities.
I immediately ask her what kind of mental problems. “Oh, you know, transgender issues.”
I take it in stride. “Have you had surgery?” I ask. “No, just counseling. I just had my last counseling session today”, she tells me with pride.
I drop her / him off at the Guitar Center and tell her to stay in touch. A nice thank you and the stranger is gone.
I drive away with a smile. For a brief moment in time, I connected with an attractive, vibrant human being who shared some of my own views on life and nature.
What could be sexier than that?
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12/4/2006
Rosey
My dear, wonderful, sexy, multi-talented and very mischievous friend Rosey Reed has died. She was so strong and sure and brave and yet also so fragile and vulnerable underneath, that I’m torn as to what I feel.
She shouldn’t be gone. I definitely feel that. Not at her age, not at this time.
I feel anger toward the Huge, Hospital HMO that she has depended on, for so many years now. I strongly feel that they let her down.
I feel some frustration because of all the years I would plead, cajole, and lecture Rosey about working too hard, too long. I always knew, deep down, that her will was so much stronger than her body. She had probably been a hard-riding knight on horseback in a past life and couldn’t accept any frailties or limitations in this current incarnation.
And now, she has ridden off; left this new past life behind in search of a new, future one.
May she always run far and fast with horses, with a clear, captivating voice and a shy, flirtatious smile. I am honored to have been your friend.
I miss you Rosey. I will always miss you.
**************************************************Monday Morning, February 20, 2006
On Death and Disappearance of the Past
“Why am I still alive?”
Ten days ago, my dear 96-year-old mother said these words to me. I really didn’t have an answer. All her friends & relatives passed on many years ago. She is alone. Hard of hearing and reclusive, afraid of the world outside her door, she watches TV, reads old Russian books that she’s read many times before (she dislikes modern literature) and prays to her beloved God above to take her.
Death, the Final Journey of Life, is a strange concept — especially to Americans. Lulled into childish thinking that all needs, desires and problems can be solved with modern technology and “positive, forward thinking”, people in the United States can’t accept the fact that they cannot live forever. So, they do the best they can to disguise death. If you can’t beat it, cheat it. Make death “pretty” and “meaningful”. Lots of flowers and Hallmark Greeting cards. Lots of stage makeup on the corpse. Even high-tech video on demand on the person’s tombstone with touchy-feely highlights of their life. Death as entertainment. Death as the Grand Finale in a one-person show.
Timothy Leary, the LSD Prophet and Cultural Raconteur (who once visited Gemini Manor), decided that he would make his impending death (from prostate cancer) a spectacle. A countdown to the final moment. He and his supporters posted daily and weekly updates about his deteriorating condition on his website. Ongoing parties were held in his home. Supposedly, his final words were: “What a Trip!”
Why are we still alive — any of us? What gives meaning to what we’re about? For me, at this stage of my life, I’ve given up trying to “change the world”. My “Baby-Boomer” generation tried that back in the 1960’s — with mixed results. No, I now feel that I can best honor life by giving aid and comfort on a small, selective and personal basis. Helping one life, one friend, and one cause at one time.
A few weeks ago, on the morning of January 8, I buried one my dearest friends: Leeska. Leeska was a Chow-Chow — German-Shepherd mix-breed dog. She had died the night before from a probable heart attack. It was unfair, it was wrong — she shouldn’t be dying! I had my hands on her very fast beating heart, feeling the life slowly leaving her body. I was powerless to stop death. I ran inside and called my veterinarian for advice. He wasn’t home. I ran back and Leeska was gone; just her body remained. I cried and screamed. One of my other dogs, Shamrock (a Golden Retriever mix), cried and screamed in support of my pain also. Leeska had been his best friend. Shamrock and I were stunned.
After the burial on that Sunday morning, I had to prepare for my Russian Christmas Party. As I got ready, I tried to put the missing life of a friend out of my mind. During the party, I had to put on a Happy Face, ignore the horrible pain I felt inside. I was wearing a Mask of Life Illusion, the same mask that all people wear at times to hide who they are and what they’re really feeling. I get annoyed when people wear their masks in front me. I always want people to be candid and open. And yet, here I was wearing one myself.
