mirror rim

uooɯ ǝɥʇ uo suıɐʇunoɯ

Philosopher Edgar Morin describes the cinematic vision of Los Angeles—of Hollywood—as a place where “the mythic life is real, and real life mythic”. Morin, born in 1921, is now 103 years old.

In photos, his fingers are adorned with rings, and I imagine him as Saturn, the ringed planet that finds exaltation in Libra, especially when he speaks about balancing the ‘double polarity’ of prose and poetry.

Prose, says Morin, is survival, while it is the poetry of life that keeps us alive.

I find prose and poetry mirrored in the twin stars of routine and ritual that compose daily life. Routine is filling up the gas tank of my car. Ritual is taking it out for an aimless drive through the hills of Los Angeles during golden hour.

I park the car after one of these drives and sit for a moment with my hands on the wheel. Is that all there is? The words sound flat when I voice them.

Is that all there is?

To a house fire. To a dumpster fire. To five days, 3 weeks, 7 months, and 4 years.

Can you bear the life that you have?

Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.

          ﹒      ｡ﾟ                  𓂃                   ₊ ˑ         ˚                                        ˚  *                                          ˚                                                           •      ˚˒        𓂃

            the tickle of a feather,              •      ˚  A     spider's web                     ˒      ˚     
˚                                                           •      ˚˒        𓂃                                                                          𓂃                                 ₊    ˑ                                     in   ˚      ˒                                 ｡                          
     the night sky   𓂃   ˚                                                     。*         ´   

                         ₊ ˚            and                     𓂃      ˚            
                •            ｡ﾟ            𓂃                    ₊˚﹒                       𓂃 𓂃                        *                                                               •      ˚                                ₊                      the scent of cypress trees         ˑ    ˚                 。 
                                                                     ₊ ˑ         ˚                                        ˚  *          

Mythic life and real life meet at the top of Echo Mountain during a full moon. The trail to the top of the mountain is a steep incline. Hiking at night with nothing but a full moon lighting the way adds a moderate level of peril, but at the top of Echo Mountain, the obligatory hard work—the prose, turns poetic.

From the top of Echo Mountain, all of Los Angeles glitters below me. I look up, and above me, the night sky is blanketed by a swath of shining stars. There’s a mirroring here: an echo or a reflection between the double polarity of city and sky.

I stand at the furthermost edge of the vista point, the mirror rim of the mountain. The tightness in my chest loosens a little bit and I can’t believe I’ve made it to the top. “u r a supreme little mountain goat, high five” says no one.

The panorama of city and sky stretches all the way out to the Pacific and I breathe it all in. The old trailhead sign for Inspiration Point advises all who’ve arrived here:

Don't miss this scene, there are mountains on the moon.