Vern leading on in a bold stride slowed,
then, hand to ear, stopped at 107.
"Ah, this one is perfect, quiet, with
a balcony. Full of view, all LA
displayed below." As he unlocked,
I thought - problem solved, one night then on,
car fixed, free. Machines define our freedom.
In semi darkness we stepped inside 107.
The curtains to the deck sucked back spilling
strips of orange sun on the bed, some movement,
as if a short-legged animal were crawling
towards us over masses of paper with
penned writing, a manuscript in the old way,
by pen and ink. As I bent to pick
up a single sheet, "Put it back." A voice
from behind the bed. "I am still working on
that." Vern seemed amused, "I thought you had
moved." "No, this still suits me very well."
He was a tall man, long '60s hair and
short beard. He moved in quick bursts across
the room. His balance seemed precarious,
a sudoku tower one wants to hold.
My mind spun, an occupied room,
What place is this without controls to
know what space is occupied and what not?
Vern, "Is this more Havens history or...?"
"The history of this place and my own
life is part of the story, both stories jibe.
Getting the hero on the page is the problem.
We can all imagine, art makes it real.
My pilgrim is unsure as if dropped
behind the lines without a mission.”
I was curious, how much history was here
to occupy the efforts of this man to write.
Vern chimed in, "That sounds like it could
take a long time Rich. Lets not forget this
is a hotel and we charge for our rooms
on a daily basis." "Sure you do Vern,"
was the reply. "Actually," Rich said, "Its
about this place and what really goes on here.
I am someone who likes to get to the
bottom of things. Not the boring details
but all the details, and with all the missing parts,
everything uncensored." Then he turned to
face me. "You look to be alive from the
shape of you. Don't you know the ghosts
who walk these halls are illusions, dead souls?"
Glancing sideways at me. “Better to live it.
Writing? Who wants to read now?
Staying here too long can remove
one from the arts of life, music, love."
"Then" I asked "What is there to say left?”
“Everything is left.” Rich quickly
replied, "Much of ourselves is unsaid, the beauty.
I had a wife, two in fact and five children,
houses, seashore shacks, furniture, paintings,
pretty friends with drooping blouses, I consumed
it like water and then pissed it out.”
To Vern, pointing for the door. “No need
we can move on.” Rich continued,
"Events crush our will year by year, Vern.
There is no Oz or God. Chance brings us here.”
Vern, "Sure, material man, sure. You need
to dig to find. The surface is merely dust.
We are more than dust." Vern tapped his chest.
"I drifted too, then stopped here,
this hotel is no place and all places.”
Looking at Vern, Rich began again.
"You think I don't know the ways of Mina,
and how she chases us from room to room?”
"We are a business," Vern responded.
Rich then, to me. "You, my friend, do you
write?" Not to make myself a lier, "I am
trying my hand at screenwriting these days."
"They will tell you no," Rich said. “Advice will
unhinge the door of desire.” I am too old
for discouragement The human brain is
a polymath, all thoughts are possible even for a
castaway from Paradise with a broken
heart, in exile with a broken engine.
The inner light must burn bright against
closing doors to hope in fog and dark.
Colm in Banshees of Inisherin found it badly
but we are not on the cold bogs of Ireland.
This is LA, dreamland - still the vortex
here can warp fate or suck you down.
We were edging toward the door when Vern
as if to read my mind, “How is your hero, James?”
Our writer brightens like a waking bird.
“In the brambles I am afraid, not sure I
Can write him out. He is lost again maybe
the last time.” Vern, “Don’t let him die.
He has too far to travel in old age I think.
But even heros die. We are spun from
star dust and return to it taking all we have
learned with us. The spinning Mandalla
begins to wobble and no matter where we bet
we lose.” Vern, to me, “Let him gamble to
his colorful end. We need to move on.”
Edging to the door with Vern, we returned to
The green road now strangely changed by the
encounter. Clearly Mina’s computer
was amiss, but maybe it is rocket science.