‘Last scene of all
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.’
Sunday morning, crawling to the bathroom, my sense of touch had the nerve to up and leave me. Even after stubbing my toe on one of the wine boxes, the numbing sensation in my accelerator foot had lingered long after escaping our Sebring; moreover, my sense of balance insisted that my body was floating underwater. This of course pointed towards some livid dreamscape, and as I lay there considering the possibility of that mermaid appearing again, Dasad woke. Damn. Another night Ariel, my love.
“Dude, what are you doing?”
“Wondering why I lost feeling in my legs . . .”
“No, on the floor,” he yawned.
“Oh, I tripped over one of the boxes in the dark. On the way to the bathroom. So very dark in here,” I pondered. “When you close the blinds like this, its amazing how inclined you are to believe it’s two in the morning.”
“It is two. Go back to sleep.”
NOTE: I may have imagined all this. Throughout much of the trip, the line between dream and reality continued to fade and establish itself elsewhere, like the world seen through the bottom of a wine glass.
At any rate, we woke (later?) Sunday morning quite exhausted and indescribably drained from our six-hour exodus to Anaheim, in no mood whatsoever for early morning mass. Yet sloth could not have its way. Mothers – especially mine – possess an innate knowledge of their children’s foibles, both mortal and venial, and before we got that phone call, I roused our troops early and ushered them out the door.
Mass in California differs little from services back home. My presence was still something of a minority, trading in a congregation of aging seniors for young Hispanics and Asians. Nor did I quite grasp the point of the homily, a heavily accented digression into the meaning of faith, a topic which my own pastor would have muddled with several multi-layered tangents and an unnecessary explanation of didacticism – whatever that means. Even the church’s heavily stylized windows displays and murals complimented my own: a tangled collage of pictures and symbols buried deep within colorful stained glass, like something by Seurat broken and reassembled with Jolly Rancher shards. Yet Anaheim’s depiction of the Annunciation of Mary gave me pause.
Along one of the walls, Mary communes with an aged angel; in their midst a dove descends, a red beam fired from the bird’s beak pierces the Blessed Mother.
“It was like a holy laser beam had been shot into her chest,” I remarked afterwards to a yawning Dasad. “I realize the need to conceptualize the Holy Spirit as something more than swirling air currents and fireballs, but doesn’t the divine ‘pregnancy ray’ oversimplify things a little too much. Hell, they probably stole the idea from a Superman comic.”
“You would know,” Dasad muttered. “So what’s the plan for today? LA? San Diego?”
“You said something about a triple feature. A day to kick back and watch movies.”
“Okay . . . yeah, let’s do that. It’d be good to do nothing for one day.”
I refuse to bore you with many of the details that followed. As is often the case, these rare relaxing moments seldom translate well as good stories, while relating our ubiquitous humiliations and regrets often prove rather interesting – if not downright amusing. We decided on three flicks, just recently released and from various genres:
- Ponyo – a child’s fable, but nonetheless whimsical and beautifully told
- District 9 – awesome and intelligent; excellent science fiction
- 500 Days of Summer – if you’ve ever downloaded specific music tracks simply to attract a girl; or abhor dating; or simply enjoy honest funny movies
So excellent was the theater fare that without realizing it, we ate little else but stories for the remainder of the day.
You see, good tales possess a unique aroma, such that one might discuss an excellent tale with the same enthusiasm some reserve for fine cuisine or century-old merlot. This analogy may be a bit off-putting to some, like my sister Katie, who suffers through most books like a sick child with castor oil, yet for bibliophiles the metaphor is all too accurate. In my time, many books of such excellent vintage have incited periods of prolonged fasting and isolation (the night I discovered Harry Potter springs to mind), only to emerge again physically weak but nonetheless spiritually enervated several days later.
Excellent stories, thus, provide food for the soul. And if the soul dies, the body follows shortly, right? Therefore, reading is more important than food . . . or breathing. For this reason and more, my family worries for my health and sanity.
Nevertheless, having fed our souls well, we left the theater satisfied and finally able to focus on our all-too-needy stomachs. Late night dining (a little after ten) is sketchy at best, limiting hungry patrons to stale burgers or scraped bean paste wrapped in doughy tortillas. Luckily we found a 24-hr Subway across the street from the hotel, wedged in between a Mexican take-out and Chinese restaurant that sold grease spiced with chicken fat (noodles were extra). Jay opted for Chinese and Dasad tempted the Fates by ordering Mexican. All in all the movies were better, and we returned to the hotel with satisfied hearts and stomachs in need of Alka-Seltzer.
NOTE: the bathroom at the theater was enormous and clean. This may sound like an unusual topic to mention in closing but those who have traveled far through many a gas station or rest stop restroom can appreciate the joy of stumbling across clean public bathrooms. It was breathtaking that I actually took a picture of it (thank the weekly matinees that it was empty).