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Day 49 and we woke early. Last night we were lost in the woods. We burnt until we ran out of logs, then burnt sticks and cones, and eventually succumbed to the cold with sleep. We had had no cutlery so we were hunched over chargrilled steaks clawing and slurping like cavemen. My hands looked like ape hands in the morning. Miraculously there was hot running water in the campsite as well as wifi, so I washed the blood, juice and marshmallows from my beard in a hot shower while considering the long road home. 

First we decide we need to go to the ocean. We still smell of smoke. Sea air will help. The Pacific is punishingly cold at this time of year, the water drives an ache into your bones almost immediately, so a long dip is out of the question but we spend some time on Carmel beach before the long drive home. Such a gorgeous little town, built consciously to look quaint but they’ve gotten away with it. I spend as long as I safely can in the sun before getting back in the car. I don’t want to be falling asleep at the wheel. “Let’s have a road trip and not a mission,” we decide, appropriately enough as the road is an old mission trail. As we drive I start to notice distinctive bells again and again on the path beside us. “Historic Camino Real” some of them say.

 

We stop for coffee at the pinkest hotel in the world. The Madonna Inn. It’s trying to look Swiss, so I feel oddly at home having spent so much time in the graubunden as a child. There are 110 rooms spread out over a 1000 acre ranch. All of them are done up in a different theme. Cheapest is $210 a night. Jungle rooms, stone grotto rooms, pink fairy rooms, Flintstone rooms. It’s so kitsch I’m almost sick on myself. We sit at a vast wooden bar where a lady dressed as Heidi pours us odd coffee. If they were playing accordion music I think I’d regress almost immediately. Thankfully they aren’t, even though it’s very popular in Mexico. Next to us, identical twins are celebrating their birthday. They eat three gargantuan slices of cake. Their conversation is as scattered and enthusiastic as the decor. Nobody is talking backwards yet and there are no dwarves or giants. The twins want us to eat cake. We eat cake. Cake is delightful. Fuelled by sugar we go and find the receptionist. I ask him about the bells. “They’re mission bells.” So THAT’S a mission bell. Another line in Hotel California cleared up. In a hotel. In California. We get back on the road before the Captain brings us his steely knife.

 

The Camino Real stretches for almost 1000 miles. It’s the route that the early Jesuits and Franciscans used to spread their faith across this huge region. The bells are made to resemble the staffs that the Franciscans carried. They are very distinctive and attractive objects, these bells. Part of their appeal to me is that they are almost completely pointless. They just sit there in inaccessible laybys looking pretty. Good for them.

 

Back on the road. As the sun falls, Lyndon keeps looking behind us. “The sky is incredible.” That’s all the excuse I need to pull into a layby and crouch down as the juggernauts are blaring past, to take this shot of Lyndon, a mission bell and the sunset.

I’m back in my room now on Saturday night, with an early bed ahead of me so I can properly stand up and be counted for the last two weeks I am here. This has already been an immensely positive experience, in that I have had the space and the context to overturn a huge amount of the nonsense that my overactive imagination has been running on myself. No harm in throwing myself around a bit more before I come back, seeing who else I can meet out in this glorious ridiculous town.

Day 48 and when Lyndon first arrived in town, before the tow truck struck lucky and fucked us, we had booked a tent for this weekend. A Californian getaway. Something to look forward to, we said at the time. Here we go, crashing through the prairie in my beat up old Chevy for a weekend in Carmel at the top of Big Sur. The Big Sur is an area of vast natural beauty. Big woods, Big sea, Big views, Big stars, Big Sur. Only a few hours drive from LA. It’s enshrined in culture as the place where Kerouac went over the edge into alcoholism and supreme self indulgence. He went there to recover but just got more tangled and started his descent into wasteful death. We eat up the miles, and very quickly we are on roads like scars through rolling hills as far as the eye can see. Right now they are shocked with green. All this rain has done the area the world of good. We stop at a roadside rest stop. Wooden counters and country music. Beware of the rattlesnakes. I’m surprised there is no spittoon. The man behind the counter tells us “Nah it’s the wrong time of year for the snakes. All you got to worry about is the tarantulas.” How can this place be only 2 hours drive from the city?
It turns out Big Sur is inaccessible. We are going as close as we can get. The floods have taken their toll, and the bridge is not safe for traffic, and it seems Big Sur is only accessible by bridge. We have had to compromise.
A further 2 and a half hours drive from the rest stop and we think we have found the campsite. It’s pitch black by now. The grounds of the site are stratified into a hillside like an Inca Garden. The whole place has been flooded out with soaking wet mud roads and runoff ditches carved so deep into them that driving to the tent is too treacherous. Nobody is staying here. And we can’t find out tent. Has it even been set up? (We had no tent so we paid for it to be done. Oh the glamour.) 
Lyndon and I get out of the car and walk up the hill. Better that than accidentally drive off the ledge. It’s a long drop. What we find is not promising. Passing a sign saying “No entry, maintenance only,” which in retrospect hints pretty clearly it’s the wrong direction, we stumble upon a destroyed tent city. Ripped and collapsed structures. Piles of rubbish. Dumped gas canisters. We are in blackness lit by only the halogen glow of my mobile phones flashlight. Two little Englishmen in the wrong part of town. The back of my neck starts to prickle. I don’t want to end up getting raped by zombies again. I think the first time was a dream. We go back to the car a little quicker than we might, and try another direction.
Everything is so washed out here I eventually leave the car in a pool of light announcing the presence of washrooms. Suddenly it’s the veneer of civilisation. Even out here I momentarily worry that the tow truck bastards have snuck out and followed me. But we leave the car, puddle jump over a load of ditches, and find a massive great bell tent that has our name on it. Paydirt. Literally. In that a few weeks ago we paid to sleep in a load of dirt. But there are two fire pits. One that was here already and one we carried up the hill because nobody was using it. We have filled them with logs and got them blazing.

