Avoiding Regret

Hello to the Old Me

2013-06-19T00:00:00.000-07:00

I love to talk about how much I've changed since I moved to California, but lately, I'm feeling a little like my old self again.

Well, that is, I'm looking like my old self again.

I lost 52 lbs. between January 2011 and September 2012, when I hit a low weight I'll never be able to maintain. As of last week, I'd gained back 19 of those pounds. I found myself self-deprecating more than usual, calling myself "fat" and self-flagellating over my failure to keep the weight off. People kept saying, "But you look great!", but then again, they said that at my peak weight, too, when I was desperately overweight. I was depressed and stressed and lonely, so I ate and drank more. Watching myself gain the weight back depressed me more, so I continued to eat and drink.

But two years ago, in the summer of 2011, I'd lost 35 lbs. - the most weight I'd ever been able to lose, and more than my goal - and I was elated. I bought my first string bikini, which set off a shopping pattern in which I could not stop buying bikinis and finding excuses to wear them, even photographing myself in them and posting them online for the world to see. I was proud of my new body. I was seeing someone who loved the way I looked both 35 lbs. heavier and 35 lbs. lighter, and I was thrilled. I was happy. I wasn't ashamed.

I weigh exactly the same now as I did then. I am 35 lbs. lighter than my heaviest weight. And regardless of the fact that that means I am now more than 15 lbs. heavier than I was last fall, I am trying to remember that pride I once felt at this weight, at this size.

It's not easy when the numbers are going up instead of down.

It's not easy when your clothes don't fit because they're too tight instead of too loose.

It's not easy when you're less comfortable physically, sleeping worse, and still feeling hungry and deprived.

It's not easy when you're trying to do it all alone.

I fell off the Weight Watchers bandwagon when I moved to LA, two years after I first joined. I tried going to meetings at first, but it was nearly impossible with my work schedule in and commute to Venice. When I switched jobs that relocated me closer to my own neighborhood, I tried attending meetings before work, or skipping out on my lunch break, but my job was so demanding - and my coworkers focused so much attention and curiosity on the plan, what I was eating for lunch, what happened during meetings, why I would want to work for them anyway, etc. - that I got tired of explaining myself, and felt embarrassed that everyone else seemed to be able to just work out a lot and starve themselves in order to maintain their weight, and I had to go to some kind of group therapy for the community support.

Still, I went to as many meetings as I could, until the end of 2011, when I scrambled to finish all my work before returning to the East Coast for Christmas. When I returned to LA for the new year, I couldn't bear the thought of returning to meetings, which would surely be jam-packed with new and returning members trying to keep their New Year's resolutions. I kept telling myself I would go back soon. Then I told myself I didn't need the meetings, that I could do it on my own. (And truthfully, I hit my peak loss without going to meetings, after a good bout of desert detox.)

I lapsed on meetings (and, eventually, tracking and all the other stuff I'm supposed to be doing on the plan) for a year and a half.

And now, 19 lbs. heavier, I've gone back.

I've gone to three meetings so far. I gained two pounds between the first and the second. I lost three pounds since last week, netting me out at just one pound lighter.

It's a pound. A pound up or a pound down is nothing.

But at least I'm doing something about it, rather than bemoaning the failure and only making it worse through self-destructive behavior.

At least it's moving in the right direction.

I've done this before. I should be able to do it again. It's a rollercoaster I wish I didn't have to ride, but this is my life. This is it. I accept it, and move on.

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Essential Information

2013-06-18T15:35:00.000-07:00

As alone as I am, I feel like I'm constantly meeting new people out here in California.

And every time I do, I seem to have the same conversation.

And it feels like a waste of time, because most often, I never see or talk to them again.

And those I do see again never seem to remember the information I consider most critical to my essence of being. Maybe I forgot to tell them. Maybe they didn't hear when I said it. Maybe they didn't take me seriously.

I know we all think we're terribly complex and fascinating creatures, but I bet the summation of my self can be captured in one short, Cliff's Notes-style list:

I was born three weeks late.
I nearly went blind when I was three.
My parents locked me in the attic as a child, often punishing me for things I didn't do.
I haven't spoken to my parents in over seven years. I don't know what took me so long.
My sister defriended me on Facebook last year. I still don't know why.
I've never been to a prom.
I lost my virginity at age 19 to my first and only boyfriend. We dated for a month.
I was sexually assaulted by a dormmate in college, and then probably several other times in New York.
I quit a job because I was not only being sexually harassed by the owner, but also retaliated against when I reported it.
I lost 50 lbs in 2010 and am terrified of gaining it all back.
I have fibromyalgia. I can't stand humidity and lack of sleep.
I experience night terrors. I can't make them stop.
I'm afraid of the dark, of heights, and of bees.
I do not fear death. I fear being maimed.
I think I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life.
I hope it's all over when I die. I'm exhausted.

Any of the other stuff - where I was born, where I went to college, what I do for a living, what kind of car I drive - is ephemeral, incidental, though perhaps topical and relatable. It doesn't really matter that I hate cottage cheese, I voted for Obama, and my favorite color is hot pink. I evolve, as do my tastes. We are shaped not by our preferences or our comforts, but by our experiences, our fears, and our hopes - and, sometimes, more importantly, lack thereof.

Forget my name, but remember who I am.

Related Post:
Vast City of Forgotten Encounters

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Photo Essay: San Marcos Mountain Lodge, a.k.a. Knapp's Castle

2013-06-18T10:58:00.000-07:00

Tucked away in the Los Padres National Forest...

...high above the Santa Ynez Valley and Lake Cachuma...

...down an unmarked dirt road...

...is the path to Knapp's Castle.

Completed in 1920 by businessman and civil engineer George Owen Knapp, this mountain lodge was originally built on a parcel of land in the Santa Ynez Mountains along San Marcos Pass, dubbed "Laurel Springs Ranch."

Twenty years later, only a month after the sprawling property was sold off, it burned to the ground in a forest fire.

All that remains are some stone foundations...

...the frames of huge picture windows...

...some stairs...

...and, of course, the views.

Knapp's "Castle" - as it became known after the fire - has become a popular hiking spot...

...despite the fact that it is still privately owned.

Its current owners have allowed public access...

...which the front gate reminds us can be revoked at any time.

They've also made some unpermitted changes to the property...

...including the addition of some amphitheater-style steps made of native stone.

Construction ceased after a "stop work" order was issued...

...but the site remains littered with construction equipment...

...and what can only be described as junk.

For now, though, you can still wander about the ruins...

...exploring the various fireplaces and chimneys...

...and taking in the view (including of the reservoir, which hadn't been built yet at Knapp's time).

Knapp's Castle is relatively easily reachable by car now, its long, winding driveway accessible off East Camino Cielo...

...a turnoff from the San Marcos Pass which was built, graded, rerouted, and improved in the late 1800s. But East Camino Cielo wasn't even paved until 1930.

Fortunately, one of Knapp's passions was road-building, and finding ways to create public access to remote areas of the Santa Barbara Forest Reserve, as it was known then.

Knapp's Castle has been threatened since 2011, when construction equipment first moved in and "improvements" commenced. Much of the equipment still remains on site, but it appears as though no work is being done.

Let's hope its current owners don't close it off to the public altogether.

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Photo Essay: Making a Mountain Out of a Hill

2013-06-13T17:32:00.004-07:00

I think everybody needs something to look up to.

"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills..." - Psalm 121-1

Those of us to aspire to anything beyond ourselves try to associate with those who inspire us, are smarter than us, make us want to be better people.

But in a literal sense, we humans love to remind ourselves how small we actually are, casting our eyes up towards the skyscrapers we've built, the moon upon which we've landed, and the mountains we have yet to climb.

We plant crosses and flags upon the tops of those mountains, and install signs on the sides of hills, to what end? As a mere marker? As a beacon to others? As a trailmarker to find our way back?

