So Day 1 brought with it an introduction to yoga. And not just any ol' kind of yoga, but hot yoga. The Girl and I went for an early-morning session in Santa Monica. I won't lie; I was a little nervous about the whole thing. I'm not the most physically fit individual on the planet, and everything I'd read and heard about hot yoga seemed to indicate that first-timers are guaranteed to pass out or, if they're lucky, simply vomit.
Now, in the past I would've made up some kind of excuse to avoid putting myself in that type of situation--"I have to wash my hair" or "I have to sit around my apartment with the blinds shuttered and mediate on my navel." But something about The Girl inspires me to push the boundaries of my comfort zone, especially when it comes to things that challenge my body. And so I stepped up to the plate for some hot, hot yoga action.
If you've never done hot yoga, it takes place inside a room that's heated to somewhere around a jillion degrees. The stated purpose of the heat is to promote sweating (which serves to detoxify the body) and to allow for increased flexibility in joints and muscles. However, when you add intense heat to an already intense experience--twisting and contorting the body in new and unusual ways--a natural and collateral effect is nausea and dizziness. For me, everything came to a head at around the halfway mark of the session. Suddenly the heat became overwhelming and my body wanted to throw up the white flag.
But I couldn't leave the room. Not that participants are prohibited from leaving, but I'd promised myself that I'd stay the whole session to maximize my first yoga experience (plus I wanted to earn brownie points with The Girl--hashtag egotastic!). So after taking a knee through one set of poses, I took a deep breath and let mind overcome matter.
I'd read somewhere that the power of yoga lies in its ability to let you to focus your mind in a way that allows your body to do amazing things. And with that in mind, I turned my focus from the outer to the inner, disengaging my mind from the physical discomfort of the whole experience and focusing instead on the restorative process occurring to my body in invisible ways. I won't be so bold as to say that I've unlocked the secret of thousands of years of Eastern thought (not even close), but my refocusing was able to prevent me from passing out or throwing up--no small victory.
Today, I'm sore as all get out in areas and muscle groups that I didn't even realize I had, but it's a good kind of sore. It's amazing that the body can be so taxed by an endeavor that is so peaceful. A far cry from what is traditionally considered exercise in the Western world, activities based on aggression and the volatile explosive potential of the human body. In retrospect, I think I've never been a very active person because those types of activities don't really suit my personality (plus I'm probably the least-coordinated person on the entire planet). However, with yoga, I think I've found something active that I can enjoy without feeling like I'm completing a distasteful chore. More than anything, I love the mind-body-spirit element to it. Namaste, everyone.
--KM
"Honor your edge."
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Friday, April 26, 2013
The End Is The Beginning
Today was my last day of work at the firm I'd been with since the conclusion of the bar exam four long years ago. To be honest, it felt like any other Friday except that most Fridays I'm not cleaning out my desk and attending a farewell dinner. I thought I'd be a bit more emotional about the whole thing--four years is a long time to be tied to anything--but I didn't get any pangs of sadness or anything as I shut down my computer and turned out the lights in my office for the last time.
I suppose that says something about the job. Or, at the very least, the state of my life the past four years. Certainly a lot has changed during that time, but fundamentally I feel like I've been running in place that whole time. You remember that scene in Garden State where Zach Braff is sitting still on the couch while the whole party is moving around him at a frenetic pace? I feel like that. Well, I felt like that. Leaving work today left me feeling lighter--unshackled--and able to once again move at the proper pace.
I think a convenient way to look at life is as a book, and so it's safe to say that the end of this job signals the end of another chapter in my life. A chapter burdened by the weight of circumstance and in which nothing of consequence happened to the protagonist. My new job starts at the end of next month, so I'll have 30 days to . . . I'm not sure. Part of that time will be spent moving and another part will be spent traveling. The rest? I suppose I'll spend it rediscovering some of the things that went abandoned these last four years. In any case, it always feels good to turn the page; to start a new chapter.
--KM
"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show."
Sunday, April 14, 2013
The Kettle Makes A Wager
It's said that a kettle that's quick to heat up is also quick to cool down. I don't know if there's any literal truth to this saying, but I do know that the tale of the quick-heating kettle describes a bad habit of mine. I can be scattered at times and tend to move from one thing to the next pretty quickly. I will focus all of my attention on something with laser-like intensity only to lose interest a short while later (it's a miracle this blog has lasted as long as it has). This tendency is most pervasive when it comes to hobbies, but unfortunately it's crept into my romantic life as well.
