I was getting ready for my walk.

It was chilly because the sun was hardly out. Afternoon in the Bay Area, on a Monday.

I was taking back the copy of The New Yorker I had checked out to finish reading the article I just had to read so I could write a blog about it. Which I did, and the magazine’s not due yet but I may not be in town when it is, so getting it back early gives someone else a chance to read it.

I’m a good citizen, sensitive to the needs of others.

Anyway, Kristina said, “Are you taking your hat?”

I said, “No. It’s not hot out.”

“Will you be gone more than ten minutes?”

“Yes. Probably.”

She looked out the window, got my hat and put it on my head.

Chaz said, “Fashion statement.”

I was going to the library now because we weren’t going to see the movie. Robert Reich, “The Last Class.” He’s now become one of the closest friends I’ve never met.

We went to see it yesterday, but it was sold out by popular demand. They said, “Tomorrow. 2:10 p.m.”

But then Chaz found that it was playing at the Nuart in Westwood near UCLA, and we’d be down to work on our house in Altadena, and it’s a much bigger theater, and we could wander around Westwood, so Chaz worked the Internet and got good reservations, just a few rows back centrally located, and there wasn’t much competition yet, I hope there is later, I expect this to be an important film that everybody should see, especially now.

I was walking down the hill passing the church I still hadn’t seen the inside of, where I met the guitarist I mentioned in an earlier blog. I wrote down his name so I wouldn’t forget, but I won’t mention it here because I didn’t ask.

He sent me an email, two days ago, maybe three, saying it was good to meet me and he tried to find the blog where I mentioned him but was having trouble and could I send him specifics. So I looked it up and emailed back, “The Solitary Walker.” I hope he got my message and has read the blog.


Anyway, he wasn’t there at the church but the door was open.

I probably said to myself something like, “Yay!” or “Finally!” or “Goodie!” and I went in.

There were corridors going here and there, and rooms, some open, to the left the entry to the sanctuary where they do church, now ajar, to the right an open door leading into a big open room, lights on, high ceiling, lots of tables with people around them, mostly old ladies, but not so old, and one gentleman I could see standing up, old but not so old, and they all had big rectangles of stiff paper they were scrawling on what looked like calligraphy in big letters the way you teach children the alphabet and then they learn it and scale it down, but maybe these people were practicing to make signs and placards for a march or demonstration, I have no idea, but one woman turned to look at me inquisitively so I said, “The door was open, I just came in to see the inside…” and someone said, “Shh! It’s a class!”

So I whispered, “Sorry,” and backed out quietly.

And somebody else was saying something at the other end of the room, must have been the teacher, and everybody got up from their tables and went to the other end of the room where she, the teacher, must have been showing or demonstrating something, so I went down the other way and went into the real church proper.

It was a way high ceiling that came together in a pointy top like an upside down V, and windows, and an altar, and padded benches that looked comfortable enough to sit on for awhile like a long sermon.

I tried out the acoustics, but softly, sotto voce, because sound travels even around corners and I didn’t want to disturb the calligraphy class any more than I already had.

The acoustics sounded good, resonant, echo-ish, but what do I know?

I thought, “I could sing here, I’m sure we could find something in common.”

I thought about sending an email to my guitar friend, saying, “Don’t worry about me, I got in for a look, the door was open.”

But I didn’t, partly because I’m not sure how.

So I went to the corner and crossed over to the library side and climbed half way up.

Then I remembered that Kristina had reminded me that the drop slot is by the side door, so I went back down, around to the back and there it was by the aforementioned door.

I sat down for a moment on a wooden platform that had a screened insect cage, and fished in my pocket for paper to write a note on.

All I found was the receipt from our dinner at Saul’s the day before. I still have half of my pastrami sandwich waiting for me at home in the fridge.

I wrote “Thank you” on the back part of the top of the receipt I tore off and put it in the magazine sticking out and dropped it in the slot which wasn’t locked.

Then I went down to the sidewalk on the street and started up toward the Community Center building on the left and the park on the right.

A line of children was marching down straight toward me. The young man leading them who was old enough to be their teacher and was enough taller than they were, said to allay any fears or concerns I might have that they could run over me, “We’re crossing,” and they did, a sharp turn to cross the street, with a couple of young women at the back of the line, either teachers or parent chaperones, bringing up the rear, one girl stepped out of line, maybe to tie her shoe, and a woman probably her mother stood over her, and then they crossed to catch up with the others and she said, “Sorry,” and I said, “No problem, it was fun, I love a parade,” and another woman coming up from the left with her little girl smiled and I nodded back.

So I had to decide if I should go left and cross over to the Community Center they had all disappeared into, or go right, to the park, past the empty tennis courts and the chain link fence you could just see through, a bunch of children on the basketball courts, you could hear them, and a ball bouncing, and it looked like a supervising teacher, but I moved my head, and it was only a leaf hanging from a tree half way between here and there, and I thought again, as I always do, what we think we see isn’t always what’s there. Perspective, and all that.

And I thought, from the sounds of kids being happy, that children are always ready to be happy if given the chance. Just like me.

So I said to myself in the empty air, “My work here is done,” and I went back down the hill to cross at the corner.

There was a bus waiting at the corner, motor idling. I couldn’t see the driver, he or she, but I didn’t look closely because they might think I was flagging them down to open their door for a ride, which was none of my business, so I crossed at the light which changed after I hit the button, and went back up by the church which looked closed, so I thought the lesson must be over, unless they closed the door to keep me out, which I thought unlikely, since I had barely registered in their consciousness.

Then, as I was passing the church, I saw the door was still open after all and I said, “Oh well,” and went up the rest of the way to the house and opened the door just as Kristina was there to help me if I needed it and she said, “Hungry?” and I said, “Always.”

[Random thought out of order: Time is like riding the back of a whale. You skim the surface, and then it goes under and you hope you can swim.]

So I sat in my chair and she brought me a bowl of lentil soup she had just heated up and she said, “Careful, some parts are hotter than others,” so I stirred it up and took a bite and she said, “How is it?” and I said, “Salt?” and she came back with a shaker which she shook carefully because sometimes it comes out pretty fast, and she said to Chaz, “Do you want to eat before or after your rehearsal?” and he said, “Before’s good,” and I added, “I can eat any time, whenever,” and I continued writing this account as “my little drop of nectar to sweeten the world” and then I put my pen down after the last period, for now.

The door was open, and I’ll keep it open.