I am now sitting between the fire pits wondering how I am going to be able to send this out. My legs are boiling. We are in a pool of darkness and I can hear the cicadas mimbling in the trees. Lyndon brought red wine and I brought five fillet mignon for a tenner, left over from last week’s amazing Japanese supermarket. They’ve been marinating for a week. Who says luxury needs to be expensive? If I can post this it’s a miracle… go go gadget gadget.
… You’re shitting me. They’ve got wifi. How the hell? Ours not to reason how. When it’s light I’ll probably realise I’m in an industrial estate. Right now it feels like I’m lost in the woods. Darkness is great like that…

47 days out here. The morning was a strange and beautiful thing, where people got in touch with me and offered to help me out with this pickle I got myself into when the car was towed. I woke up still a bit upset and demotivated, but was very quickly galvanised into yoga and seizing the day. Throughout my morning I was talking with friends old and new online, and at the time of writing more than half of the ridiculous fee for the tow has come back through a gradual drip of kindness. Considering the context, that I’m an idiot with the luxury of a car and a roof who made a stupid mistake, I feel extremely fortunate. 

The morning was spent with a woman who deals with a Buzzfeed channel covering issues in the Native American community. She is also an actor. She was at RADA so we have a lot of friends in common. We had a remarkable conversation that overlapped Shakespeare with the DAPL, London with Trump. One of the things that we touched on was the sheer size of America. I think about this a great deal after my experience travelling the country two years ago with Much Ado. It’s remarkable that a place this big and this diverse has a single government. And taking into account the Native American history in this land, the people running the show now are short term visitors. We know so little about the stories of the land before it was colonised. I spoke of my confusion on this, about how little the culture of the original inhabitants of this country is shared or celebrated in a way that can be accessed by a visitor. I wish the stories of coyote and deer and so forth were more widely told over here. They are the myths of this land, born from the colours and shapes and stars of their areas, and myths are always more relevant in the place where they were born. But if you kill the storyteller you kill the story.

 

In an oral tradition every teller has their own embellishment, and those details are lost if the teller dies without passing them on. Also a true story with a true teller can change every night, and will do depending on the circle where it’s told. The written versions we have of oral tradition stories come from one single telling that was recorded. They are only definitive in that they are all we have. There are times in the recorded Homer version we have where it feels the story could branch and the bard chooses tonight’s version based on his crowd. Whoever recorded the homeric bard gave a great gift to the world, as did Plato recording Socrates. But it’s just one version. Like Armin and Kempe the Shakespeare fools, who likely improvised and then had one version of their improv recorded in the folio. There must have been some great details of Native American myths, and indeed whole sagas that have been utterly lost over here. I’ve always wanted to travel this country and Canada, immersing myself in what remaining reserves there are here, collecting and learning what remaining stories I can, celebrating this series of ravaged and contained cultures that have had it practically demonstrated to them recently with DAPL that their concerns are of no importance.