"Climb the mountains, and get their good tidings.
Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into the trees.
The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy,
while cares will drop off like autumn leaves." - John Muir

At the northwestern edge of Riverside, along the Santa Ana River whose water flow appears to be long gone, a hill has been designated a mountain, named after early Mexican land grant settler Louis Rubidoux, a successful rancher, miller, and winemaker.

Mt. Rubidoux, now a public park, isn't a mountain exactly, but it inspires the climb.

Once private property, its owner Frank Miller built a road to the top and erected a cross in honor of Father Junipero Serra, the Franciscan priest who founded the California Missions.

The cross moves in and out of view from above as you wind around the mount along the paved road...

...as does the ever-shrinking Downtown Riverside from below.

There is little shade, and as much as you want to look up at where you're going...

...you also want to look back down at where you've been.

What initially appears to be one way up and one way down...

...then splits into a couple of junctures...

...though, ultimately, you realize they all go to the same place.

At the top, you reach a stony peak which has served as a mini altar for sunrise service on Easter since 1909...

...giving visitors something else to climb to.

It is dry and barren this time of year, save for a few trees and some unshriveled buckwheat.

Around the bend, on the way back down, a Peace Tower commemorates Frank Miller's contribution to the community...

...built in 1925 by his friends and neighbors.

This is the tower that has become a symbol for the community of Rubidoux itself...

...its iconography found throughout the mount as well as the town below.

Even on top of a mountain, it's nice to have something to look up to.

And it's nice to linger a while up there.

But eventually, the road leads you down...

...along the path of phantom wagons and cars and bicycles and feet...

...where it's easy to see the way back down.

Besides the road, there are all these trails carved out of the hillside, but are they real trails? Or just the footwork of hikers who'd rather climb dirt rather than pavement? Climbers who'd rather summit something more difficult because, perhaps, sometimes just a hill isn't enough.

Sometimes you need a mountain, and so you make a mountain out of whatever hill you've got.

Nearby:
Photo Essay: Sanchez's Beer Bottle Chapel & Other Delights at Tio's Tacos, Riverside

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Roll Me Away

2013-06-07T01:26:00.001-07:00

I have this perpetual inclination to get away.

Wherever I am, after a while, I want to be somewhere else.

Fortunately, where I live now, I can cross the street and be in another city.

I can hoist my bike onto its rack, drive ten miles or so east, and suddenly, I'm in a very different place.

And with helmet on head, sneakers on feet, hydration pack on back, from the center of Los Angeles, even at night, I can just roll away.

I can roll through Little Tokyo and Chinatown, past the mariachis of Boyle Heights, and across the LA River to get back again...

...through Skid Row...

...and down Broadway, a few (but not all) of its neon lights gleaming.

But the thing is, Los Angeles is so big, so vast, no matter how far you roll, it's always there. You can almost always see it - through any smog, from any mountain or canyon, from the beach to the Valley - but you can most certainly always feel it.

For me, the key to staying in Los Angeles - potentially long-term, though the jury is still out after only two years - is that it doesn't claustrophobically close in on you, keeping you in and locking you up like a prisoner. You are free to go. Its bridges and tunnels (as it were) are always open, leading you out to strange, otherworldly places and unusual things. And when you're ready to return, it welcomes you back in.

As much as I stray (from my apartment, my neighborhood, this vast city), now that I'm out here, it always feels good to come back home, and roll on back in.

Related Post:
Under My Rock

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Photo Essay: Eames House & Meadow

2013-06-05T16:21:00.001-07:00

When Charles and Ray Eames lived in the house they built in Pacific Palisades...

...a house they moved into on Christmas Eve, 1949...

...their children had grown and moved away from home.

But they always had these picnics on their meadow...

...a meadow they fought hard to preserve in designing their house...

...so as to integrate the house into the landscape, rather than destroying it.

When you're outside of the house, you feel a bit like you're inside...

...and, presumably, when you're inside...

...you feel a bit like you're on the outside.

The Eames House itself - otherwise known as Case Study House #8 - is actually two structures...

...separated by a central courtyard...

...which one might consider its own "room" in the house.

Although it costs hundreds of dollars to tour the inside, and photographing the interior through the windows is verboten...

...there are signs of the characteristic Eames style of interior design, even on the outside.

And there is plenty of nature, too.

The grandson of Charles and Ray, Eames Demetrios, is now in charge of the Eames Foundation...

...but he says it wasn't until his art school curriculum taught the Eames House that, to him, this was anything more than just his grandparents' house.

Although part of the Case Study House program, the Eames House was built to be lived in.

Toys remain frozen in time on the grounds.

A swing has swung over a tree branch, still roped in tightly.

For my first visit to the Eames House, I chose to picnic on that meadow.

And sit in an Eames chair.

Eames family members still occasionally stay in the house, which is actually open for tours and private picnics (if you can afford them). Self-guided tours of the grounds are available by appointment only.

Last year, the house's furnishings were loaned to LACMA, who reproduced the Eames House interior in their museum for Pacific Standard Time (which I got to see). Now, most of the items have returned, so it's a good time to visit to see them in their native environment.

For once, though, I wasn't dying to get inside. I was happy to remain outside, tucked away, a stone's throw from the beach, the sun coming out as the morning haze burned off.

Related Post:
Photo Essay: A Venice Without Canals

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Photo Essay: Arthur B. Ripley Desert State Park, In Wildfire's Path

2013-06-05T01:57:00.000-07:00

When I was in Lancaster last weekend, I didn't know why, but I was drawn to the Arthur B. Ripley Desert Woodland State Park. I'd never been, and I had to go.

I didn't know it was directly in the path of the Powerhouse Fire that was burning nearby in the Angeles National Forest. But I could see the smoke plume getting bigger.

I wasn't even sure if the park was still open, it was so poorly signed with no officially designated parking.

It doesn't provide much grounds for hiking either, with a half-mile nature trail and the mile-long Rare Juniper Trail, which I decided to take just to get a longer walk.

This state park hosts one of the last virgin Joshua tree forests in the Antelope Valley, an area known better for its poppies than probably any other plant.

Both trails loop around the forest, but like many other parts of the desert, you can wander off and meander pretty much wherever you like.

Eventually, pretty much every clearing looks like a trail.

These yucca are smaller than most in, say, Joshua Tree National Park or Death Valley...

...barely rising above 14 feet in height.

They are surrounded by juniper bushes, as well as a variety of desert flora...

...like beavertail cactus, sage, and Mormon tea.

Eventually, as I made my way back to my car, the view of the wildfire smoke plume became unavoidable...

...and seemed to grow...

...and get closer.

But in this quiet little desert garden off Lancaster Road, it still felt far away.

I felt far from everything.

And although I followed the tracks of other explorers before me, I was alone. It was silent.

Later that day, and the next, the Powerhouse Fire advanced down the mountain and into Lancaster, forcing evacuations and street closures - not only because of the flames, but because of poor air quality. The nearby Antelope Valley Poppy Preserve got clipped by the fire.

Arthur B. Ripley Desert Woodland State Park was spared.

For now.

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Photo Essay: Falcon Flight

2013-06-04T01:22:00.000-07:00

"I'm spending the night in Lancaster," I said, explaining why I couldn't attend rehearsal for the Fringe musical I'm working on. "I have to be up at 5 a.m. for a falconry demonstration." I am a sleepyhead and needed to crash in a motel 20 minutes away from the falcon field.

"Now that's just stupid," one of the actresses said, "Unless there are drugs involved."

"No, just falcons."

"The football team?" she asked, with a glimmer in her eye, imagining me watching the sun rise with the Falcons.

I slumped further into myself. "No, just...birds."

I acknowledge that I'm a weirdo sometimes. But this time, I wasn't the only one: I was joined by nearly 30 other eccentrics to witness falcon flying at dawn.

