Excited to now officially report that I’ve been awarded the Huntington Library’s Alan Jutzi Fellowship to support the next leg of my research this summer in the Octavia E. Butler archive. I’m so grateful that she’s left so much of her story to learn from. Now looking forward to delving deeper.
It has been an honor to spend time in the archive and see a much more complex portrait of this Southern California native slide into view.
Stay tuned for more info about Butler here.
THIS IS way back to a Los Angeles of beautiful memory. KCET hosting Leon Russell in “The Homewood Sessions”
MY ESSAY — in words and pictures — about what it means to be a Californian is now up at Boom California.
At the edge of it
I have been thinking more and more of late about how being both an inheritor and a native of a place, shapes the way you see and move through territory as well as how you understand your place within it.
Keepsakes and Souvenirs
I want to thank especially my former SF roommate, Shelley, for spending endless hours with me roaming around our old spaces and chasing vanished addresses in the Bay Area. I can do that for hours and hours. I do a fair amount of this roaming on my own when I’m here in Los Angeles but it was great to have a second set of eyes and someone with whom to bounce ideas back and forth.
California, I do love you, but I have to wonder sometimes if you’re moving faster than I am.
Boom Winter Issue 2016
All images by Lynell George
We were looking for a portal. We found one.
Happy Holidays to you all!
Dana Johnson: Moments before our Interview after being circumvented. Union Station, Fall 2016. Photo by Lynell George
I SPEAK to Dana Johnson about her evocative new book, In the Not Quite Dark for USC Dornsife. IIt’s a tough look at changing Los Angeles.
If you are moving through these changing corridors, you’ll find yourself somewhere on her pages.
From my piece:
Poetic and, at turns, unflinchingly raw, the 11 stories explore a wide-ranging Los Angeles experience: People pulled from elsewhere seeking transformation; natives sprung up from L.A.’s soil carving out life around the noise. It considers that projected dream — the West as a site of transformation — but its inverse, too: What happens when you chase a dream that dissolves each time you reach out to capture it.
The L.A. that many of Johnson’s stories pull into focus is not the telegenic region of rolling lawns, beaches and opulence. Rather, it’s a series of backdrops and situations that most Angelenos move through daily — city dwellers overwhelmed by traffic, keeping one step ahead of gentrification, at turns bewildered and humbled by homelessness.
As I consider in the piece, “one story overtakes another; some have more weight” All we can do is write our stories, our presents and pasts.
You can read the entire profile here.
“In the meantime the Bottom had collapsed. Everybody who had made money during the war moved as quickly as they could to the valley, and the white people were buying down river, cross river, stretching Medallion like two strings on the banks. Nobody colored lived much up in the Bottom any more. White people were building towers for televisions stations up there and there was a rumor about a golf course or something. Anyway, hill land was more valuable now, and those black people who had moved down right after the war in the fifties couldn’t afford to come back even if they wanted to. Except for the few blacks still huddled by the river bend, and some undemolished houses on Carpenter’s Road, only rich white folks were building homes in the hills. Just like that, they had changed their minds and instead of keeping the valley floor to themselves, now they wanted a hilltop house with a river view and a ring of elms. The black people, for all their new look, seemed awfully anxious to get to the valley, or leave town, and and abandon the hills to whoever was interested. It was sad, because the Bottom had been a real place. These young ones kept talking about the community, but they left the hills to the poor, the old, the stubborn–and the rich white folks. Maybe it hadn’t been a community, but it had been a place. Now there weren’t any places left, just separate houses with separate televisions and separate telephones and less and less dropping by.”
from Sula, by Toni Morrison
“Where ya headed cowboy?
Nowhere special? I’ve always wanted to go there.”
Farewell, Gene Wilder
NYT obit, here
Gene Wilder and Cleavon Little in “Blazing Saddles”