 

Walking away I found myself thinking about a project I was asked to collaborate on about a year ago. It’s a one man show and it deals quite closely with Native American myths juxtaposed with English Society in the seventeenth century, through the prism of a real life story of immense hardship and resilience. It was first pitched to me by a friend and director, Alice, who I met about five years ago filming a short. The View from the Window. We picked up some plaudits and festival screenings and all that nonsense. Working with her again on a piece of theatre sounded interesting, but at the time I felt swamped and not in a place where I could commit to making it the show it should be. It’s a very big story and I couldn’t think of how it could be keyed in to what’s happening now. Thinking about it again a year or so later it feels far closer to the right project. Standing Rock has provided the answer to the all important question “why this project now?” And I think I have a better notion of the journey through it. So I want to pick it up again. Not to put too many irons in the fire. But being out of context for this length of time has given me perspective on how I can better husband my hours when I’m back in town and again surrounded by all the little day jobs and concerns of London. And also I have better perspective on what’s important to me. Like my friends. I’m really beginning to miss my friends. Don’t forget, jet lag party all day on the 19th March. Whoop whoop.

Day 46. Driving a car is an expensive habit. Particularly as an actor. I made the mistake of telling one insurer I did this ridiculous thing for a living once, and now they all offer me fantastically high premiums. I can rarely if ever afford a car for a whole year. Their given reasons for these premiums vary depending on who you ask “You might be driving Jordan and her boobs are insured for x million”. But I suspect it is just that there’s still this notion that actors are constantly getting messed up on substances, jack-knifing off cliffs into buses full of tourists and generally blowing things up for giggles. Maybe I’m missing a trick by mostly trying to use my cars as vehicles rather than physics experiments.

I was a month out here before I splashed out on renting my geriatric Chevy. It makes things considerably more accessible, allows me to zoom around and meet people, but comes with a price. Like in London, drivers are targeted for revenue generation here. The tow truck industry is huge. In my area, different random streets have to be cleared of parked cars on different weekday mornings for street cleaning. The cleaner comes through once, flanked by an army of tow trucks, and then for the rest of the morning, even though the work is evidently done and it makes no sense to continue to keep it clear, the carnappers continue to drive around the damp streets hoping to entrap people who are employing logic over caution, or just not paying attention to the small print on the signs. Shop parking lots have varied and detailed restrictions and timings, all geared towards maximising removals. You have to be very very careful indeed where you put the car.

 

I wasn’t. They towed me. On an oversight. And obviously I’m an idiot for it. And even though the car was in the pound for less than an hour I was still charged storage and out of hours fee as well as basic towing. For a single incident, an admittedly stupid mistake, but one that impacted nobody’s ability to park, obstructed no traffic and served no logical purpose other than to generate money, they stung me for $340. That’s my entire budget for the rest of the time I’m here. And to add insult to injury the hairy old guy in the pound was a jerk. He looked like the guy who assaults you with a broken bottle in the parking lot of a bar in some cheap 1980’s flick. I kind of wanted Patrick Swayze to come and kick him in the nadgers. Ok, fine I was in the car pound, not Disneyland. They aren’t supposed to be fun. Nobody ever said “Daddy daddy can we go to the car pound?” or if they did they grew up to be Satan. But when someone cuts your legs off they should at least say thank you for standing still. I could fly to Paris for $340.

Today has been spent mostly alternating rage with panic. I had a couple of little oases, one where I met with a deeply passionate and connected woman who wanted to help me out here, and one where I went for a swim. But mostly I’ve been a little trembly, repeatedly checking my bank balance, edgy, sweary. It seems so excessive. I wonder how it can even be legal. It must be more than the value of the car. But the car isn’t mine so I couldn’t abandon it. Once bitten, twice shy, I was lucky on Oscar night, karma’s a bitch and other assorted platitudes.

 

There remains the matter of my shot budget. I’ve been thinking about things that I can offer I exchange for mid term loans from anyone. I can’t earn legally in the US and I’m here for another 18 days. I can take writing commissions, offer up childcare or dogcare when I get back to London, accommodate someone in my Chelsea bedroom for a bit while I kip on the sofa, dress up silly and perform Shakespeare speeches of your choice after dinner like I do at The Globe…. I could write a customised Hilaire Belloc style cautionary tale to anyone who might want one. “The lamentable tale of Mister Al, who underestimated human rapacity and was going to have to eat cockroaches until he was rescued by…” PM me . No, seriously, pm me. I’ll gladly write something to commission. Damn. Is it just two days ago I was proudly laughing at people crowdfunding for this sort of purpose? Yes. Yes it was. Humility, you bugger. You always wait for a bit of pride before waving your magical shitty stick. Alakasplat.

 

(Image is not mine. I was in no mind to take a photograph today so I ripped it off the net. It’s actually a memorial procession of tow trucks. Perhaps mourning their loss of KINDNESS. The monsters.)