Getting up early, when the Friday night partiers were just getting to bed late, was not just something to do. It was an excuse to return to the Mojave Desert, an excursion for which I usually don't need much of an excuse. It also turned out to be damn fascinating.

We were hosted on the falcon field by master falconer Vahe' Alaverdian of Falcon Force, a private bird abatement team that gets commissioned to shoo away avian pests from places like vineyards and berry farms, where delicious grapes and cherries are too easily accessible to, say, starlings, even through protective netting.

Vahe' developed a love for the sport of falconry when he was seven years old, and has pursued it ever since.

He has a team of 17 falcons - some hybrids, some pure peregrine or Aplomado or Barbary.

We got to watch four of them, all very different raptors, demonstrate their sunrise hunt. Sensitive to heat, they need the early morning cool breeze and lack of sunlight to really build up some flight speed and dive-bomb with the full power of which they are capable, especially on a day whose temperature would peak in the triple digits.

Vahe' has taught them - and continues to train them - with a simple contraption comprised of a rope with a tennis ball on either end, and some white pigeon feathers attached to one of the balls. Vahe' whips it through the air...

...mimicking the flight of prey...

...and rewards them with food if they catch it. But...

...in this intricate dance...

...both the falcon and the falconer having their own choreography...

...the falconer does not allow the falcon to catch the prey.

At least, not until they have really worked for it.

That includes swooping over our crowd of spectators sitting on the ground, forcing us to duck and squeal.

We cheered on Little East Texas Red, Shaman...

...Pepper (a female)...

...and Genghis in their air trials as the sun came up over the Mojave.

When they're not hunting (for example, whilst being transported together), these birds of prey wear custom handmade hoods that are intricately stitched, a marvelous example of leatherworking. They seem to be calmed with their eyes covered. Once you remove those dandy little hats, those birds are ready to fly, regardless of what they may be tethered to at the time.

They're cute, but don't pet them. It's condescending. They are not domesticated. They are wild animals.

And their wild instincts are being exploited as a sustainable (and less violent) alternative to poisons / pesticides, human hunting techniques (e.g. guns), and other less desirable deterrents. Of course, falconry has been effective for thousands of years, dating back to Mesopotamia, before gunpowder and firearms were ever invented.

In modern times, the falcons are protected by the federal government. You cannot shoot, capture, or otherwise take a falcon. Possession of even a feather (unless you're part of a Native American tribe) is a misdemeanor. And possession of a falcon - or, say, an eagle - without the proper paperwork (and ankle ring matching it) is a felony.

Sometimes, the falcons fly away - chasing something - and don't come back. With radio transmitters attached to the back or the wings or the tail, and sometimes a bell on the foot, they can be tracked and called back down. If they can't be tracked for some reason and never come back, Vahe' says they were probably stolen, their radios turned off manually by the thief.

I got to hold one of the males for a few minutes while we were photographed together, he perched on my gloved wrist. We faced each other for a moment, but he, hooded, couldn't see me. And as much as I liked having him and holding him, all he wanted to do was fly off my arm, and chase, hunt, encircle, swoop, dive, swirl - all those things he is meant to do.

And so, after a short while, I let him go.

Related Post:
Elegy for the Flightless Bird

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Photo Essay: Tejon Ranch, Through the Valley, into the Desert, and up a Mountain

2013-06-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

I'd already made the two hour drive up north to Tejon Ranch once this spring, but I decided to go back.

And when I returned, I saw a decidedly different Tejon Ranch.

This time, most of the wildflowers - which had been abundant in March - were gone.

It turns out they hadn't lasted very long, and I'd seen them pretty much at their peak.

Also, this time, our main destination was Los Alamos Canyon, on the Antelope Valley side...

...known for its mixed oak woodlands...

...and of course many other species of flora and fauna, typical of the biodiversity that is characteristic of Tejon Ranch as a whole.

We happened upon a jawbone of...a wild boar?

Tejon Ranch is also famous for its feral pig population...

...which it tries to control via open hunting.

Despite the appearance of this brightly-colored insect commonly known as a "cow killer" (the Multillidae, a red, hairy, wingless wasp that resembles an ant)...

...we actually did spot some cattle, though far fewer than during our last trip.

Since most of the wildflowers were gone...

...we could focus on the fascinating varieties of trees that surrounded us...

...including the blue oak and Valley oak...

...as well as sycamores, cottonwoods, and stream-side willows.

We examined the inside of a gall, a cancer-like growth produced by parasitic wasps in oak trees...

...and, having finished our hike, set out to explore more of the ranch by car (as we had during my first visit).

Driving north out of the Antelope Valley into the Mojave Desert...

...we came across a different sort of woodland: a Joshua tree forest, the population of which is dense, and still growing.

This year, the Joshua trees of Tejon Ranch all bloomed and bore fruit more or less at the same time...

...a rarity amongst Joshua trees in the same forest.

The fruit they bear looks a bit like a cucumber on the inside, and apparently tastes like soap.

It's amazing that after such a short drive, the landscape can so quickly transition from chaparral to high desert...

...and then transition out again...

...showing the last few signs of wildflowers...

...including poppies!

And giant pine cones.

And a hillside full of poppies!

Is this really all inside the bounds of one singular, privately-owned ranch?

Could this all possibly be the same place?

The next thing we knew, we were ascending the heights of Tejon Ranch...

...up high amongst the fir and cedar, reminding us that Tejon Ranch not only borders the Mojave Desert and the Great Central Valley, but also the Sierra Nevadas, Angeles National Forest, and Los Padres National Forest...

...as we looked down upon the desert valley below.

Related Post:
Photo Essay: Over the Ridges and Through the Creeks of Tejon Ranch

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Photo Essay: Go With the River

2013-06-02T22:41:00.002-07:00

On Memorial Day, a 2.5 mile stretch of the Los Angeles River opened up for public recreation, including non-motorized boating. This is the first time the public has been able to legally use their city's river without making reservations, acquiring permitting, or buying pricey tickets from private concessionaires.

Since I am a scaredy cat when it comes to water sports, and I'm not cocky enough to brave the LA River alone, I still paid a tour group to take me out on a kayak last week.

Like the area around the Sepulveda Dam (where I kayaked last year), the Elysian Valley section of the LA River is also soft-bottom, here where the concretization ultimately failed because the concrete was broken apart by the strong rushing waters coming down the flood control channel and by the rising groundwater coming out of the aquifer.

It still has those concrete banked sides, though, allowing for a relatively easy put-in at the launch point at Rattlesnake Park near Fletcher Drive.

A painted red line serves as the demarcation between where is legal and illegal to walk.

Even at the launch, the water was really rushing downstream, unlike the relatively placid experience we'd had last year in the San Fernando Valley. I wouldn't have to paddle much to push myself down this part of the river.

But this part sure is rocky, and it basically has a forest growing up in the middle of it, full of willows and cottonwoods and bamboo and cattails. That means it requires much more navigation on the part of the kayaker, a lot more articulation of the kayak, and a lot more negotiation of narrow spaces.

Even on a day like Friday, when the water was inches higher than the day before, I could feel the constant scraping of rocks against the side and underside of my vessel, which would occasionally crash land on top of a rock and come to a screeching halt, or just gently sidle up and get wedged between two rocks. When pushing off with a paddle or a hand or a foot out the side of the kayak failed to dislodge me, I became a master of the booty scoot. And when that failed and I became marooned on some geologic formation that had arisen from the riverbed (or just hadn't been submerged enough by rising waters), I got a helping hand from one of my tour guides. Luckily for me, because of another group's cancellation that morning, I ended up getting a solo tour, on which I was the only patron among three guides.

I didn't really want their help, though - or, I didn't want to need their help. I wanted to do it myself. I wanted to be able to do it myself, despite the fact that this was far more advanced kayaking than I had ever done in the past.

