For seven years I lived in Backbay, a neighborhood of Newport Beach that's well known to most people who live around there. I lived alone in a comfortable two bedroom apartment across the street from the bay where the ocean breezes blew up from the bay and into my bedroom window and then out through the living room window; my reality every day of the year. It was there that I enjoyed a level of contentment and independence that I'd never known before. I think part of the happiness and lightness of that period was being so alone that there was no one to weigh in on anything I wanted to do. I did what I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it. There was a simplicity to it even though there was always a lot of loneliness lurking in the periphery. The simplicity of doing whatever I wanted to do came with a new sense of responsibility though; if I didn't take the trash out it didn't get taken out. If I didn't pay the utility bills they didn't get paid and trouble followed.
The intensity of the loneliness was almost too much at times and so when it felt like it was going to overpower me I learned to leave the house and go do something, anything, because simmering in the loneliness felt embarrassing. I had money in my pocket, a convertible sports car and Laguna Beach about fifteen minutes to the south of me. Hollywood, my old stomping grounds was 45 minutes to the north. Staying at home when it hurt to do so didn't make much sense. The first time I went out to eat alone in a nice restaurant I was so nervous I wasn't sure I could go through with it. But I did and it was fun and I began reveling in learning to do things alone. My late partner Les had died of cancer two years previous and the transition to being alone had been a rough one. Seven years in that apartment in Backbay allowed me to heal and grow and learn to be independent in a way I'd never been before.
I traveled often to Italy and Europe where I spent time with my childhood friends and saw parts of Europe I hadn't seen before. Twice I sailed through the Greek Islands with friends on a teak sailboat and thought, "Wow, could the world be any more beautiful?" Being back in Rome where I grew up and have lived off and on over the years reminded me that I had not overly romanticized my feelings about it; it has always felt like home and still does. Because my Italian is native I never go through any kind of adjustment; I step off the plane and I'm fully there. Having both the freedom and the money to do that often during those years kept me excited about my life and feeling like I was doing exactly what I wanted to be doing.
Countless hours during those years in Backbay were spent at my computer writing the stories of my life. Having the time in the evenings to just sit and write was a luxury that feels long gone now but one I made good use of while it was there for me. I began crocheting and selling beanie caps, I got a crazy amount of artwork inked into my skin, I photographed some amazingly beautiful people and as time progressed I felt like there weren't enough hours in the day to do everything I wanted to do. I danced on the beach and I danced in clubs; usually by myself. I tried some online dating which was a waste, but it felt good to at least try. And there were times of course when it felt great to just sit at home doing nothing or watching Six Feet Under. Rather than being slowed down by my fifties I felt invigorated and propelled by them.
Every Sunday morning for 7 years I drove to Laguna Beach where I had breakfast at the Heidelberg Bistro (five eggs) and then spent the better part of the day on the beach or wandering around Laguna shopping. After returning from the beach in the afternoons I began writing letters to friends about my adventures there and called them Sundays in Laguna. Those stories and others are collected at SundaysinLaguna.com
I know that no matter how good it was then and no matter how happy I was, those years of my life can't be recreated and I would probably be a fool for trying to do it. But the question still persists: How do I find that kind of happiness again?
At the end of my seven years in Backbay I took off for a few weeks to travel in Italy and Greece with a plan to move back up to Hollywood upon my return and resume my work as an entertainment photographer. I'd been on sabbatical for a few years working as an art director there in Newport but it was clear that it was time to get back to my photography. Returning from Europe with a head full of excitement I went to visit my daughter and grandkids in Utah and ended up with a catastrophic bout of bacterial meningitis that nearly killed me. It's an understatement to say that my life for these 16 years since have been rough. My dream of returning to Hollywood vanished and it feels like I've been swimming upstream ever since. Feeling sorry for myself doesn't get me anywhere and so I keep pushing forward. But the deep sense of happiness and adventure that were the hallmarks of my life for so long aren't there anymore. My desire at this point is to figure out how I can regain at least some small part of all that happiness without chasing the dragon.
Comments
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
For seven years I lived in Backbay, a neighborhood of Newport Beach that's well known to most people who live around there. I lived alone in a comfortable two bedroom apartment across the street from the bay where the ocean breezes blew up from the bay and into my bedroom window and then out through the living room window; my reality every day of the year. It was there that I enjoyed a level of contentment and independence that I'd never known before. I think part of the happiness and lightness of that period was being so alone that there was no one to weigh in on anything I wanted to do. I did what I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it. There was a simplicity to it even though there was always a lot of loneliness lurking in the periphery. The simplicity of doing whatever I wanted to do came with a new sense of responsibility though; if I didn't take the trash out it didn't get taken out. If I didn't pay the utility bills they didn't get paid and trouble followed.