There have been several girls who I was absolutely positively 100% sure was the girl with whom I'd spend the rest of my life. I felt it with the burning certainty of Truth pretty soon into the relationship and would express this to the girl shortly thereafter. I'd bare my soul to her and sell our relationship as a mighty redwood, destined for eternity. The sale would work, and things would progress smoothly for a while. Until that inevitable moment when the internal switch would turn to "off," and the passion would evaporate very, very quickly from the relationship. And at that moment it became clear to both of us that I was no better than a used car salesman, the mighty redwood turning out to be nothing more than a feeble sapling. A dud. A lemon. Of course, this was not my intention, but intentions are hardly relevant at that point.
I've been thinking a lot recently about the quick-heating kettle. As you know, I've met a wonderful girl with who I absolutely enjoy spending time. It's only been several weeks, but it feels like we've known each other much longer than that. There's a "click" between she and I, like two interlocking Lego pieces. In the past, this is exactly the point where I would start "The Big Sale" to convince this girl that there exists something that doesn't (at least not yet). I'm mature/smart enough now to refrain from that and have actually been trying to take the opposite tack here, focusing on just letting things develop organically without any unnatural interference from me. And yet, organic has still resulted in a rather accelerated pace.
Accelerated is not bad per se, but with my history, I worry. Statistics and probability tell me that in all likelihood this relationship will end in failure. History tells me that this relationship, organic or otherwise, is moving down the same ol' path of "hot-->cold-->fail-->solitude." It's only a matter of time until I lose interest. Again. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. I'm just waiting for the clock to strike midnight and the bells to toll--FAIL! FAIL! FAIL!
These are the thoughts that drifted through my mind while with The Girl yesterday evening, forming a dark cloud over our heads. As the evening progressed, the cloud seemed to grow bigger and bigger, fueled by my negativity and doubt, threatening to unleash its chaos down upon us. But while I was busy concerning myself with the cloud, The Girl had brought us to a bowling alley arcade for a nightcap of Street Fighter II. As the quarters were deposited and the machine pleasantly "blip-blip'd" to acknowledged being fed, the cloud seemed to recoil and shrink a bit. She selected Chun-Li and I Ryu. The cloud recoiled and shrank again. As the rounds progressed, as the two of us mashed on buttons and directed our avatars in spirited combat, the cloud kept shrinking and shrinking until it dissipated itself right back to where it belonged. To nothing.
In our final match, as Ryu is getting his ass handed to him via helicopter kick, I look over to see The Girl's victorious expression matching that of her avatar on screen. And at that moment another saying popped into my head:
"Gamble everything for love, if you are a true human being. If not, leave this gathering. Halfheartedness does not reach into majesty." --Rumi
That's not to say I'm about to revert to my old ways and declare, "THIS IS IT!" No, nothing like that. It's just . . . I won't be a prisoner to the past. I think I've paid the penalty several times over for past transgressions (unintentional or otherwise) and have come a long way since those early days. And I won't let fear of failure become a self-fulfilling prophecy either. Of course, with that said, I realize that the outcome of this situation is far from certain and the odds remain stacked against me. Failure is still definitely a very real possibility here. But, so is true love. And for that, I am willing to make a wager.
--KM
p.s. Thanks to Double D for that Rumi quote.
p.s. Thanks to Double D for that Rumi quote.
"Luck be a lady tonight."
Thursday, April 11, 2013
I'll Catch the Next One
Those who know me in the slightest know that I really really really really really like the Dodgers. If "fan" is short for "fanatic," it's because of people like me. I support the team through thick and thin, and take personal offense when others besmirch the Dodgers' good name (I'm looking at you, Giants fans!!!). The team and I are joined at the hip in an awkwardly symbiotic relationship. And it's for this reason that I try really hard to consume all 162 (that's right--one hundred and sixty-friggin'-two) games in the season. Most of the time that means watching at home with only Vin Scully to keep me company. In the off chance that I can't be in front of a television, I listen to the game on the radio or track the play-by-play on my phone. Some would call this level of devotion unhealthy. And normally I would agree but for the fact that without my attention to each and every game, the team's performance would suffer. Clayton Kershaw wouldn't have won the Cy Young award, and Matt Kemp wouldn't have come oh-so-tantalizingly close to winning the MVP award. And so, I considered it my duty to watch.
