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| The Essays | Friday, September 03, 2010 |
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 Here’s an announcement of sorts: I reside in the “City of Angels” no more. Proximate friends will spot me about, now in this, my fifth year. And I will continue paying percentages of, and receive refunds for, raised-lowered-legal-illegal car taxes. Reason lies in reading “The Right Word,” featuring “the big guy,” William F. Buckley, Jr. Now those familiar with his work I ask your patience, for the book is apolitical by nature. And this is not an essay of political opinion. It’s an ode to my late friend Zak, who scrapped with cancer for a bitter nine months, acquiescing with the eternal peace near his twenty-fourth birthday. “The Right Word” is a book about the English language, sifted through a compilation of Buckley’s work -- how he writes, why he writes, his writing about speaking, his speeches about writing, and the rendezvous with words that manifests from an exemplary career of deliberate locution. It’s a delicious read for me in the twenty or so minutes left of lunch, sitting on a beautiful park bench of a fake studio lot. Wherein I found a passage that stirred me, ironically not originating from Buckley’s hand, but of his retired editor, William Rickenbecker. On the translation of Los Angeles, he remarked: P. 25 – L.A. is not “the City of Angels.” It is La Ciudad de Nuestra Senora, Reina de los Angeles – the City of Our Lady, Queen of the Angels. The name is far too beautiful to be ignored.The City of Angels. There’s a secular nature to it, which I’m sure plays in its mainstream acceptance. Contemporary times conjure images of the Guardian Angels, or Charlie’s -- more anthropomorphizations of God-like entities than of a person’s ascent to the supernal realms. I can’t help but assume there are those in the Hollywood Hills who take the meaning literally, and believe the city was named for them - omniscient wonders overlooking and rescuing the minions from their predestined flaws. Thankfully, they’re not L.A. I’ve always applied it personally, toward the beauteous city which attracts dreamers from around the world. These are the rejected and bored, who relocate to embrace the challenge of developing and sharing their voice. And these dreamers join those already out here. They are the last of the pioneers, relentlessly prescribing new approaches to old problems, distinguishing themselves not by a mark of land, but a way of life. All are welcomed by the sunshine, the ever present glare of which eventually invokes more guilt than tranquility. For me, back then, the name “City of Angels” enveloped a commune of nomads branded by their imagination -- the only place you could find a musician like Zak. He wasn’t much of a religious person. But he had a spirit about him. He touched mere acquaintances. It’s a rare trait these days for a young man to think deep and feel passionately. Even in this regard he was an exception, wearing his soul on his sleeve -- singing to anyone with the good heart to listen. The time between college and the first real job is pretty rough. There are growing pains. And what a friend I had to bring me out of the doldrums of menial work -- often with his father’s bottle of Johnny Walker Black, R & B, and a night chasing sirens. Most of all, he would remind us why were here. Why we moved to the City of Angels. In a town where everyone wants to be a writer, director, musician, etc, very few are actually writing, directing, and making music. It’s our dirty, little secret. No one asks, “Are you writing…?” because it makes the other person feel guilty, and far worse, it will be asked in return. But Zak didn’t care, he’d ask, because he saw life from a satellite. He knew where he was going and didn’t want to go it alone. La Ciudad… There is no logic to combat cancer. When the best doctors at UCLA, the best doctors in the world, men and women who read in their sleep, and sleep
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| Writing is arrogant. Not writing is selfish. ©The Juxtaposition |
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