tonight i attended a short film series on the history of topanga canyon. the wistful pieces, mostly depicting brutally artistic souls in the throes of nostalgia, were a wire whisk in the stirrings of my soul.a pied piper of a blonde ageless man, also present this night in the same pin-striped suit and feathered cap, spoke onscreen of time travel, his experiences with warhol, and true transcendence of the temporal. his pen and ink illustrated depictions of these esoteric concepts fluttered between frames of state-issued community bulldozing.
he struck me as a dying breed.
after, as i approached anastasia the filmmaker, full to bursting, as always, with another project i wanted to take on - the suggestion that we track down the neal young's, joni mitchell's, taj majal's and devendra's and garner the interest this project needs - the blonde man, similarly bursting, presented me with a list, hand-scrawled in red, of the musicians of that place, past and present.
He had the same idea. And it became despicably clear he was as overwhelmed by passion for the impossible as myself.
'I'm his squaw,' said a beautiful, pregnant woman, pushing me out of the room with her energy, and I felt ADD and silly and hate myself a little for having so much vision it veritably fetters me.
'I'm his squaw,' said a beautiful, pregnant woman, pushing me out of the room with her energy, and I felt ADD and silly and hate myself a little for having so much vision it veritably fetters me.
I ate a slice of apple and then I slipped away and drove up to Topanga and was happy to be home, even if that's what this rented hobbit-hole is for only a few more weeks.
