7:47 a.m. - 2005-05-08
bel-air
Last month we were doing this remodel gig for a very euro-stoner, Buddhas by the jacuzzi, "bikini-top" is an oxymoron kind of household out in Bel-Air. The sort of place where I would typically accept my hosts' invitation to drop the tool bags at the end of the day, crack a can, and wait out west-side traffic whilst partaking of the lifestyle that ostensibly keeps me in Cali; but we were stressed, schedule-wise, so I did not. Stressed or no though, the view from this crib (the guest house where we were working was built in the dizzying space under a tennis court cantilevered out from the mountainside) could not be denied. And if the panorama didn't get you, the butterflies would. 'Cause this whole tennis court/guest-house monstrosity protruded, apparently, into the middle of some kind of insect autobahn; a migratory thoroughfare unremarkable most of the year but that came alive during our second week on the job. I remember standing out on the balcony with Gordo, cussin' something (a neglected purchase at the hardware store, an expense not taken into account in my bid, the career choices that led me here...) when the first one flitted by. Two more followed, then five, and then a swirling deluge of orange and black wings. It was a beautiful day as well; too windy for any sort of smog to settle. This same strong wind, though, was taking these butterflies on a harsh ride. Whole convoys would come spiraling down the mountain, over the tennis court, and past our impromptu workshop; locked in mini vortices that would shear apart in the face of a rogue gust, hurling antennaed payload helter-skelter. They kept at it though, righting themselves and taking a couple flaps in their general migratory direction before being caught up again in some random wind-eddy and dragged who-knows-where. Lofted across the pass, over the Getty Center and on towards Malibu if they were lucky; dragged down towards the wing-hungry grilles and windshields of the 405 if they weren't. Watching these little flyers get buffeted in every direction, I came to appreciate the scope and absurdity of their mission. How can this much will-to-persevere be contained in a package of such negligible mass?
It gave me pause to consider my own crooked flight-path. Like every one else, I've been buffeted about by bad luck/bad choices...and like everybody else I keep pushing on. Maybe at some point we'll all flap up to a tree we've never seen before, in some coastal town we've never heard of, and instinctively (with a collective butterfly sigh of relief) realize that we're "there".
Time to fold the wings up and crack a can of nectar...