 

Ps under advisement I’m putting my bank details here but obviously it’s nicer if I can message you all individually and work out what sort of lovely things I can do for you or how when if you can be paid back etc etc

It’s Barclays (of course) Account Number 40551627 Sort code 20-35-93. And my PayPal is alhimself@hotmail.com

Day 45. It’s interesting/revealing how much my parents come up in this blog. Dad was a big golfer. When we lived in The Isle of Man he was forever down at the Castletown Golf Links, in all weathers. It was a huge source of pleasure and one of the things that he’s still remembered for, in that he bequeathed a trophy for a handicap game that’s still played in the summer in Switzerland. I still hear from people who won it or competed for it.
I was always curious about the sport but it was almost completely forbidden when I was growing up. My mother knew what was good for her. On the rare occasions I went to the golf course with my father to play the rest of the day was ruined. I enjoyed whacking the thing, and I liked having a walk by the sea. But I didn’t care about precision, aim or technique. And dad used to get livid because he wanted me to be immediately brilliant. And when my dad was angry he was able to condense the atmosphere around him until it was roughly the consistency of melted cheese.

 

But now I have his golf clubs. My mother hated it, and I know I’m supposed to be working. But dad often used to tell me that most of his business was done on the golf course. He encouraged me to learn despite knowing I wanted to be an actor. Yeah, this is an investment dammit, I tell myself, coupled with it being the first uncompromisingly beautiful day we have had for three weeks. This weather is what I was led to expect from California. I go digging on Groupon and find a ridiculously beautiful seaside golf course an hour to the south for peanuts, and it doesn’t take much to persuade Lyndon that this is the best use of the day.
We jump in the car. Close to arrival I turn left down a driveway that clearly goes to a golf course, and begin to have misgivings. Down the hill past a huuuge American flag we go, to a huuuuuge colonnaded mansion with a coat of arms blazoned above the portico. “Trump National Golf Club.” Um… We park. The property is beautiful, with this spurious coat of arms built into the walls on the outside all over the place. Inside it’s full of photographs of the man throughout his life, and wide screen televisions playing looped footage of him chatting to golfers. There’s a framed photograph of his star on Hollywood Boulevard. It doesn’t take long for us to establish this is not the right place. The staff are all very lovely and very helpful. Nobody follows me around with a megaphone. This is a flawless shrine to Trump, in a beautiful place. I find myself wondering if the decor was chosen by the man himself, or if it was made up like this to honour him. I know that it would be hard to keep perspective and humanity surrounded by such targeted opulence, if it were about me.
The place we are booked into is a little further down the coast, but thankfully in an equally beautiful place. We get out there. There are not many of us playing. Lyndon and I incompetently hack our balls around the course. We are more interested in the fantastic natural beauty here than in being competitive. Which is just as well considering we’re both pretty crap. The best we get is one bogey each in nine holes. The rest doesn’t even bear reporting. The ghost of my father is likely smashing the place up as we speak, so if a golf course falls into the Pacific overnight, you’ll know why. And to be frank it looked ready to fall. The roads all have scars from slippage round there. That whole edge of coastline is likely going to drop if there’s a big earthquake. But for now it’s a lovely place to bang a ball around, talk about strategy going forward, and perhaps be a little irresponsible.

Dawn on day 44 found me dancing free in a sea of laughter. Last night was one of those nights where the party kept working. At the centre of it all was Miranda, British, about my age and the designer of it, orchestrating it live. I think possibly she was also married to the CEO of Absolut who was delightfully working the room whilst being off his box. We spent ages talking about this town, and how it is for her bringing up American kids. She used to live with Winona Ryder so I get the skinny on one of my childhood crushes. I have many very involved very earnest somewhat ridiculous conversations. Oddly i am the only fully bearded guy here. It reminds me of ten years ago, before all the jamjars vinyl and waistcoats. 

The music has to stop eventually, and a smiling Lyndon and I walk through the dawning streets buzzing inwardly as my phone buzzes with text messages from my new army of drunk friends. I suspect the rest of my time in this city will involve a lot more dancing since that was pretty much what I did all night, and how I made friends… It was a good clean dirty night. I eventually went to bed with a smile on my face.

Stark contrast to how I felt a few hours later dragging myself howling into hungover reality. My first thought is “Shit, my car.” That’s before even “Christ, my head,” which follows hard upon. My car had been left in the parking lot of 7-11, peppered with cheerful signs saying “cars left overnight will be towed at the owners expense.” Staggering into my clothes I get an uber pool. (No matter how much time pressure I’m under some habits are hard to break and pool is so cheap over here.) I am remembering how expensive it was the last time my car got towed. I’m hoping it’s not so bad in America. Typically the driver picks up two people after me and drops them all off before me. By the time we get to 7-11 I’m chewing my own arm off, but the car is there, safe and sound, untowed. Mark, my flatmate, later says he thought there was a 95% chance it had gone. Phew. I’m grateful to my guardian angel.