A strange thing happened yesterday, though. The Dodgers beat the San Diego Padres by a score of 4 to 3, and I know this not because I watched the game, but because I checked the score the following day. Truth is, I didn't watch or listen to one moment of the game. Nor did I have any urge to check the score while the game was in progress. I didn't forget there was a game, and nothing happened to make me forsake the Boys in Blue. No, it's just that I had a more pressing engagement.
Last night The Girl and I met up to try our hand at homemade pizzas using store-bought dough and toppings with our own handmade sauces. Hers was a delightful combination of pesto, prosciutto, tomatoes, and fresh mozzarella that she conjured up out of her imagination (left); mine a bit more on the traditional side-- a "classic" margherita. Going into the evening, I had a gut feeling that things would go smoothly, despite both of us lacking any pizza-making experience. But upon consulting friends and the Internets, trepidation started to creep into my mind--"What's a pizza stone and do I need one? What the heck is 'parchment paper,' and why does everyone say I will need one? Will the oven get hot enough, and what if it doesn't?" By the time we were fully entrenched in dough-kneading and sauce-making, trepidation had grown into anxiety--"the dough is oddly misshapen. . . the sauce doesn't look the right color . . . um, how are we gonna get the pies into the oven?" Yikes!
But of course, as with many things in life, your gut feeling deserves your trust when it comes to new adventures, be they culinary or romantic. That became clear upon taking out the first pizza, the margherita (right). Not only did it look and smell fabulous (my crap picture doesn't do it justice), but in the process of baking it morphed into a shape that is suspiciously heart-like in character. After that it was smooth sailing as unnecessary anxiety quickly melted away, and we enjoyed a lovely dinner of pizza, kale salad, and wine followed by some delightful conversation. It was an evening filled with learning and discovery. I learned that a hot surface in the oven for the pizza to rest is the key to a delicious crust and that a pizza peel is pretty key if you're thinking of scaling Mount Pizza. And, I discovered that although I really really really really really like the Dodgers, there is something that I like even more.
--KM
"C'est si bon. Lovers say that in France when they thrill to romance. It means that it's so good."
A strange thing happened yesterday, though. The Dodgers beat the San Diego Padres by a score of 4 to 3, and I know this not because I watched the game, but because I checked the score the following day. Truth is, I didn't watch or listen to one moment of the game. Nor did I have any urge to check the score while the game was in progress. I didn't forget there was a game, and nothing happened to make me forsake the Boys in Blue. No, it's just that I had a more pressing engagement.
--KM
"C'est si bon. Lovers say that in France when they thrill to romance. It means that it's so good."
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Slaying The Parasite or How I Had A Great Weekend
At some point in the last few years, my weekend routine became exactly that. A routine. And a boring one, at that. Friday night usually involved dinner and/or drinks to blow off some steam. Saturday meant household errands and laundry. Sunday was reserved for bemoaning how quickly the weekend went and how the work week loomed oh-so-uncomfortably close. Every now and again there'd be an outing with friends peppered here and there, but they did nothing to stop the unrelenting juggernaut that was the Weekend Routine, bouncing harmlessly off its hull like B.B.'s off a battleship. Eventually the Weekend Routine grew to infest Monday then Tuesday then the rest of the weekdays until it shed its adolescent "Weekend" stage and become a full-grown 24/7/365 behemoth, leveling up to become The Routine.
Now, the thing about The Routine is that it's not a monster in the traditional sense. It doesn't want to rip your head off and eat your brains or otherwise do you swift and brutal violence. No, it doesn't have that kind of ambition, charisma, or bravado. It's lower than that. Much lower. The lowest of the low. It's a parasite. And like any good parasite it needs a host. Enter deliciously oblivious Japanese man.
To trap its victim for consumption, The Routine envelops it in a cocoon of comfort, lulling it into a false sense of security. "Hey buddy, everything's ok in here. There's nothing out there worth pursuing. Why mess up the good thing we have? You work so hard. Why not take it . . . easy." The physical nature of the cocoon is such that you can see out and people can see in, but nothing can pass through the walls. So The Routine casually swats away words of concern from friends and others while the host slumbers peacefully, unaware that it's trapped at all. And all the while, The Routine feeds on the most delicious and valuable of human possessions--time. Each day spent within its clutches is another not spent seeing, hearing, smelling, touching, and tasting all that makes the world so magnificent.