As I watched our lead guide paddle furiously over the first set of rapids, and presently get dumped out of his kayak into the river, I wasn't sure I could. But when given the choice to walk my kayak over the rocks or try to ride them out, I only chose to portage once, emboldened by my guides who told me, "You can do this." Besides, with the water rushing past my ankles, and my rubber soled feet slipping on the rock slime of the riverbed below, I didn't want to feel like I was fighting the river. I just wanted to go with the river - to go wherever the river was going to take me.

And that technique actually turned out pretty well for me. Instead of feverishly maneuvering my paddle left and right through the rapids as you see whitewater rafters do, I got a strong and steady headstart to get over the rocks, and then I just went with the water. I let the river take me down the path of least resistance - which is the way I wanted to go anyway - and dump me out at the bottom where it was clear.

My biggest problem? Stopping. Unless I was shipwrecked on a rock, I couldn't figure out how to not go, sometimes sailing ahead of the lead guide and blazing my own trail.

After a couple of hours, we made it safely under the 2 Freeway, past the Metro railyards, to the take out point at Steelhead Park just before the 5 Freeway.

At the end, I told my guides that I'd done a lot better than I'd expected, but in a way, I didn't feel like I actually did much. It was more about what I didn't do. I didn't fight the river. I just gave myself over to it, and let it have me.

The LA River kept me in my boat, this time.

Perhaps it will change its mind the next.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Follow the River
Plenty of Room to Paddle
Paddling Downstream

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Dust on the Lens

2013-06-01T00:09:00.002-07:00

I was telling Maria about a chance I might have to do a showing of some of my photos...
...and I was coming up with every reason not to do it.

I don't have a very nice (and by that I mean expensive) camera.

I don't shoot in very high quality digital files, keeping them relatively small for the web.

And there's so much dust on my lens, you can usually see it in the photos.

"I don't know," Maria said, "I like some dust on the lens."

And I guess I agree with her on the appeal of a photo that's slightly imperfect, rather than pristine. It shows that the camera has been somewhere and done something, been through something. I guess I just didn't think anyone else would want them any less than perfect.

If you're going to take the camera out during a sandstorm, you're going to get some dust on the lens. And it's not just on the lens - you can't wipe it off - but, rather, it's in the lens.

I could take the camera to a repair shop to remove the particles. I usually try to fix their pockmarks in Photoshop.

Or, I could just leave them there, and show my photos, with all their imperfections, the blemishes making them somehow more perfect, I suppose, showing the storms they have known...

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Photo Essay: Compton's Historic Urban Garden Oasis

2013-05-31T23:51:00.002-07:00

I was running late on Saturday morning, as usual.

I was in too big of a rush to make a monthly 11 a.m. garden tour, and I left my headlights on.

But if you're going to drain your car battery in Compton, it might as well be in the parking lot of the Dominguez Rancho Adobe Museum.

It's amazing that this place comes straight outta Compton, which turns out to be the first privately-owned ranch in Southern California - and therefore the birthplace of private landownership, years before the homestead act. It was originally the seat of Rancho San Pedro, the first Spanish land grant in California (granted to Juan Jose Dominguez, a Spanish solder, in 1784).

The adobe itself was built in 1826 by Juan Jose's nephew, Manuel.

But the real attraction for me and my visit was the garden tour.

Most of the gardens date back to the days of Gregorio Del Amo, who was married to one of Manuel's descendants, Maria Susana Delfina Dominguez.

A horticulturist, Del Amo imported all kinds of plants to the sprawling rancho grounds...

...regardless of where they came from or where they might best thrive.

Many took a lot of watering.

At the time, in the early 20th century, his collection of plants and flowers was a kind of catalogue...

...that attracted visitors - and shoppers - from all over to peruse his offerings.

Some of the existing gardens are comparatively new, like the cactus garden, which seems to have more things you shouldn't touch...

...than things you should.

The cactus garden was a later addition in the 1970s, built as a nod to Del Amo.

Volunteers continue to maintain it - and the rest of the grounds - today...

...and try to both restore its features to their original splendor...

...taking care of historic trees that predate most you'll find in LA...

...as well as reintroducing more native plants that won't require quite so much watering and maintenance.

The original grounds were quite ornate...

...including a Japanese garden and a grotto...

...of which there is a campaign to save and restore as well.

In the meantime...

...it's a peaceful walk past edible flowers...

...and the biggest Bougainvillea tree you have ever seen...

...whose bright fuschia flowers cascade down its thorny, woody core like a hot pink lava flow...

...covering up decades' worth of pale, dead petals around the back and underneath.

This is what happens when you leave something alone for 50 years. When you don't trim it back, it just grows and grows.

But it also dies.

It's nice to see that some people are paying attention to something beautiful in a largely industrial part of Compton, a city not known for its peacefulness.

It's not only somewhere nice to go, but also somewhere nice to stay...and wait for a AAA truck with jumper cables.

Related Post:
Compton's Hidden Agricultural Riches: Richland Farms

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Photo Essay: Follow the River

2013-05-30T21:22:00.000-07:00

When I was in Temecula last weekend, I wanted to do some hiking, but the Santa Rosa Ecological Reserve was closed for hazardous conditions, so I was forced to find another trail.

In nearby Fallbrook, just inside the San Diego County border, there is a grouping of land parcels protected by the Fallbrook Land Conservancy, though its trailheads are hard to find even when driving right past them. I managed to find the well-marked parking area for the Santa Margarita River Trail, though the river itself wasn't immediately obvious. A depression in the earth looked more like a beach.

But I followed alongside the soft-bottom path...

... hopping between its scattered rocks...

...until I found water - a visible, audible, free-flowing stream that suddenly appeared...

...and then disappeared again behind the overgrowth.

Tiptoeing along the path, I was teetering along the precipice of...something...

...not sure where I was going, my only guide a cell phone picture of a map at the trailhead.

I only knew I had to keep following the river.

And if I followed the river, rather than diverting off at the various junctures I passed...

...I wouldn't get lost.

I kept trudging through the loose remnants of the old riverbank...

...slogging past wildflowers...

...until I found myself inside the depression itself, tree roots exposed by the river that once flowed here. I was no longer following the path of the river, I was in the river. But the river was not there.

I decided to turn around here, rather than trying to rediscover water, and seeing the Santa Margarita to its inevitable end. It was a short hike, but sometimes it's nice to know where you're going.

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Photo Essay: Marine Corp Air Station & North Hangar, Tustin - Closed

2013-05-30T00:31:00.000-07:00

"Where can't I go?" I asked the Orange County Parks ranger, stationed by the south doors of the North Hangar.

"You can go pretty much anywhere," he said, shrugging. "You can't get into the buildings, but that's pretty much it."

"OK, so I just won't hop any fences..." I said, as I waved and set off on my exploration.

And although it's currently owned by the Navy, the former Marine Corp Air Station - built in 1942, and then known as Lighter Than Air Station Santa Ana - is embarking on a groundbreaking transformation courtesy of Orange County and the City of Tustin.

And what's better - OC Parks is inviting the community (and looky-loos like me willing to drive a couple of hours) to come check the closed, once-restricted property out.

Slated to be a transformed into new regional park (as well as other land uses, both residential and commercial), the former MCAS is an 1500 acre parcel of land in Tustin that includes two huge blimp hangars, and a total of 200 buildings, seven of which OC Parks plans to adaptively reuse.

Of course, the plan to turn the MCAS into a regional park has been in the works since 1963.

Since being shuttered by the federal government, a few portions at a time between 1991-9, the base itself hasn't been used for much of anything...

...its structures predictably crumbling and peeling.

Of course, the entire base isn't abandoned per se, and not entirely vacant.

Some of its buildings are being used for...you guessed it...storage.

The only recent visitors appear to have been the birds.

Like any other military base, the MCAS was a full-service, self-contained community of non-commissioned officers and their wives who lived and worked there...

...ate and drank there...

...and had children there.

As many as 4500 once lived there, and the base employed nearly 5000 military personnel and civilians.

