the week ends, the week begins
Saturday found me in Santa Clarita, hangin' 'round Bear's feature set on Sable Ranch, an unimaginably crappy shooting ranch in Santa Clarita. His call time was 1pm, but it remained heart-stoppingly hot until after the sun went down. I chased some horses, traded stories with the crew, choked down some catering, and poked around the landscape for diversions.
I love the fact that everything that I do contributes to my work. Chasing Bear around town to his sets, exploring LA, seeing art, going to shows - it's all a contribution to my professional development.
But it's easy to forget how I'm quickly I'm professionally developing when I'm sitting on a lift gate, watching a showy sunset with a hand on my knee, swinging my feet above the dirt road, my senses full of warm-grass smells and walkie murmurs.
Sunday started at Auntie Em's - there's nothing like farmer's-market scrambled eggs and cavernous-bebubbled toasts and endless mugs of organic coffee to start a fabulous weekend day. Suitably satisfied, we ambled over to bring carrots to my homeboy Minnesota at TES (as is becoming a weekendly habit) and picked up an accessory at the tack store that Bear ended up joyfully wielding for the rest of the day (leading to a bevy of raised eyebrows in a supermarket and at least one Starbucks.)
Then I learned how to smoke a cigar, emptied a bottle of excellent red wine, and dedicated the rest of the day to tandem langorousness.
They're just incomparably sweet, these moments that whizz by.
He's swimming under a wide night sky and I'm perched at the edge of the pool, my submerged feet moving with the wave-borne rhythm of his strokes. With each perfect butterfly, a rivulet of silvery water pulls together between his shoulderblades, tracing the strong channel of his backbone along precisely the same line that I love to run my fingers.
He is a never-ending discovery; he is as fresh as that first nerve-stinging handshake even as he enfolds me with familiarity.