And so was my life. Until this past Friday when I looked out from the cocoon and saw a girl there who I'd never seen before (or at least a girl I don't remember ever seeing before). A girl who stirred something deep within. I wanted to stop her before she got too far away, but when I went to reach out my hand, I was met with the hard, sticky shell of the cocoon. Sensing my irregular movement, The Routine showered me with a heavier-than-usual dose of naysay. "Hey dude, what're you doing? Where're you trying to go? She's not who you think she is. She's ordinary and uninteresting just like the rest. Don't bother going out in the cold. Stay here where it's warm. Come on, buddy. It's me and you against the world." It was no use, though. This girl's mere presence had shaken me out of my stupor. No amount of sweet talk from the parasite was going to keep me trapped within its hot, dark, slimy prison any longer. And so I did something it wasn't expecting--I fought back.
I kicked and punched and clawed and bit and scratched until I'd made way out of the cocoon; until I was something I hadn't been in a while--free. That first breath of fresh air had the sweet taste of possibility; of the unexpected. Something for which I hungered after my long slumber. I looked back to see my former captor slowly withering away, my escape having caused a fatal wound. I stepped over the slowly expiring parasite and went to find the one who'd inspired my breakout. When I finally caught up to her, we stood there for a moment and exchanged a silent glance. Of course, there's only so much glance that can be exchanged before it gets awkward, so I reached out, took her hand, and the rest is Weekend (the non-routine variety):
And, to cap it all off. A vintage Polaroid picture. Not too shabby for a guy still trying to get his post-cocoon bearings. Although, I must admit that it's easier when walking hand in hand with another. After all, as I'm quickly learning, life isn't meant to be a party of one.
--KM
"The sun is gone, but I have a light. The day is done, but I'm having fun. I think I'm dumb. Or maybe just happy."
Now, the thing about The Routine is that it's not a monster in the traditional sense. It doesn't want to rip your head off and eat your brains or otherwise do you swift and brutal violence. No, it doesn't have that kind of ambition, charisma, or bravado. It's lower than that. Much lower. The lowest of the low. It's a parasite. And like any good parasite it needs a host. Enter deliciously oblivious Japanese man.
To trap its victim for consumption, The Routine envelops it in a cocoon of comfort, lulling it into a false sense of security. "Hey buddy, everything's ok in here. There's nothing out there worth pursuing. Why mess up the good thing we have? You work so hard. Why not take it . . . easy." The physical nature of the cocoon is such that you can see out and people can see in, but nothing can pass through the walls. So The Routine casually swats away words of concern from friends and others while the host slumbers peacefully, unaware that it's trapped at all. And all the while, The Routine feeds on the most delicious and valuable of human possessions--time. Each day spent within its clutches is another not spent seeing, hearing, smelling, touching, and tasting all that makes the world so magnificent.
And so was my life. Until this past Friday when I looked out from the cocoon and saw a girl there who I'd never seen before (or at least a girl I don't remember ever seeing before). A girl who stirred something deep within. I wanted to stop her before she got too far away, but when I went to reach out my hand, I was met with the hard, sticky shell of the cocoon. Sensing my irregular movement, The Routine showered me with a heavier-than-usual dose of naysay. "Hey dude, what're you doing? Where're you trying to go? She's not who you think she is. She's ordinary and uninteresting just like the rest. Don't bother going out in the cold. Stay here where it's warm. Come on, buddy. It's me and you against the world." It was no use, though. This girl's mere presence had shaken me out of my stupor. No amount of sweet talk from the parasite was going to keep me trapped within its hot, dark, slimy prison any longer. And so I did something it wasn't expecting--I fought back.
I kicked and punched and clawed and bit and scratched until I'd made way out of the cocoon; until I was something I hadn't been in a while--free. That first breath of fresh air had the sweet taste of possibility; of the unexpected. Something for which I hungered after my long slumber. I looked back to see my former captor slowly withering away, my escape having caused a fatal wound. I stepped over the slowly expiring parasite and went to find the one who'd inspired my breakout. When I finally caught up to her, we stood there for a moment and exchanged a silent glance. Of course, there's only so much glance that can be exchanged before it gets awkward, so I reached out, took her hand, and the rest is Weekend (the non-routine variety):
A Dodger Stadium picnic with delicious sandwiches from the Farm; a 3-0 victory for the hometeam; a drink (or six) at a Bar Far away; gangsta music on LA's most gangsta freeway, the 110; a private moment in the parking garage . . . interrupted by a really drunk brotha with a bag of fast food drive-thru; a late night; an early morning; picking up one car and dropping off another; Costco sample heaven; hoppin' in Ferrari; Lincoln Blvd; Santa Monica; the Daily Bread; Third Street Promenade; the People's Court; shining bright like a diamond; a $20 miscalculation; froyo with more than one topping; an encounter with a genius; picking something up a day later than expected; top down; Lincoln Blvd; masseuses; Indian food (hold the meat); sparkling wine; nerds; The Hunk; a beautiful pianist; another private moment; another late night; another early morning; brunch with friends.