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
For seven years I lived in Backbay, a neighborhood of Newport Beach that's well known to most people who live around there. I lived alone in a comfortable two bedroom apartment across the street from the bay where the ocean breezes blew up from the bay and into my bedroom window and then out through the living room window; my reality every day of the year. It was there that I enjoyed a level of contentment and independence that I'd never known before. I think part of the happiness and lightness of that period was being so alone that there was no one to weigh in on anything I wanted to do. I did what I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it. There was a simplicity to it even though there was always a lot of loneliness lurking in the periphery. The simplicity of doing whatever I wanted to do came with a new sense of responsibility though; if I didn't take the trash out it didn't get taken out. If I didn't pay the utility bills they didn't get paid and trouble followed.
The intensity of the loneliness was almost too much at times and so when it felt like it was going to overpower me I learned to leave the house and go do something, anything, because simmering in the loneliness felt embarrassing. I had money in my pocket, a convertible sports car and Laguna Beach about fifteen minutes to the south of me. Hollywood, my old stomping grounds was 45 minutes to the north. Staying at home when it hurt to do so didn't make much sense. The first time I went out to eat alone in a nice restaurant I was so nervous I wasn't sure I could go through with it. But I did and it was fun and I began reveling in learning to do things alone. My late partner Les had died of cancer two years previous and the transition to being alone had been a rough one. Seven years in that apartment in Backbay allowed me to heal and grow and learn to be independent in a way I'd never been before.
I traveled often to Italy and Europe where I spent time with my childhood friends and saw parts of Europe I hadn't seen before. Twice I sailed through the Greek Islands with friends on a teak sailboat and thought, "Wow, could the world be any more beautiful?" Being back in Rome where I grew up and have lived off and on over the years reminded me that I had not overly romanticized my feelings about it; it has always felt like home and still does. Because my Italian is native I never go through any kind of adjustment; I step off the plane and I'm fully there. Having both the freedom and the money to do that often during those years kept me excited about my life and feeling like I was doing exactly what I wanted to be doing.
Countless hours during those years in Backbay were spent at my computer writing the stories of my life. Having the time in the evenings to just sit and write was a luxury that feels long gone now but one I made good use of while it was there for me. I began crocheting and selling beanie caps, I got a crazy amount of artwork inked into my skin, I photographed some amazingly beautiful people and as time progressed I felt like there weren't enough hours in the day to do everything I wanted to do. I danced on the beach and I danced in clubs; usually by myself. I tried some online dating which was a waste, but it felt good to at least try. And there were times of course when it felt great to just sit at home doing nothing or watching Six Feet Under. Rather than being slowed down by my fifties I felt invigorated and propelled by them.
Every Sunday morning for 7 years I drove to Laguna Beach where I had breakfast at the Heidelberg Bistro (five eggs) and then spent the better part of the day on the beach or wandering around Laguna shopping. After returning from the beach in the afternoons I began writing letters to friends about my adventures there and called them Sundays in Laguna. Those stories and others are collected at SundaysinLaguna.com
I know that no matter how good it was then and no matter how happy I was, those years of my life can't be recreated and I would probably be a fool for trying to do it. But the question still persists: How do I find that kind of happiness again?
At the end of my seven years in Backbay I took off for a few weeks to travel in Italy and Greece with a plan to move back up to Hollywood upon my return and resume my work as an entertainment photographer. I'd been on sabbatical for a few years working as an art director there in Newport but it was clear that it was time to get back to my photography. Returning from Europe with a head full of excitement I went to visit my daughter and grandkids in Utah and ended up with a catastrophic bout of bacterial meningitis that nearly killed me. It's an understatement to say that my life for these 16 years since have been rough. My dream of returning to Hollywood vanished and it feels like I've been swimming upstream ever since. Feeling sorry for myself doesn't get me anywhere and so I keep pushing forward. But the deep sense of happiness and adventure that were the hallmarks of my life for so long aren't there anymore. My desire at this point is to figure out how I can regain at least some small part of all that happiness without chasing the dragon.
11:22 AM in commentary, photography | Permalink