 

Considering I’ve been lucky with the car, and had such a good night, I suggest to Lyndon that we go to Café Gratitude. This is a vegan cafe that I’ve been told a lot about but have so far avoided. I am certain it would annoy me if I was in the wrong mood. This morning, with the pair of us staggering around like the walking dead, it’s the best chance I’ve got of responding well to the place. 

 

Café Gratitude is very LA. They want their customers to be grateful. When they take our order they ask a question of the day. It’s always something to make you think about how lucky you are. Today it’s “What are you looking forward to?” We are tired and suggestible enough to burble things to one another that we are looking forward to. While we are so occupied, the waiter soft sells us a flight of shots. These shots all have ridiculously enthusiastic names. We are going to be Recovering! Then we are going to get Invigorated! And finally Enlivened! When they arrive they don’t smell at all appealing. We take them like medicine. The first one is Burdock, Lemon, Ginger and Carpet. Then it’s something that tastes like camphor and eucalyptus with algae. And finally it’s an unexpected shot of vinegar. Last time I drank vinegar on a hangover the intention was very different. Thankfully I don’t need a bucket this time. And perhaps it’s the power of suggestion but I do start to feel better almost immediately. Our earnest harmless and yet secretly steely waiter then provides us with a mixture of good healthy food and saccharine sentiment. We both decide that neither of us would want to be his friend, but we appreciate his effort. I feel noticeably better as I leave the café. If a little lighter in the wallet.

 As we leave there are signs asking “What are you grateful for?” I’m grateful for so much. That I can be out here, that I have a good friend out here, that I have all the good fortune I never had to work for to live where I do. So many things. But this morning, primarily,  I’m grateful that the human liver can regenerate itself.

Day 43 and it’s Oscar night, which is the peak of the season here. I’ve got an invite to an Oscar Party in the Hollywood Hills in a custom party house owned by the CEO of Absolute Vodka. There’s a registration at the bottom of the hill and if you pass muster they send you up in a shuttle to a house with a marquee and screens all over the place. It’s black tie, but I have my three piece, which seems to do the trick. As I walk towards the registration I make a new friend. He is evidently of South American origin, probably Mexican. I mention this because it is a little at odds with what follows. He has a megaphone and a moustache, and he really really doesn’t like me. As I pass him he shouts in my ear through the megaphone. He could’ve been shouting anything. “I love elephants!”. As it happens it was something Trumpish, which becomes apparent. My instant reaction is to put my hand between my ear and the megaphone and push the damn thing down a bit. “Dude you don’t need the megaphone I’m right here. Are you okay?” This is enough to have him on me like a tick, howling nonsensical vitriol at me at close range as I attempt to walk down a crowded street. I realise I am surrounded by people chanting “Trump Trump Trump”. One of them is saying “Do you want our Christian boys to die in your wars.” There’s some serious mental mismanagement here. None of them are thinking straight. They don’t know who I am or what I stand for, but they take it as enough that one of them doesn’t like me and I have a beard and am dressed smartly for them to pour their vitriol on me. Lyndon says “come on let’s go” but I’m curious now. He has his cellphone in my face and is still hiding behind his megaphone. I ask him “Why are you so angry?” but this is not a dialogue. This is a lot of people shouting slogans. There is literally no sense in this. I leave the interaction feeling battered. I am followed out by a cameraman and a journalist. Who knows what their agenda is but they want to know more. The cameraman says “I got it all.” He appears to be shooting on an old 33 millimetre. The journalist asks my name. I only give my first name. I go to a bar where I play it back in my mind in order to assess what happened. The worst thing I did was say “I wish you all the best.” I don’t think it was overly passive aggressive. It wasn’t intended to be. I was just trying to dig my way out of the vitriol especially since it made no sense. 

But then these people are here to protest the liberal elite. And here I am, working as an actor, about to go up the hill in a shuttle and drink free vodka and eat free food while watching people in my industry accept glamorous awards in a setting that drips money. Tonight I am all the people he hates. 