Primarily a helicopter base, the MCAS Tustin was a major training facility on the West Coast, playing a critical role in wartime operations as recent as Desert Storm.

Building 171 was once the center of aircraft operations, with its historic five-story control tower...

...which is slated to be preserved (despite being built at what is considered a "late" date of 1964).

Other buildings won't be so lucky...

...though even a couple of non-historic buildings (a garage, classrooms, the crash rescue building) are being proposed for adaptive reuse.

There are some signs of wildlife that have returned to the base - whose construction laid giant concrete slabs upon agricultural land - including a few cottontails that appeared at dusk...

...and, of course, the birds that love to invade abandoned buildings.

The pièce de résistance of the base is the historic North Blimp Hangar (Hangar #1)...

...Building 28...

...whose construction was completed after nine months in 1943.

This hangar actually has been in use since the base's closure in the '90s...

...mostly for blimp maintenance and new blimp construction (e.g. Goodyear) ...

...and, of course, as a soundstage for movies (e.g. The Hindenberg), TV shows (JAG, The X-Files) and commercials.

The hangar is massive.

Photos don't do it justice.

Both hangars are one of the largest wood structures in the U.S., and the world's largest unsupported timber-constructed buildings...

...made primarily out of Oregon Douglas Fir...

...with nearly 300,000 square feet of floor space each.

That makes them three football fields long, and one football field wide, each.

Both hangars are 18 stories high.

But, based on current plans, only one hangar may survive: Hangar #1.

The park site is only slated to occupy 84.5 of the available 1500 acres on the MCAS property, and before anybody moves in or children start playing there, the contaminated groundwater plumes (largely as a result of seepage of fuel and solvents once used there) need to be addressed.

And then, the MCAS Tustin can be transformed into the dream development of the City of Tustin, Tustin Legacy.

We shall see.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Hughes Aircraft Company Campus

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Photo Essay: Barlow Sanitorium, Neglected

2013-05-25T15:36:00.001-07:00

Just outside of Elysian Park, Dr. Walter Jarvis Barlow built the Barlow Sanitorium in 1902, the location seeming ideal for tuberculosis patients because of its proximity to city-owned open space and the clean air that seemed to be kept in the meadow by the surrounding hillsides.

A tuberculosis patient himself, Barlow never thought the land would ever be threatened with development.

Now, most of the historic structures of the current Barlow Respiratory Hospital are slated for demolition, in favor of a condo development that would help raise money to update and modernize the hospital facilities that can be saved. Although many of the buildings on the Barlow campus are not abandoned, nor are they vacant (rather, being used for "storage"), they are, however, neglected.

Even if these buildings don't actually meet the wrecking ball, their fates have already been determined. We call that "demolition by neglect."

Directly adjacent to Elysian Park is the former dormitory...

...whose parking spaces are still used by current patients of a neighboring facility...

...and whose exterior shows the common signs of neglect.

The bulbs have been replaced...

...and the doors have been locked...

...keeping out any undesirables...

...but what precisely is being "stored" in there?

Orange plastic crates, jammed against the windows?

Tables and chairs? Old beds and defunct respiratory equipment?

Behind the dormitory...

...it looks like doctors may still practice medicine here...

...but across the street...

...there are a number of cottages...

...once reserved for patients...

...now storing mountains of paper files.

It doesn't look as though these buildings themselves will ever be rehabilitated...

...possibly for lack of maintenance or any kind of treatment.

This is the "abandoned" hillside of Barlow's campus...

...looking somewhat like a summer camp.

Barlow is and always has been a specialty hospital, opening first to treat patients befallen with tuberculosis, and when that disease became more controlled, broadening its services to more general respiratory issues, both chronic and acute.

It doesn't have a lot of beds.

Most of its patients don't need beds, their medical issues not requiring overnight hospital stays.

The surrounding communities of Elysian Heights and Echo Park are currently rallying to stop the demolition and proposed development (and subdivision) of the property, trying to prevent something like Century City being built right next to Elysian Park.

And not surprisingly, they cite increased traffic as one of the major deterrents. You think it's bad enough on Dodger gamedays? Just you wait.

Related Post:
Photo Essay: Rockhaven Sanitarium, Closed to Public, Exterior

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Photo Essay: Mildred E. Mathias Botanical Garden, UCLA

2013-05-23T01:47:00.000-07:00

The botanical garden on the UCLA campus is probably not quite so hidden, per se, but it's not such a big tourist destination, either.

Unlike the more popular, expansive, and serene gardens of Descanso and Huntington, or even the Los Angeles Arboretum, the Mildred E. Mathias Botanical Garden is a decidedly urban oasis...

...replete with vandalized bamboo stalks and napping homeless by the water features.

In fact, despite the desert species and California native plants...

...following its paved walkways on an overcast day made me feel like I was in New York more than I ever have in the over two years since moving to LA.

Despite the poppies.

It feels a bit like Central Park's Ramble...

...but it's quiet...

...without the sound of traffic, somehow sheltered from nearby Wilshire Boulevard.

The only trumpets here are pink flowers...

...not buskers.

There are pink powderpuffs, too...

...perennial purple Iochroma grandiflora...

...blue bugloss...

...and scarlet bottlebrush.

Usually when ambling around a botanic garden, I stick with the flowers and the succulents...

...skipping the trees...

...but here, I was drawn to the varieties of eucalyptus...

...including the cracked, spotted gum...

...whose surface peels like old, dry paint.

It's like you've been transported to Australia, right there with the Queensland Bottle Tree...

...and the Prickly Paperbark...

...whose layered bark peels paper thin...

...showing its age right there on the surface...

...for fingers through which to leaf and count.

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Photo Essay: The Big Parade, Day One, Year Two

2013-05-19T21:44:00.001-07:00

Last year's Big Parade was a pretty epic experience for me.

I'd decided to start as early as I could and go for as long as I could, hoping to reach Griffith Observatory for the solar eclipse.

I made it, just barely. And then I had to find my way back to my car.

I hiked over 17 miles that day. And although it was along a circuitous path only bringing me 4.5 miles from my original starting point, it felt like I went a very long way.

I was excited to embark on the other day of The Big Parade this year, though I felt less of a personal challenge. I'd already walked the 17 miles. I didn't need to break my record. I didn't really need to go anywhere.

But it was something I wanted to be a part of.

Yesterday, I only did the Main Loop of The Big Parade, joining the group in Elysian Park...

... and winding our way through (only) five or six miles of the park, Elysian Heights, and Echo Park before bailing out and heading back to my car.

But actually, despite being much shorter than last year, it was plenty.

Apparently, though I am an avid hiker, I don't climb enough stairs.

My ankles aren't used to walking on that much asphalt and concrete.

I long for the earth under my feet.

Fortunately a lunch stop back in Elysian Park provided a soft grassy seat...

...plenty of doggies (whose stamina far outlasted mine) and the dulcet tones of a ukelele orchestra, the highlight of my entire weekend.

Compared to last year...

I don't feel like I made it very far.

It wasn't as hot as last year, but, without enough breaks, the stairs really wore on me.

Walking in circles wore on me.

I wanted to have somewhere to go, some destination to draw me closer.

As we were tracing the historic steps of long-gone commuters who once needed to climb down to the streetcar and back up to their homes...

...we climbed up...

...and up...

...and up...

...and sometimes down...

...through one zen-like garden...

...past homes teetering on the edge of the world.

At one point, there were over 200 walkers trekking through LA with The Big Parade, a record-breaking turnout.

This year, I wanted to parade so I could be part of something, but our crowd was so big...

...we ended up spreading out into several distant chunks, taking few breaks to let the stragglers (like me) catch up.

And so, for too long, I walked alone.

As I usually do.

I just couldn't keep up. So rather than be left behind, I left.

And afterwards, I still didn't have anywhere to go, or anyone to be with.

