from the paisley notebook

Sometimes I barely recognize this place. Not that it ever was all that homey in its vast stretches of bland concrete, plaster, asphalt. Then it became tall reaches of chrome and black glass. Now I don't even know anymore: just an overall standardized banality of mini-malls punctuated by occasional bigbox and big gargantua mall. Even the cars: seen from the back of a big shuttlebus, it's a bit less bizarre to see such huge vehicles people operate now in everyday life. Pretty soon Americans will be driving busses.

Less and less human beings on the streets. Pedestrians crossing a light forging ahead with a vigor of purpose as of journeyers of a tropical rainforest. The few people lingering at busstops are invariably from Latin America, commuting to work, to clean house for those who pay others to do so. And the occasional sidewalk vendor, pitching to the deaf cars parked at a red light: futilely selling flowers, or MAPS OF THE STARS.

(Did anyone ever sell maps of the authors who lived in L.A.? Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956), 1063 26th Street, Santa Monica
; James M. Cain (1892–1977), 2966 Belden Drive, Beachwood Canyon; Raymond Chandler (1888–1959), 6520 Drexel Avenue, Fairfax district; William Faulkner (1897–1962), 4204 Jackson Street, Culver City; Chester Himes (1909–1984), 1056 De Garmo Drive, City Terrace;
etc. Did anyone ever sell maps of the painters? the musicians? No, authors are endangered species, like painters and musicians, unless trained work in new techology, moving pictures, t-vision, the world-wide web, etc.)


What would Stravinsky have blogged? Imagine Man Ray on YouTube!

— Am I endangered too?