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Yesterday, I witnessed a different kind of death, and yet just as powerful and moving to me. Lisa and I drove to La Crescenta and visited John Gibbons, a wonderful artistic and visionary British gentleman. His main focus in life is working with crystals, bringing out the beauty and the meaning behind the many facets of these amazing earth-treasures. John and his wonderful companion, Ariyana, were having a moving sale of crystals. Having heard for many years about John, his crystal collection and his home, I felt compelled to go.
I walked into an outside yard of primitive and rustic charm. Cobblestone walkways and short walls — all lined with boxes and boxes of crystals and rocks everywhere. Magical wind chimes made of improbable elements adding aural harmony to all who entered. Tall, gently swaying slender trees and lush greenery providing peaceful harmony and sanctity to this special world.
And then the sadness.
Ariyana must have seen the fascination and delight that she saw in my eyes as I had arrived. She quickly beckoned me to follow her to the back of the property. As we walked, she told me that what I had seen was nothing compared to what had just been destroyed. We came to face the back of a recently built, very large and imposing — and horribly ugly — stucco, two-story building. Ariyana told me that not too long ago, that part of the property had had even more walkways, trees and beauty than the part I had just seen. A developer had recently acquired the entire property and had murdered the life force on half of it.
He was now preparing to kill off the other half.
I entered the small and cluttered but completely endearing rental home of John and Ariyana. She showed me some photos of what had been. Indescribable, simple life-beauty. Gone forever now, only a memory to those who had been lucky enough to experience it first hand. And now, John and Ariyana would have to leave the world that they had created because it too was decreed expendable.
I took several photos and drove off, feeling tired and sad. Sad for the obvious and tired of the shortsightedness of greedy people who have no feeling or respect for the hard-wrought creations of others. Sadly, I was about to experience another, much more personal “property death”.
I was driving on Foothill Boulevard in Tujunga. It was only a few miles from where I had once owned a very special home. I had lost it through foreclosure in 1986 and had avoided seeing it again since then. I had purchased it (in 1976) from a former, beloved girlfriend and had always intended that it would be a final sanctuary for me when I grew older. It was an incredibly charming, rustic cobblestone cabin-house that was set in the middle of a very long property filled with tall trees and bushes. Very private, secluded and serene, the whole environment was one of simple natural beauty and earthly magic.
I had trouble finding the right street and when I finally did, I could not find the property. I parked next to a construction site and looked around. Where was it? Where was the huge pepper tree that stood in the front of the lot?
My heart sank as I turned to take a closer look at the construction site. It was here. This was the spot. But everything I had cherished was gone. The pepper tree, the cobblestone house and walkways, the lovely trees, plants and bushes — all gone. Replaced by two dark, massive and incredibly ugly, back-to-back, two story “mansions”. Both were being built very close to the property lines thus not allowing any room for trees or other greenery.
I was very shaken. This was definitely a “death” of an old friend — a brutal murder, in fact. For many years, I had secretly hoped to one day be able to buy back this treasured piece of real estate. And now I could only mourn what once was. I spoke to a woman living across the street who told me that the property had been sold about 6 months prior. She told me that the whole neighborhood was upset about the destruction/construction. I drove to the back of the property (it stretched from street to street) and gathered some large rocks and broke off a small piece of cactus. They were the only mementos left remaining from the demolished, forgotten world that my ex-girlfriend had once named “Dragonwyck” (an old, Gothic Romance novel).
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The very next day, I discovered one more property death. After my parents divorced (when I was 20 years old), my Father had moved to a small, rented bungalow about a mile from I live now. This was his last home in America before he left for Beirut, Lebanon (where he died and I was born). A quaint little house behind a larger front house. I happened to be driving by the location and saw that it too was gone. A massive condo project was being developed there. Yes, perhaps I’m too sentimental, but it had been comforting for many years to be able to drive by that spot and silently voice my regards to my dear, departed Father. One more place of memory erased.
Am I being too morbid, am I holding on too tightly to people and places from my past?
Morbid, nope. Sentimental, yep. I know that every item on this planet, whether living or non-living (such as older houses & buildings, cars, machinery, etc.) will all have an ending someday. I just feel that society often seems to be in a rush to erase certain beautiful and integral parts of its past to usually create a less inspired and (oftentimes) inferior future. The Los Angeles I grew up in (I moved here in 1948) had countless beautiful homes, theaters and other buildings that are now gone. Nearby Barnsdall Park, once a huge, tree filled oasis on the outskirts of Hollywood has had its outer perimeter severely trimmed, over the years, to allow for the creation of tacky malls, apartment buildings and the sprawling Kaiser Hospital.