Related Posts:
Keep on Moving
Photo Essay: The Big Parade Day Two (Silverlake)
Photo Essay: The Big Parade Day Two Part 2 (Franklin Hills, Los Feliz, Griffith Park)
Photo Essay: Elysian Park, Beyond Dodger Stadium
Photo Essay: The Stairs of LA

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Everything Comes from Somewhere

2013-05-19T14:15:00.000-07:00

On Friday morning - at a time I would have considered still night back in New York - I got up early to go produce shopping with Chef Robert Luna, the man behind the East LA-inspired deliciousness at Malo in Silverlake and Mas Malo downtown (where I spent my lonelyhearts Valentine's Day in 2011).

Technically, anyone can go nocturnal foraging on their own...

...if they're prepared to battle the commercial trucks and forklifts they'll face upon arrival before the sun comes up at Los Angeles Wholesale Produce Market. And if they're prepared to buy wholesale (at least, a case of tomatoes, bananas, whatever).

Though walking through the stalls is somewhat reminiscent of wandering the aisles at Ralph's, we were reminded that this is where Ralph's gets their produce.

In the journey from farm to table, everything has to come from somewhere.

The produce market is currently dominated by what Chef Robert calls the "new market," which is full of A-grade, commonly sought-after produce (and some nuts and herbs and other things)...

...but Robert prefers to go beyond the new market to the old market, where he grew up, his mother too a cook who embarked on nocturnal foraging to bring delights back to Boyle Heights.

It's a sprawling, institutional-feeling complex, whose central courtyard (feeling somewhat like a prison yard) used to be covered and not open-air...

...as evidenced by two columns that remain amongst the pallets and trucks...

...that used to hold the whole thing up.

The nearby cafe has long-since closed, but there is plenty of activity around the old market - and plenty of secrecy. This is the old world. Not everybody likes everybody knowing their business. Not everybody plays by the rules. And these are B-grade products, allowing chefs like Robert to keep their restaurant prices low and still their margins high.

Maybe it's better if you don't know where the beautiful dishes you eat came from. But not everything was born this way. Sometimes things come from ugly places and, with a little help and love, can turn into something beautiful. And just because you know where it came from doesn't make it any less beautiful.

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Photo Essay: Old Soldiers Home Chapel and Streetcar Depot, Closed

2013-05-19T13:42:00.002-07:00

postcard courtesy of the VA

I first realized that the Veteran's Administration campus was showing signs of massive deterioration one of the first times I was driving down Wilshire (probably my favorite street in Los Angeles) near the National Cemetery, rounding the bend onto San Vicente. At the time, I had no idea I was in Sawtelle - not Westwood, not Brentwood - or in the former Racho San Vicente y Santa Monica. I only saw a decrepit chapel, its off-white paint buckling and cracking, and thought, "What is that? That is something."

Indeed, it is something. At least, it was.

The Wadsworth Chapel is actually a rare and early example of a multidenominational chapel: two separate chapels - a Catholic one and a Protestant one - under one roof, separated by a soundproof interior wall (so both faiths could conduct services simultaneously, neither having a preferential time slot).

It is the oldest existing building on Wilshire Boulevard.

Built in 1900, the exterior shingles were originally stained dark, with windows trimmed in white, until the entire structure was painted white in 1941.

The paint is peeling and the fixtures are rusted...

...but that's only the beginning of the troubles facing Wadsworth Chapel.

A structure made nearly entirely of wood, it is constantly under attack by termites.

It is built upon an unreinforced foundation.

Although many of its original late Victorian features - eclectic exterior ornamentation (evoking both Gothic and Romanesque influences), roundels, lunettes, multiple types of windows, wainscoting, etc. - remain intact...

A 1955 fire damaged the Protestant Chapel, forcing parts of it to be walled off and/or closed altogether. Most of the structural damage is still unrepaired.

The 1971 Sylmar earthquake sealed the chapels' fate, cracking interior plaster and loosening the brick foundation, rendering one of the bell towers unstable.

Wadsworth Chapel has been closed to the public ever since.

Six years ago, the VA estimated that restoration of their Building 20 would cost $11.5 million.

In the meantime, they have left a staggering number of modern day "old soldiers" homeless, and generated revenue from the commercialization of their 400 acres. Thing is, nobody seems to know where that money went.

Like the attempts to restore many of the other structures on the VA campus, preservation of the chapel has been stalled...perhaps indefinitely.

Designed in conjunction with Wadsworth Chapel, the streetcar depot at the VA was also designed by J. Lee Burton and built in 1900. Both were listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1972, one year after the Sylmar earthquake closed the chapel permanently. At that time, the depot was already closed.

Building 66 was formerly the terminus of the Santa Monica Air Line's Soldier's Home Branch (named after the Old Soldier's Home), passenger service on which was eliminated in 1953

...rendering the station obsolete.

It stands empty now...

...but it does stand.

You can't get in, but you can look in, and you can get right up to it.

No trains run through Sawtelle now. But with the new construction of the Expo Line, maybe they will again...one day.

In the meantime, both the chapel and the streetcar depot are still-standing reminders of very early Los Angeles, a relatively new city with not a lot of historic preservation, known better for building anew rather than for celebrating its past.

Related Post:
Photo Essay: Amongst the Abandoned at the Veteran's Administration, LA

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Photo Essay: Amongst the Abandoned at the Veterans Administration, LA

2013-05-19T10:43:00.002-07:00

The Veterans Administration reportedly spends millions of dollars per year maintaining vacant - and potentially hazardous - buildings on their properties throughout the country.

This is especially evident if you visit their 400-acre Sawtelle campus in West LA, sandwiched in between Westwood and Brentwood along Wilshire Blvd. and San Vicente.

Because of heightened security, you can only get in now through the Wilshire Blvd. entrance, but you can get in.

You see, although portions of it are fenced off to the facing residential streets and sidewalks...

...the grounds themselves are not abandoned.

Newer, fully functional buildings intermingle with historic but neglected buildings that have outworn their welcome, outlived their usefulness. At least, to some.

Even though the land was donated in 1888 with the specific purpose of providing housing to war veterans (back then, dubbed "volunteer disabled soldiers"), which the VA did do for the first 100 years of its existence on the westside, Los Angeles still has the highest population of homeless veterans in the country.

Along these old city streets...

...whose new signs even look weathered...

...there are numbered buildings like barracks...

...their sidewalks consumed...

...their windows broken, their paint peeling, their entry verboten.

Even if not originally built as housing...

...couldn't these looming buildings be adaptively reused?

It's not as though their use is no longer needed (unlike the military barracks of, say, Governor's Island or Western Avenue, where everybody moved out but had somewhere else to go).

Instead of providing the housing it was intended to, the VA has made millions of dollars renting its parcels of land to commercial businesses. Veterans using the medical and mental health facilities - some traveling long distances instead of being allowed to stay - have shared a third of the campus with a golf course, a stadium and other athletic fields, two theaters, a barber shop, and even rental cars.

This is contrary to the stipulations of the original deed donating the land: to permanently maintain a home for disabled soldiers.

Wandering through buildings that populate the square mile of land - which has one of the lowest population densities not only on LA's Westside, but in the entire country - it's actually not always easy to tell which buildings are abandoned and unsafe, and which ones are still open.

Homeless people - veterans themselves, perhaps? - wander throughout.

Visitors are directed to buildings that no longer welcome visitors.

Entrances are sealed.

Numerical designations have lost their meaning.

And yet...

...trees and lawns are trimmed.

An occasional window swings open.

Stairs beckon climbing.

Gorgeous architectural details beckon gawking.

However, there is no parking.

Unlike the naval housing or, say, Rancho Los Amigos, you can walk right up to the buildings...

...touch them...

...read their signs...

...rattle their locks...

...and peer into their windows.

But there are no cats to be found.

In some areas, save for the occasional maintenance worker in a golf cart...

...there are no people.

Even the post office has closed.