We all want our work to be recognised. I’ve been working hard at this for years now and I have to make peace with the fact that usually I can barely afford to pay my electricity bill. But at least I have an electricity bill to pay. I bet he has been working harder, with nothing to show. I have no idea what the situation of people in the poorer parts of this nation is, but I suspect it can get pretty bleak. When you’re down you want to believe that someone in power cares about you. It’s a hell of a trick that this billionaire has pulled. In the process of servicing his own greed and ego, he has persuaded the most dispossessed people in this country that he speaks for them. I’m worried because I think he doesn’t. I think he speaks for himself alone. I would love to be persuaded otherwise. For as long as he is the naked emperor, and as long as we caricature him as a shouting toddler, so he will caricature the “liberal elite” as the enemy of the working man because they are HIS enemy. Trump is a word that is synonymous with “me”. When they shout Trump, they shout “me”. Whole unthinking rallies of people shouting “me, me, me!” Because they have mistook his passion for himself as passion connected to his false promises. Some people don’t have the luxury of time to listen to press conferences in their entirety. Some people have not had the fortune to be able to convert their hardship into a finely tuned ability to read between the lines when someone speaks in public or when someone puts a lie about NHS money on the side of a bus. Life is hard and this man says he will make it better for me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me.

 

But this evening I can see why it is so easy for artists and thinkers to be made the enemy. Here we all are in our sequins and our bow ties, drinking freebies and watching ourselves on big screens. Maybe Lala Land, which is lovely but a profound love song about the privileged elite in Hollywood, will win best picture. That story is not going to connect to someone who has been manually working hand to mouth for years. It’s going to alienate them as they dance and prat about in their beautiful clothes. I wonder many people here at this party have ever worked in soup kitchens in their spare time? Does having the spare time to work in a soup kitchen automatically invalidate our politics if we do? Is it a patronising thing to do? 

 

The hate I experienced from a man who knew nothing about me but how I looked – it has me worried. This immigrant nation has come so far so fast, but it feels like there is a chance it will turn on itself now. We cannot dismiss Trump voters as stupid. They’re desperate. It’s a riot. Tear this shit down and start again.

 

I have no solutions here. I wish I did. I want to be able to have a discussion with that guy, but the gap between my education and his desperation is too far for him to bridge while he is angry. And he has no interest in trying to unpick what I represent to him. I am the enemy. Pure and simple. And it feels like if we don’t like Trump we don’t like the people that voted for him. Because Trump and “me” are synonymous. Pity is too patrician. Hate is too aggressive. How, across the west, can we start to make sure that the arts and the liberals speak for the people that don’t have 50 pounds for a theatre ticket…? The angry dispossessed like my Mexican friend who might well have spent all his spare cash on that expensive phone and that top quality megaphone.

 

I honestly don’t know. I’m just going to tether my iPad to my smartphone and post this on my blog before going back to see who wins the next Oscar…

Day 42, the number given by Douglas Adams as “The answer to the question of Life the Universe and Everything.” This and the fact it’s a Saturday provide enough justification to say “yes” when someone asks me if I’d like a little bit of interesting mushroom at lunchtime.  

The rain seems to have finally run out and we are looking to a week of warmth and vitamin D. Lyndon and I head for Griffith Park, but this time with the planetarium in mind. As a child I used to love the London Planetarium, no doubt to the endless amusement of my parents. “He really does have his head in the clouds.” I had a phase of a few years when I really wanted to be an astronaut. That was around the period that everyone thought space exploration was the future. Not the future future future, which it still might be, but the immediate future future, which is now the past, and wasn’t. If you’re still with me. It’s the mushrooms. But I had loads of books about nebulae and I asked for a Mattel replica of a space shuttle for Christmas. For a while I was serious about it. But there were no classes in being an astronaut.

 

I haven’t been to a planetarium as an adult. My lack of a good understanding of constellations outside of Orion and The Plough does make me want to bed in some better knowledge rather than risk possible future dad-fails. Somehow I believe that it’s a dad’s job to be able to recognise stars (and trees?!). Although nowadays I expect it’s less of an issue. “Daddy, what star is that?” “Why don’t we go on google together and then you can find out?” taptaptaptapswipe “You see, darling. It’s Ursa Major. I knew that all along.” “You know everything, dad.” “Yes darling. Yes I do. Now get back in the space shuttle. We have to be in Beta Tau by Moonrise.”

 

I’m in no state to remember specific things by the time I get to the planetarium. But hoo-ah I am ready to go to Mars. Lyndon is hungover and it’s toasty warm so we recline on big chairs and zone out. Charmingly the show is live delivered by an actress working in tandem with the visions, rather than the deep recorded stentorian British voice I thoughtlessly expect after my childhood visits to the one in Baker Street. She has a very mellow delivery, and before long the pair of us are absorbed, flying through the constellations. The actress has built a call and response into the act, occasionally we have to shout out the answers to her questions. Again I like it, and it validates employing a live performer. Jobs for the boys (and girls). “Can you see Mars?” Everybody else seems to be a little shy but “yes…” “Do you want to go to Mars?” I’m not shy about this “YES”. I mean I’d sooner go check out one of those three planets they found this week that might support life. But for now it’ll have to be that dusty rock. And off we go.