And, to cap it all off. A vintage Polaroid picture. Not too shabby for a guy still trying to get his post-cocoon bearings. Although, I must admit that it's easier when walking hand in hand with another. After all, as I'm quickly learning, life isn't meant to be a party of one.
--KM
"The sun is gone, but I have a light. The day is done, but I'm having fun. I think I'm dumb. Or maybe just happy."
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Searching For Something
I think the hardest thing about dating as a thirty-something is that you just don't have the luxury of making incidental contact with other single people. The biggest thing is not being in school anymore. It's amazing how few people you meet as a working stiff. In addition to which, as the pool of people in the "married" and "engaged" columns grow, so shrinks the pool of those in the "single" column. Not having the skill set to find my true love at a bar or the grocery store, I turned to life's great equalizer--the Internet. No other invention in human history has made communication and connection so easy and accessible. Of course this modern marvel would provide me the much-needed boost in my quest to find true love, right?
Wrong. Absolutely wrong.
I'm definitely no online Casanova but I think my sample size of these types of first dates is large enough to say with some degree of certainty that most of them result in failure. Like 99%. It seems that no matter how swimmingly the initial courtship goes via the Internet, you can bet money that the girl and I will be leaving our encounter just the same as when we met--single. But it's not just the failure rate. No, I'm tenacious enough not to let mere failure bother me. It's the manner of failure. Failure of the utter soul-crushing variety. Most of these things start with the girl and I meeting face-to-face and her smile slowly deteriorating into a frown. I'm sure my face exudes the same level of enthusiasm for the encounter; a feeling of "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" Of course, at that point it's too late to back out. Online etiquette dictates that some semblance of a "date" be performed. So the two of us go through the motions with the same level of joy as visiting the dentist. And after it's all mercifully over and a pleasant handshake goodbye has been exchanged, I'm left to contemplate, "I friggin' drove 30 miles for that?"
And that's just one date. Stack those up one on top of the other in some sick, teetering Jenga tower of romantic ineptitude, and the weight of all that joylessness starts to really wear you down. I will say, though, that every once in a while you meet someone with which you wouldn't mind having a second date. You don't find each other repulsive, no small victory. But more than that, there are commonalities--she likes dogs, too! Ah, there's that small glimmer of hope that perhaps this will be the one that springs forth into something special. And so the first date continues into a second and third. . . only to wither and die on the vine like all the others. At about date three, you realize that the whole thing is just am empty facade. A false hope (the worst kind); a promise that will never be fulfilled. As much as you both want it to be so, it isn't. And you both know it. So in the end it becomes just another dead carcass to add to the ever-growing pile.
Needless to say, the whole proces makes you really tired. More than tired. Exhausted. But even beyond that. It's a feeling for which I have no word to describe it. But whatever it is, it makes you seriously contemplate giving up on the whole thing. "If it was meant to happen, it would've happened by now. Just like it has for everyone else. The clock's struck midnight, and the party's over, pal. Leave that glass slipper by the door on your way out." In the period of three brief months, excitement turns into anxiety turns into desperation turns into the worst of all emotions--apathy.
But, because life is funny like that, just when the walls are really starting to close in, it happens. You meet that girl. The circumstances of your meeting are similar to all the others before, but you know right away that she is nothing like the rest. She is someone with which you have that something. Call it spark or chemistry or whatever, but it's something that the wisdom of age has taught me comes few and far between. Not only that, but like most things that are truly special, it is fragile and delicate. Something that demands my attention and care, but not something to be suffocated.
