Happy was I last Saturday night that the production found its way to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion with its stage illusions intact and ready to seduce a very willing audience at LA Opera.
There is nothing particular about the Pasadena Main Library. Just like there is nothing particular about the Tiffany’s storefront on Fifth Avenue, the Ritz in the Place Vendôme, or the Russian tearoom . These places, like all the others that litter the streets of any city, are ordinary, mundane, and redundant. Except they are not.
I have lived through, and promptly forgotten, many an unmemorable day, but I distinctly remember my birthdays as if I were using up every bit of life.
Every-time I hear of another incident created against humanity I feel as if I am living in another universe. But this post is not intended to address that. That in itself is such a huge topic; I’ll leave it for another time. But it makes me question whether we have always inhabited these other-worlds, and, consciously or unconsciously, do we make the journey with the possibility of never returning to our known worlds.
The Mexico I write about may be familiar to some, and strange to many. Familiar because they will instantly recognize the landscapes and culture I describe in “Dust Unto Shadow,” and know exactly what I mean when I say that “the future always looks a sun-drenched sun, because no one remembers the past.”
Day before yesterday in my inbox was an email from a life coach who teaches people core values. A thought ran through my head — shouldn’t we have learned them from our parents? And if not, doesn’t every human have the ability to think for themselves and draw up a list of standards that is right for them.