The battle over the VA grounds has been going on for years, culminating in a class-action lawsuit by the ACLU that objects to the conversion of parcels for commercial and recreational uses that are not in direct service to vets.

And despite promises to rehabilitate some of the existing buildings for future housing, not much progress has been made (though there is scaffolding visible and signs of a couple active construction - not demolition - sites).

map courtesy of the VA

Those vacant buildings that appear abandoned are plenty visible, but for some reason, the people who need to live in them - the abandoned veterans - are not.

Coming Soon:
Wadsworth Chapel and the Santa Monica Air Line Soldiers' Home Branch Streetcar Depot at the VA

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Abandoned Naval Housing, Western Avenue
Photo Essay: Rancho Los Amigos, Abandoned County Poor Farm, Downey (Exterior)

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My Public Shame

2013-05-16T14:59:00.001-07:00

I don't have much use for privacy. I spent my entire childhood in secrecy, hiding the horrible things my parents did to me, putting on such a good show that most of my high school classmates have no clue of the depths of depression from which I still haven't emerged.

For years, I hid myself. I hid my shame about everything. I hid my virginity, which I lost later than most. And then, when I was sexually assaulted my sophomore year in college, I chose to write about it in the campus newspaper. Not anonymously.

And an outpouring of support followed.

I've had my secrets since then. I've snuck around since then. But generally I feel better if everything is out in the open.

I feel horrible about where I've come from and what I've been through, but it's made me who I am today.

And, presumably, that's a good thing.

So why shouldn't I talk about it? Why shouldn't I reveal how I feel? Can't somebody out there relate to me?

Might I do some good if I let my voice lead the way?

Maybe I'm just desperate for the attention. Maybe I think there's no point in doing something - or dating someone - unless people know about it.

My first boyfriend took me on our first date accompanied by his best friend. I thought at first he didn't want to be alone with me, but I realized later he was kind of showing me off. That hasn't happened much since.

After him, when I got older, no one else ever seemed to want to admit any romantic interest in me, and if we ever did consummate, our affairs became a big secret - I became a big secret, to their girlfriends, wives, mothers and friends. All I've ever wanted is for someone to be proud of me, to be proud to be with me. And yet I've constantly been drawn into surreptitious skulking, sneaking around, and serendipitous run-ins.

It seems like no one has ever been able to love me with the lights on.

I am a public person. But not everyone is. That may mean I'll have to be publicly alone.

Though why someone can't be proud to be with me is beyond me.

I have been ashamed of plenty of things in my life, but I never thought I - me, as a person - was the thing to be ashamed of.

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Photo Essay: On Shaky Legs Down to the Grotto

2013-05-14T19:29:00.000-07:00

"Are you OK? Do you want a snack?" one of my fellow hikers asked me once we'd gotten down inside the upper grotto at Circle X Ranch.

"Oh, no, I'm fine, I've got some food in my bag but I'm not very hungry," I said, wiping the sweat from my brow in the cool cave, which felt 20 degrees cooler than the ambient temperature outside.

"You should probably eat something," she said, explaining that our hike leader's girlfriend had noticed I was shaking a lot.

"Well yeah," I said, "But that was from fear."

I'd embarked on what had been designated a "beginner" hike with a group because it seemed difficult enough to navigate and intimidating enough to not want to do alone. I knew there would be some bouldering around the grotto, and some rock-hopping across streams to get to the grotto, which I'd rather do with a little help.

Though the rest of my group bemoaned the lack of running water in the dry stream, I was relieved that I wasn't going to slip again and fall - at least, not there.

I did not know I would be crawling vertically down a boulder, aided only by a stretchy rope tied to a tree. My inexperience in rockclimbing made my big hiking boot feel really unstable in the tiny footholds in the rocks, and I never knew where to put my hands. My body felt too heavy for me to hold up with my arms - even with a rope - and I kept worrying that I would fall onto my hike leader below and crush him, though softening my fall.

The hike to the grotto starts innocently enough, first through the lower parking lot and then down a driveway...

...which turns into a jeep trail past some wildflowers.

There are easy steps leading you down along this reverse hike...

...during which you lose elevation first and then have to climb back up at the end.

The aforementioned rope dangled from our hike leader's pack as we followed from behind.

I'd hoped it was just a precaution, not thinking we'd actually be using - no, relying on - it.

After a shady grove...

...with a few easy ups and downs...

...we emerged into a dry prairie, where sandstone formations loom in the distance.

Hiking through this former boy scout camp, you can see at once the natural splendor that was once home to Native Americans...

...as well as to the Spanish rancheros that settled and worked here (particularly because of the abundance of grasses and water).

Usually there's still a lot of water there, but after a dry winter with very little rainfall, and an early onset of wildfire season, we're lucky Circle X didn't catch fire with the rest of the Santa Monica Mountains in the recent Springs fire.

The grotto itself isn't actually that far, and very easy to hike downhill to...

...as the landscape changes and the ferns arise...

...and the rock outcroppings seem to indicate the end of the trail.

But no, you have to keep going.

You have to climb down and across.

You have to shimmy down a tree and get yourself down there.

Oh, shit.

For those of us lily-white city folk with soft knees and manicured nails, this is a challenge. And unlike our Cave of Munits hike where there was always some strong guy to grab my arm and yank me to where I needed to be, this time I had to get over my fears myself.

As I was struggling, I received lots of offers from the hikers above, and encouragement from the hikers below, to try to get me there. "I can do it," I declared. "Just gimme a minute."

They didn't realize it, but that was a huge accomplishment for me. Not long ago, I would've burst into tears and bawled, "I can't do it!" But I knew I could do it. I just needed to take my time to figure it out.

I was the first one into the upper grotto cave, feeling proud of myself...

...until the others arrived, concerned for my well-being.

I had embraced my fear of heights and falling.

Now I just had to worry about the boulder that had fallen on top of this waterfall 8000 years ago to form a cave. Would it move again? Geology is now.

We hung out there for a while, dipping our fingers into the water and eating our snacks, but our hike was not over. We still had to climb down to the lower grotto, whose waterfall is fed by the upper grotto.

The lower grotto is more of an open-air formation, the sun reflecting off the water onto the rocks...

...but you wouldn't want to go swimming in there.

At least, not now. It's pretty green and slimy. And full of tadpole-eating water snakes, and at least one salamander.

It's another other-worldly landscape.

I suppose when the water is really raging in a wet season, the Grotto is kind of an exciting place to visit. But when the water is down to just a trickle, it was calm and cool, a welcome respite from the hot day, and from the terror I felt getting there.

Even the lizards are willing to pose for a photo.

But all the way down there, at the bottom of the lower grotto, I couldn't help thinking, "We've got to get all the way back up there - the same way we came."

And we did.

And I survived.

But not without a little shaking from fear.

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Dispatches from My Soft, Naked Core

2013-05-13T16:23:00.002-07:00

Maybe I've grown old.

Maybe I've grown up.

Maybe I've lived alone for too long, I've forgotten my former liberal sexual politics.

Maybe California has changed me.

Maybe I've finally developed some long-sought sense of self respect.

But now the casual, soulless world of dating just makes me sad. Like, really sad.

It used to be that being alone made me sad. Being rejected made me sad.

Now being pursued makes me sad. And knowing the ins and outs of those pursuits, which are most certainly used on others, perhaps more unsuspecting than me, has burst my bubble so badly, I've given up nearly all hope of romance in this world.

I have a high school friend I haven't seen in years who has used Facebook to compliment me, at first out of admiration, then out of some long distance sexual pursuit. I am a lonely woman, so I admit that I encouraged him at first, despite his marital status, assuming he was lonely too, in a loveless marriage, and was trying to connect with something familiar and safe. When he admitted that he and his wife did love each other, and were continuing the marital act of lovemaking (despite not always actually sleeping in the same bed), I turned cold. It didn't matter how smart or talented or interesting he thought I was. I no longer felt complimented by his lecherous comments on my photos.