Truth be told, I'm a little nervous about striking that balance given that I'm usually all thumbs when it comes to things like this. Like, in the past, this is usually where I would've proclaimed that this girl is "The One," only to have to walk that back in a few months. Of course, I know better now. That such things are not meant to be proclaimed by me. At least not now. If it is, it is. A truth is always the truth; not something that needs broadcasting. But, although a truth, it is one that takes time to be revealed. Patience and diligence, young grasshopper. I suppose it's a bit embarrassing to be admitting that I'm learning these obvious life lessons so late in life, but better late than never, right? And so with that, off I go.
--KM
"I know beyond a doubt that my heart will lead me there soon."
Wrong. Absolutely wrong.
I'm definitely no online Casanova but I think my sample size of these types of first dates is large enough to say with some degree of certainty that most of them result in failure. Like 99%. It seems that no matter how swimmingly the initial courtship goes via the Internet, you can bet money that the girl and I will be leaving our encounter just the same as when we met--single. But it's not just the failure rate. No, I'm tenacious enough not to let mere failure bother me. It's the manner of failure. Failure of the utter soul-crushing variety. Most of these things start with the girl and I meeting face-to-face and her smile slowly deteriorating into a frown. I'm sure my face exudes the same level of enthusiasm for the encounter; a feeling of "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" Of course, at that point it's too late to back out. Online etiquette dictates that some semblance of a "date" be performed. So the two of us go through the motions with the same level of joy as visiting the dentist. And after it's all mercifully over and a pleasant handshake goodbye has been exchanged, I'm left to contemplate, "I friggin' drove 30 miles for that?"
And that's just one date. Stack those up one on top of the other in some sick, teetering Jenga tower of romantic ineptitude, and the weight of all that joylessness starts to really wear you down. I will say, though, that every once in a while you meet someone with which you wouldn't mind having a second date. You don't find each other repulsive, no small victory. But more than that, there are commonalities--she likes dogs, too! Ah, there's that small glimmer of hope that perhaps this will be the one that springs forth into something special. And so the first date continues into a second and third. . . only to wither and die on the vine like all the others. At about date three, you realize that the whole thing is just am empty facade. A false hope (the worst kind); a promise that will never be fulfilled. As much as you both want it to be so, it isn't. And you both know it. So in the end it becomes just another dead carcass to add to the ever-growing pile.
Needless to say, the whole proces makes you really tired. More than tired. Exhausted. But even beyond that. It's a feeling for which I have no word to describe it. But whatever it is, it makes you seriously contemplate giving up on the whole thing. "If it was meant to happen, it would've happened by now. Just like it has for everyone else. The clock's struck midnight, and the party's over, pal. Leave that glass slipper by the door on your way out." In the period of three brief months, excitement turns into anxiety turns into desperation turns into the worst of all emotions--apathy.
But, because life is funny like that, just when the walls are really starting to close in, it happens. You meet that girl. The circumstances of your meeting are similar to all the others before, but you know right away that she is nothing like the rest. She is someone with which you have that something. Call it spark or chemistry or whatever, but it's something that the wisdom of age has taught me comes few and far between. Not only that, but like most things that are truly special, it is fragile and delicate. Something that demands my attention and care, but not something to be suffocated.
Truth be told, I'm a little nervous about striking that balance given that I'm usually all thumbs when it comes to things like this. Like, in the past, this is usually where I would've proclaimed that this girl is "The One," only to have to walk that back in a few months. Of course, I know better now. That such things are not meant to be proclaimed by me. At least not now. If it is, it is. A truth is always the truth; not something that needs broadcasting. But, although a truth, it is one that takes time to be revealed. Patience and diligence, young grasshopper. I suppose it's a bit embarrassing to be admitting that I'm learning these obvious life lessons so late in life, but better late than never, right? And so with that, off I go.
--KM
"I know beyond a doubt that my heart will lead me there soon."
Monday, April 1, 2013
A Trip to the Utopian Future
Perched high atop a hilltop above the mighty 405 freeway, the Getty Center overlooks Los Angeles with an air of casual grace. There's no direct automobile access to the museum, so the journey to the Getty Center starts at a rather nondescript underground parking garage tied to a tram that takes you up to the hilltop. When you enter the parking garage, you're clearly tethered to the present, but the small details seem a bit different; like something really special is in store. That feeling is confirmed as soon as you step out of the parking garage's elevator into the tram station. It's light and airy with a hint of whimsy. Everything is very clean, but not in the sense that it's free of dirt (of which it is), but more in the sense that it's free of the superfluous. You feel like you're leaving behind the dirt and grime of your everyday life and putting on the robes of learning. The future is evoked by a semi-infinity pond and a clean, white motif. However, small details like wooden pergolas give the place a familiar feel; that it's your future. As I'll soon learn, this is a theme for the entire museum. The juxtaposition of new and old; artificial and organic. Blended together and living in perfect harmony.