 

There can’t be many screens like this in the world. You need such a huge great big domed roof for a start. Nobody has one in the living room. So where do you get the footage? Much of this video seems to have been custom made for this Observatory in that it involves shots of the building itself, but it’s intercut with images I think I remember from my childhood. Cartoony overlays of Orion with a club, a bear with an absurdly long tail, crap bulls etc. There must only be a limited amount of film material available for this sort of a screen as there can’t be much of a market for it. 

 

They’ve made a show about water. It’s called “Water is Life”. It’s a basic frame for a journey around the solar system, and I wonder if they have four shows and they rotate them based on which sign is dominant. Right now we are in Aquarius so a water show makes sense. I suspect they must have a fire show, an earth show and an air show. I kind of want to go back and see through the seasons. But that’s the old childhood addiction to planetariums rearing its head. That and the mild enhancement.

 

I leave thinking I’ve had a lovely time. Lyndon slept through it but seems happy with that outcome. I know how to locate the North Star now, which I didn’t beforehand. Although I refuse to call the signpost the “Big Dipper.” My dad taught me it’s “The Plough” and dads know everything about stars.

 

I want to get out on a clear warm night and lie on my back and look up and put what I’ve learnt to practical use before my brain files it as unnecessary information to make room for more Shakespeare.

 

I took this photo in the planetarium before the show started. It’s the only photo I took all day. If you look closely you might notice I’ve adjusted it slightly.

41 days out and my last day housesitting in the boondocks. I’m writing this while slow cooking a bolognese and thinking about friendship. I knew coming out to this city that I had very few people that were actual friends here. Since I lost my parents I have always valued my friends extremely highly. I cleave quickly to people and tend to be way too honest right off the bat. But that helps me isolate the keepers. I’ve definitely missed my close friends, the people who have a context on me, with whom I share experience, who can say hard things. I’ve made lots of new friends in this city, and some of them are keepers. And I have made better friends with myself which is a pleasant surprise. But part of me is looking forward to getting back to my home and seeing people I’ve known for ages. Maybe I should have a party. In fact, yeah, stuff it. Why not? I land on the 18th March. Let’s have a jet lag party on the 19th starting at 11 in the morning round my flat until late. Nothing mental, kids in the daytime, but then I can see whoever is free that Sunday and STAY AWAKE. I’ll cook something easy and drink lots of coffee. There’s something to be said for Facebook in that you know what people are doing, but how much lovelier to be able to see them in person? “I have jet lag” Al may not thank “I had to put the wine in the bolognese glug glug” Al for this decision, but before long I guarantee he’ll be on the same page as me. 

I’m cooking this bolognese for Jake and his family whose house I’ve been looking after. Jake was in my year at Guildhall, and came out here a few years after we left. Those three years training together forge a deep bond, and one that is not easy to shake off. I’ve barely seen him since leaving but he has blessed my trip by giving me this quiet thoughtful place to exist in, to write and think. It’s lovely to discover that there’s an understanding still between us that has leapt over the barrier of the time we have been out of touch. Important to remember that. I’ve not been great at staying in touch with the guys from my year at college. Jake and I formed a fleeting Blues Brother’s tribute band and played some pubs around the City of London. I’d almost completely forgotten that until I came here and spent time in his space. It was so much fun. Having not wanted to look at the past too closely, now I find I am able to without danger of spinning out.

 

From tomorrow I’ll be back in the thick of the city, and there are still loads of things I want to do while I’m here. There are still loads of people I want to see. I had no idea when I started this blog that it would lead to people recommending me to their friends out here, but I’ve had such a lot of adventures already through friends of friends, and met some very deep seated genuine people. I think I would’ve given up on this blog ages ago if I hadn’t seen people from all sides of my life clicking the old mundane “like” button, and knowing that in some way I am in touch with you all through this shared experience.

It has been quite solitary in this house, especially now that Charlie has been passed to Jake’s father in law. I’m looking forward to getting back to Mark and Laural, their three bonkers dogs, a yoga studio next door, and easy quick access to stuff and to people. Just shy of a month to go. I’ve recharged with sunlight today, sitting in a chair by the pool. Bring on the next week! After Oscars weekend.