A partial “death”, but a death nonetheless.
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Monday Morning, April 17, 2006
Death, continued.
A couple of weeks ago, yet another sturdy, old house was torn down about a block from my home. With the destruction crews looking on, I managed to rescue a number of plants and rose bushes that were about to be trampled by a bulldozer. I gave them a new possibility for life in my Mother’s front yard. In the short amount of time since my “rescue”, many have rewarded my eyes by giving birth to a panorama of beautiful flowers — just in time for spring. I also brought back large pieces of concrete from the driveway and the front of the house, which I’ll use in decorating some garden areas on my property.
This is one of many reasons why I collect “stuff”. Why I keep adding odd, endearing old objects to the architecture of Gemini Manor. Why I search out old books, curios and yes, automobiles.
The Gemini Manor motto is: “To Preserve and Protect the Past to Give Meaning to the Present and the Future.”
What more can I say?
Thursday, December 28, 2005 1:10 AM
Can’t sleep. I usually rarely get sick but went through a bad bout of flu that has lasted for the past couple of weeks. The last few days, the flu has been gone but so has my energy. I seem to have a need to sleep a lot. But, I’m definitely better than I was. Just can’t seem to sleep now.
This last Sunday, I hosted a Christmas Open House at Gemini Manor. The start time for the party was 4:00 PM. Big mistake. At 4:00 the house is a mess — and so am I. For the past several months, I’ve been having ongoing, daily work being done on The Manor: repairs, maintenance, decorating, etc. There is so much that needs to be done that I have to have workers here every day – even on the weekends. This, of course, creates enormous problems when I have a party on Sunday nights. So, as I’m rushing the workers (and myself) to complete the day’s checklist of work to be done that afternoon, I suddenly run into two beautiful actresses who have arrived on time. Big Mistake.
I’m dressed in dirty, shabby work clothes. I haven’t shaved in days. My long hair is wild & frazzled and filled with sawdust. Having been sick during the prior week, I look like an extreme medical casualty. Or homeless. Or both.
The actresses, however, looked great. No, change that: they both looked HOT. Dressed sleek, sexy & stylish and ready to do the town.
Both of the young women have parts in my fantasy film, “The Dream of Alvareen”.
One of the women is a Latina with a petite figure. She has shoulder length, curly dark hair and a mischievous smile. She plays a free-spirited & fiery Salsa Dancer in my movie.
The other has very long, lovely blonde hair that travels seductively down her back. She has a sensual, voluptuous body that was perfect for her role of “Lady Godiva” in my film. She again reminds me that she would like to have some photos from the day we shot her riding naked on a horse. I remind her that I had asked our photographer not to be there that day. She again asks me “why”? I reply that I was trying to respect her privacy. She and her friend walk away from me as she sniffs, “you should have asked me first!”.
They leave, shortly after that, well before I have a chance to take a shower and be a more presentable host. Sigh.
After a bumpy start, my workers leave, the guests start trickling in and the party starts cooking the way I had hoped. A potpourri of different styles of people: various cultures & nationalities, older, younger, male, female – and confused. Exactly what I’d wanted. My home is open to all.
An old friend arrives with his wife, her visiting sister from India and my friend’s two, very young sons. I carry the youngest (about a year old) up to the roof so that he and his family can see the improvements going on in the Jungle / Sunroom. I carefully place the toddler on the couch inside and he seems quite fascinated – as are his parents. I’m very proud of the Sunroom.
A man who I’ve respected from afar arrives. His name is John Gibbons, a distinguished looking British man. He wears glasses, has long gray hair and a beard. Slight of build but with an obvious inner peace and energy, he is someone who I’ve always wanted to have visit my home creation. Many years ago, I’d heard about the wonderful home world that he had created for himself using hundreds of crystals that he had discovered. It was supposedly a place of great beauty and a spiritual nexus. Sadly, it was destroyed in a fire – I never got to see it.
John doesn’t say much but seems to be enjoying my home. He sits quietly outside, on the Sunroom Deck near the metal fireplace. The flames are warm and inviting; a few other guests join him. A visiting friend of John’s (from Marin County) walks into the Sunroom and catches my eye. She is a tall, beautiful redhead with a shy, warm smile.
