from the paisley notebook

I am writing this longhand sitting in the backrow of a shuttlebus leaving Los Angeles International airport (L.A.X.). By the time I'll have completed this, then typed it up, how far how fast will the world have changed (the clock ticking, so time comes into this, plus some possible wager, an unwritten deal, as to outcome). Looking out my moving window, I recognize little of the Los Angeles once known as a boy. Everywhere now, the pace of change speeds up faster, faster.

Consider this: back home, in San Francisco, on my workbench, is a DVD a filmmaker sent me of his new movie, and my new computer has a slot for DVD's; still, I'd never seen a DVD before. I've been like that caterpillar looking up at the butterfly, growling, "You'll never get me up in one of those things." Call me a purist, call me the last Puritan, call me Ishmael. I've held out until now, my ears plugged with wax as we pass the sirens' reefs, ("muzak, the muse is sick"), only watching films as film. No VHS. No cable. No DVD. No digital camera nor cellphone home movies.

Now, lingering at the pearly gates of the new, one thing's for sure: film, with which I've grown up, is an endangered species. So this notebook is dedicated to recording my life up until now, but quickly, faster faster, before I make this deal with the digital. Meanwhile, we're circling the airport, waiting to pick up two more passengers before heading off into the dark bright Hollywood night.