40 days. My morning is shattered. Mid meditation the door bangs. I’m expecting a film crew, and they’re early, I think. But no it’s a guy who wants to cut the electricity off for the whole day in order to adjust the solar panels on the roof. My first thought is that he is selling something. He feels incredibly needy. I tell him I can’t make decisions on the electricity as it’s not my house, and close the door. He knocks again. “My dad… I mean Mike from the company cleared it with the owner, he left a message.” There’s a film crew coming to the house. I suspect they’ll be a little nonplussed if the power is cut off and tell him so. “I would certainly have heard something if I was to expect you.” His voice goes up about an octave. “But my dad … we left a message.” “Do you know if the owner of the house listened to your message? He’s in Mexico.” He phones his dad, who confirms that there was a message. He then comes back to me as if I can’t hear phone conversations and says “That was Mike from the office. There was definitely a message.” The message is not a lie. He looks at me with little puppy dog eyes. “There must be some mistake.” I say. “You’re going to have to make a new appointment”. I ring Jake in Mexico. He’s probably chilling by the pool with a paella and 12 glasses of morning gin. He answers, and I put him on to Solarpuppyman. 

Rather than make a new appointment the guy is immediately back to pleadingly insisting to Jake that a message was left. He’s here and he needs to do the work because… because he’s here. I guiltily pity the guy. He’s hapless. Jake speaks to him and confirms what I’ve said. “I heard no message. You can’t work today. I have gin to drink.” As soon as the call is done puppyman is back to looking at me expectantly. Having been dogsitting for a few days, I know that look too well. He wants me to say “Ahh what the hell, you’ve come all this way. Let’s bypass common sense and the owner of the property. Let’s run a suicide cable and cut off the power. The film crew can rig all their kit to the cable. It’ll be fine. Nothing will explode. Have a cookie. Good boy.” I could ignore endless “What the hell are you doing” calls from my friend. I could ignore the line producer going nuts about logistics, calling looking for a different location on spec, treating me like I’m a total nutjob. Hell, I could just leave the house, go and get a milkshake and let solar guy’s dad deal with it!

 

I don’t do any of these things, of course, nor do they cross my mind. I close the door on his poor wee begging face. As it’s closing he tries one more thing. “Do YOU want to talk to my dad?” I don’t respond.

  

Do I want to talk to your dad? Christ no. Seriously, no. Never. I never ever want to talk to your dad ever. I will flee your dad. Your dad is a monster. He’s clearly saying “Go on son, if you can’t get in there you’re not trying hard enough. I could get in there easy. If I was there there’d be no problem. What’s wrong with you?” The guy is panicking because he doesn’t want to let this godawful dadcreature down because he’s been trained to think that that means letting himself down or some bollocks. But the way he is letting himself down is in his pleading manner, in his lack of impetus, in his need to run everything by the dadmonster before making a decision. He needs someone else to fix this problem. He tries his dad, me, Jake, time. He doesn’t try himself. It’s fixable to an extent even if he can’t do the work today. He can at least come back with a new appointment made. He even speaks to the homeowner on the phone which is ample opportunity. But he can’t see beyond the expectation he has, which is to do the job now. And his father is infallible in his eyes.
It’s nice for us for our children to be obedient and submissive while they are young so that we can have an easy life. But obedient submissive kids make obedient submissive adults if we aren’t careful. We frequently see adults looking to other people to fix problems they could fix themselves. From the minor “oh my god there’s a spider in the room get it out” to the mid “He’s not making any effort to fix this relationship.” to the major “I don’t know how to exercise for my heart, when they tell me I should exercise why don’t they tell me how?”

  

I let my own inherited problems accumulate over years until recently because on some level or other I expected super dad, who died before I was an adult, to appear out of nowhere and fix that shit. He won’t because I have to be super dad to myself and I didn’t properly know it. I only recently did. Now I am gradually wading through a sea of accumulated crap that would’ve been a lot easier 15 years ago. But I know it has to be me. So now with the vigour of a recently reformed smoker I find it frustrating when I see people still waiting for someone else to fix it. We are that someone else.

 

Once I let the film crew in I drove to a load of rocks and sat on them for a few hours in the sun writing and trying to make a plan of attack for the next few weeks here and before coming back to the uk. I just blew all my money on bills in London. Two people sent me links to gofundme pages for “spiritual journeys” this morning. One of them is getting relentlessly trolled in the comments. But I can see the motivation. It’s all the same. “Daddy help me”. 

 
40 days and 40 nights. I’m not eating locusts and honey yet. I can stretch what I have left to the end of this journey and learn something about making halfarsed trips to the other side of the world in order to sort my shit out. And I can find ways of making money through my writing, perhaps, while I’m here. People say they enjoy reading it, and I enjoy writing it, even if it sometimes devolves into a rant about daddy issues and determinism through the prism of an unfortunate solar panel guy.

Meanwhile it’s gorgeous over here again.