I have an LA friend I don't know very well, who has pursued me on and off since we met in October, usually in between dating some other girl. We've gone out a couple of times, so it seemed OK to accept an offer for a sexless sleepover. (After all, I am more often turned down for sex than pursued for it in LA, so it would probably be safe enough.) Upon peeling back my layers of clothing and revealing my soft, naked core, he delighted in everything I saw as physical flaws, and exuberantly pointed them out. When I complained, wanting to bury myself in a winter coat and never come out again, he protested, "No, I like it!" But someone telling you how much they like your love handles or your unshaven legs or your big nose or your ears that stick out - and, for my own protection, those were not the things that he pointed out - only makes you more self-conscious about those areas. I guess we women don't want guys to even notice that we haven't waxed our eyebrows in over two years, not for them to exclaim, "No I love how messy they are!"

Besides, why was this guy so hyper-focused on my body parts anyway? Why are all guys across the board obsessed with nipples and do everything in their power to catch a glimpse of one?

Both those situations made me feel horrible. And those were guys who know me, who profess to like me.

In New York, I never knew it back then, but I now marvel at strangers' ability to pretend, quite convincingly, for the span of time that they're with you, that they are so into you. You are soulmates. You are the most gorgeous woman they've ever met. You are hilarious. They can't spend the night without you. (And then, of course, you never hear from them again, and if you do see them again, they don't remember you, or pretend not to.) In LA, a harsh reality sets in before anyone is even naked, when guys say things like, "I don't know if I like you. I don't know you." And for some reason, you still take your clothes off.

I'm not sure if it matters if they like me or not, because even when they do like me (see above), it doesn't feel so good.

I don't know what I expect - what I ever expected - but it's not that. It's not this.

It's not meeting a bartender who's also new in town, bonding over moving from New York, and then getting booty-called by him at the end of his shift, punctuated by a text message that reads, "Wanna bang?" the next morning.

It's not him telling me, after I've gracefully declined his kind offer, that he wishes I wasn't all "cracked out", or he'd give me his big you-know-what, and do you-know-what to me.

That doesn't make me laugh. At this point in my life, that feels like a threat. I don't know where in the world that behavior is considered acceptable, but not in mine. I don't know what girl would have gone for an approach like that, but not this girl.

I went on a blind date fix-up the other night, and when I finally arrived to the bar late, the guy sitting next to my date got up to leave. Clearly he was lit, and apparently had been drinking for hours already. He bowed out of the conversation, gave up his barstool, and declared, "Don't worry, I'm clearly not driving home. I'm going to go hit up my Top 5."

I was stunned. "I knew that happened," I told my date, "but I've never heard it actually said out loud by a real person."

My date wasn't sure what I was talking about, so I clarified, "He's going to go try the top five girls he can booty call."

"Oh," my date said. "I had no idea."

And then I wondered why I knew that and he didn't.

And what that said about me as a dater.

And whose Top 5 I had been in.

And for whom I'd only been #5. (Somehow that feels worse than being off the list altogether.)

I am a competitive person. I don't like to play games I can't win. When I won a game show, I didn't answer a question unless I was absolutely sure I would get the answer right.

I kind of don't want to do this anymore unless I can be #1. And not just on the booty call list. I don't want to be #1 Nipples or #1 Ass or #1 Orgasm.

I just want to be important. And valued. And the only one. At least for a while.

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Downtown LA's Upwards Build into the Open Air

2013-05-11T22:54:00.002-07:00

One of my biggest complaints with New York right before I left (and now, whenever I go back) was the claustrophobia I felt, both underground on crowded subway trains, and above ground on tourist- and stroller-infested sidewalks, under the ever-present shadow cast by the looming buildings that you were never supposed to look up at.

There are many days I never saw the sun, even during daylight.

So I escaped from the vertical build of New York City to the horizontal, suburban sprawl of Los Angeles.

For all of the wide open spaces of LA's ranches and canyons and flat freeways, people sometimes forget that LA is more than Hollywood Boulevard and Route 66 and beaches and the Sunset Strip. For a long time, LA's center city was Downtown, an area of town where density once ruled.

LA's Downtown, however, wasn't like other cities' downtowns. And it still isn't.

For decades, a city ordinance prevented developers from building higher than 12 stories, in order to preserve the city's open air landscape. Even when a workaround was figured out for City Hall - and that municipal building towered above all others - for years, no one could build anything higher than City Hall.

But in the mid-20th century, when urban renewal became a thing and the once-affluent Bunker Hill, with its once-spectacular Victorian houses, became a blight overlooking old Downtown, LA city planners had an idea: demolish (or move) all the ramshackle houses that had become an eyesore and cost the city more money to maintain than the city made in tax revenue, flatten the hill, and build a "New Downtown."

This New Downtown would be tall. And this New Downtown would be spacious, not crowded like Broadway and Spring Street, full of pandhandlers. The new, modern skyline would rise high above the streets and the cars below, but yet still allow you to see the sky.

Each skyscraper was planned with its own public space - gardens, plazas, and, in the case of the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power building, a moat - that would create a fortress-like isolation for the new buildings.

They would be self-contained and self-sufficient...

...leaving the incandescent lights on to warm up on chilly nights...

...and firing up the water features to cool down when it's hot.

At night, the city sparkles like any metropolis might...

...but you can be right in the middle of it, and still gaze at it from afar.

In aggregate, depending on where you're standing (like beneath the Central Library, or on the Oviatt Penthouse roof deck), the structures that comprise the New Downtown create a crowded skyline.

But individually, each on their own, they tower in solitude.

And walking or driving beneath them, I don't feel claustrophobic anymore. I can relate to them. I need my space, too.

Related Post:
Looking Up from the Streets of Downtown LA
Wide Open Spaces
Up and Down Bunker Hill on Angels Flight

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Photo Essay: Abandoned Naval Housing, Western Avenue

2013-05-10T01:27:00.001-07:00

We drive by so much in LA.

I like to walk by and have a look.

I like to park my car, get out and have a look.

Among the attractions that often pass us by as we're tuning our radios, flicking our blinkers, wiping our windshields and shifting our gears are the places that used to be something.

There's not much - or, perhaps, nothing - there now, but - once - something was there.

(This is the same thing I say on many hikes when I encounter some footing or foundation or some stairs to nowhere - "That used to be something.")

Case in point: wedged between a cemetery and an oil refinery along California State Route 213 near the border of Rancho Palos Verdes and San Pedro is a stretch of abandoned sidewalk, beyond which is fenced off. Not much there.

But when you take a closer look...

You come across some secret governmental property...

...with a road that has long since been closed...

...and an unmanned security kiosk.

No one's really around. But it feels like they're watching.

A peek beyond the chainlink fence reveals old naval housing, shrinking into the dusty hillside...

...looking like dollhouses with their still-green bushes and still-standing wooden fences.

Boarded up, they're clearly abandoned, but not in shambles - at least, from the outside.

But you can't get in there.

The fence is patched up, covering any access points that were once made, by deterioration or by force.

Electrical wires dangle...

...trees, shrubs and aloe plants overgrow.

But despite the cracked pavement and the desolation...

...it is not entirely abandoned. The entire parcel is now privately owned.

And they're keeping us out, because they have big plans for it.

I mean, like Surfridge, there's a whole town in there. At 62.5 acres, it's huge.

Developers would like to turn it into a housing project called Ponte Vista...

...which was first proposed at 2300 units in 2005...

...and has since been downsized (a couple of times) to a sprawling suburban gated community of 830 homes.

There has been a huge community uproar over the proposal...

...despite the fact that it is just sitting there, inaccessible to the public...

...right behind a local high school.

Fences beckon climbing.

Barbed wire invites tetanus.

And the biggest community concern over the development proposals?

The traffic.

Related Post:
Photo Essay: Trespassing Through Southland's Military History

Other Reading:
LA City Planning Ponte Vista Historic Resource Report

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