Santa Monica

I am sitting in Santa Monica in an office building. I’m just about ready to curl up and go to sleep, though I don’t think they would appreciate that at all.

But I have my iced coffee, and I’ve seen Pierce Brosnan’s and Stephen Bucco’s parking spaces (out front with their names on them). And it’s easy to fall into this feeling of “maybe someone will discover me” sitting out here in the lounge. Or maybe someone will come and throw me out, dressed as I am in my utilikilt and bandana (all the better for driving north through the desert in). On the other hand, I look like film crew.

This space is a funny one. It’s a long series of interconnected buildings with a shady and very green garden running down the middle, interrupted by each of the lobbies. It’s amazing how much cooler the garden space is than the general outside.

Right now, there are people talking down the hall about a new Jack Black movie. It sounds vague, as though it hasn’t quite been written yet. It’s quiet here, with click clicking of heels as a woman walks through, and the low humming thrum of the cars out side and delicate bonging of the elevator. A woman just walked in carrying a bag and a coffee, followed by an older woman with two bags. Actor and agent? Assistant and actor? No way to know.

People are dressed for summer. Sundress and flats. Jeans, heeled sandals, and a printed t-shirt.

I find myself listening to voices, trying to recognize them. Or to overhear snippets of conversation. But also to not look as though I’m actually listening.

Earlier this morning we drove through the construction and freight yards in Long Beach. It was an incredible celebration of industry. Miles of fleets of trucks, lego-stacks of shipping containers in red and blue. A sea of pavement and telephone poles with one lone palm tree, ringed around with metal. A flock of cranes, and a school of barges. And through it and over it a curving bridge. It was beautiful in its singleminded commitment to industry. It would be an incredible shot for a movie.

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