We sit and speak, for a while on my Tiger-print sofa. She is in a little bit of an emotional daze. She’s freshly out of a long-term relationship. She’s not sure if she wants to stay in Marin or, perhaps, move down to Los Angeles. She’s not sure about life.
It’s at that moment that my big, impressive friend Faol (pronounced Fo-yal) walks in. With a large abundance of hair and his rough, older Viking look, he easily captivates (which is why I chose him to play the part of “Father Earth” in my film!). Foal is a very intense, strong-willed and demanding man. He is not for the faint-of-heart.
I introduce him to Mz. Redhead (protected identity) and invite him to sit down when it becomes obvious that Faol has done his usual trick of feminine mesmerization. Mz. Red. is curious and interested. I leave them to check on the party down below. (Later on, I find out that Faol will be going to visit Mz. R. in Marin in a few days. Sigh.)
The party goes well, lots of people, not too many mishaps. At the end of the night (about 4:00 AM), a large, somewhat scary, pseudo gang-banger acquaintance arrives and makes friends with a musician friend of mine. They leave together to go scout out some other party. The report I get back the following day is that they both got very drunk and that Mr. Gang-Bang scared my musician friend with tales of his past and what he was capable of.
I assure my friend that Mr. G-B was simply drunk and “messin’” with him (I had called Mr.GB first to find out what really happened; he had apologized). My friend is still apprehensive, but I assure him that I haven’t had any kind of trouble like that at The Manor and that I would be the first one to ask anyone to leave if I felt that they were going to create problems.
Miscommunication & male egos. A large part of the formula of what ails the planet.
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I sleep most of the following day. No more parties until my Annual Russian Christmas Party on January 8, 2006.
Thank God!
Sunday, November 13, 2005 9:20 AMMy first night in the 2005 Sunroom.
I woke up this morning to the sound of many birds singing in the trees outside my resurrected Sunroom. So different from the sounds I’m hearing now - the loud, finger-nails-on-a-blackboard sounds of a skillsaw and pounding hammering (more work on The Manor). I guess it’s good that we have different yin / yang - peaceful / noisy elements in our lives. Perhaps it helps us appreciate more the calmer aspects of our existence.
The Sunroom is beautiful in the morning: green trees all around - a feeling of being surrounded by a protective, friendly forest. Several bright, red-orange balls of sunlight were clinging to the inside of the room. I got up and saw that the Sun was bouncing them into my little Sanctuary as a greeting for me from a skyscraper in Downtown, Los Angeles. It was a cheerful way to wake up. I left Lisa sleeping peacefully on the futon and went downstairs to say "Good Morning" to Perusha, the Kat.
Right now, despite the workers banging away, it’s still fairly calm. It won’t be tonight when lots of people visit my home. I enjoy the people, the live music, the many stories I hear. But sometime, probably just before the Sun arrives again during the next morning, I will enjoy the Calm. Calm is kinda nice considering the noisy, clanging world we live in. Calm is my drug of choice.
Friday, Oct. 21 8:09 PM
Rush, Rush RUSH. On my way to a Joseph Cambell Roundtable lecture about Halloween (and what it all means!). Just got back from a pre-reunion of my Hollywood High School classmates (class of 1965). We all met at Mel’s Diner on Highland Ave (Hollywood). Who were all those old people? Don’t remember going to school with any of em’. Main reunion (40th) is tomorrow night at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. Meredith Baxter (the actress) and Judith Miller (the journalist who went to jail recently over White House leaks) are two of the better known from my class.
Many workers coming tomorrow morning. They’re going to work on the roof (we got FLOODED at the close of the last party (10/16)!) and get The MANOR ready for the Masquerade Madness Costume Party on October 30. Must begin decorating. Many, many musts. E-mails to send to my list, my friends, my business contacts. Return phone calls. Doodle. Clean the house, the patio, the yard. Tooooo much to do, not enough time to do it all in. The world of 1965 wasn’t like that. Hollywood was a peaceful, simple place back then. You listened to the Beatles, discussed the Viet Nam war and tried to study, but thought mostly about sex. You drag raced (if you had a hot car; mine was a very fast 1959 Plymouth Fury - former undercover police car). You went to football games (because you were supposed to). You made out with your girlfriend in odd places and watched the goofy "Batman" series on TV. Nobody brought guns to school. Nobody had that much hate, back then. It was the Summer of Love. Life was more simple then.
Sigh. ........................................