The whisper-quiet tram arrives to whisk us to the museum at the top of the hill. The ride is smooth, like floating on air. As we take an architectural tour, the docent quickly informs us that the cleansing feeling at the tram station is by design of the architect, Richard Meier. As the tour progresses, you realize just how truly amazing the museum is. Meier's architectural philosophy is to bring order to space, so everything at the Getty Center is on a fairly strict grid system, with the columns and tiles lining up perfectly. But despite that level of precision, it never feels foreign, as there is liberal use of organic material within the compound--travertine stone, water, lush trees.
As you enter the main lobby with its cylindrical center space opening up into the sky, you can't help but feel as though you're in a futuristic space terminal. From the lobby is the central courtyard. The first thing you notice is that the roar of Los Angeles is silenced and replaced with the soothing sound of running water. Trees line the courtyard's main reflection pool, offering a space to do some serious introspection or just rest those weary feet. The second thing you notice is the color. The Getty Center is white, but two kinds of white. Pure white and "Getty white." The majority of the buildings are in Getty White, sort of an off-white that was designed not to blind people when hit by the glorious California sun. The pure white--the white actually preferred by Meier for the entire complex--is reserved for moments when evoking movement is necessary--elevators, doorways, curvatures, etc. It's striking to step into a super-tall, bright-white, whisper-quiet elevator and emerge into a room filled with impressionist paintings. Again, the juxtaposition of two polar opposites is done in a way that is familiar and comfortable.
I'll stop here since I'm not really doing the place justice. But trust me, it felt like the utopian future. Something out of Star Trek (the Next Generation, for those keeping score). You know, that Man has come to a point in his evolution where knowledge and learning superceded violence and destruction. Perhaps that feeling had something to do with the company I was with. I was fortunate enough to have taken this trip into the utopian future while on a date. A good omen perhaps? I'll leave the reading of tea leaves and crystal balls to the professionals and simply say that for now I'm content with the here and now. But, let's just say I'm also definitely looking forward to the future.
--KM
"Engage."
The whisper-quiet tram arrives to whisk us to the museum at the top of the hill. The ride is smooth, like floating on air. As we take an architectural tour, the docent quickly informs us that the cleansing feeling at the tram station is by design of the architect, Richard Meier. As the tour progresses, you realize just how truly amazing the museum is. Meier's architectural philosophy is to bring order to space, so everything at the Getty Center is on a fairly strict grid system, with the columns and tiles lining up perfectly. But despite that level of precision, it never feels foreign, as there is liberal use of organic material within the compound--travertine stone, water, lush trees.
As you enter the main lobby with its cylindrical center space opening up into the sky, you can't help but feel as though you're in a futuristic space terminal. From the lobby is the central courtyard. The first thing you notice is that the roar of Los Angeles is silenced and replaced with the soothing sound of running water. Trees line the courtyard's main reflection pool, offering a space to do some serious introspection or just rest those weary feet. The second thing you notice is the color. The Getty Center is white, but two kinds of white. Pure white and "Getty white." The majority of the buildings are in Getty White, sort of an off-white that was designed not to blind people when hit by the glorious California sun. The pure white--the white actually preferred by Meier for the entire complex--is reserved for moments when evoking movement is necessary--elevators, doorways, curvatures, etc. It's striking to step into a super-tall, bright-white, whisper-quiet elevator and emerge into a room filled with impressionist paintings. Again, the juxtaposition of two polar opposites is done in a way that is familiar and comfortable.
I'll stop here since I'm not really doing the place justice. But trust me, it felt like the utopian future. Something out of Star Trek (the Next Generation, for those keeping score). You know, that Man has come to a point in his evolution where knowledge and learning superceded violence and destruction. Perhaps that feeling had something to do with the company I was with. I was fortunate enough to have taken this trip into the utopian future while on a date. A good omen perhaps? I'll leave the reading of tea leaves and crystal balls to the professionals and simply say that for now I'm content with the here and now. But, let's just say I'm also definitely looking forward to the future.
--KM
"Engage."
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