Out again after the shootaround in west LA and Wilshire, with the king photographer. What I thought would be an epic duel with the sun turned out to speed right on through, for the heat of the past few days was nowhere to be seen. The photographer is a true professional, used to be an actor too and still does some here and there, was also a casting director for many years before getting into photography. But before the acting even, the man was a skilled boxer, and boxing he speaks of with great wisdom. He is short about the experience but his tone says it all, and he might turn out to be some friend of real value.
The whole thing went by so fast it’s hard to remember really anything but the total absence of the heat for the air felt as cool as ever before, as the sun stood mighty and quiet, breathing soft for the coming final days of the summer. The reports for the day indicated that the temperature would be as high as it had been all week. I can’t say where exactly it went or if it’s gone for good, but I haven’t felt the heat since.
The beginning of Visions of Cody is no easy task but the story falls into place toward the end of the first part, with a letter written by the hero Duluoz, to the wife of his great friend Cody, who we feel he hasn’t seen in a good, long time. I’m beginning to see where Jack is taking things as I arrive at a familiar street corner on Sunset, the same where I found the energy, and I think that this street corner must never be abused for it is all here for me and will remain with me so long as I trust in what I know. But you cannot blame a boy for trying at least, for I am only a young actor, to think that this place in light of its lasting meaning would remain some great spiritual well. It was the feeling of being fresh off some new shots and getting my ol’ name approved that had me convinced that I could come back for another go ’round.
There are some basics still to cover, unfinished business concerning recent months. I’ll begin in Frisco, the drive to and the drive from, just after the Coachella hike; and then the time in Portland, the return from which brought me some trouble. In the meantime I’ll return to the white pages when I feel it, which is always. Nothing is certain, but I might find beauty in everything and that brings me some easy joy.
I hear a folk-reggae beat of ‘Let it Be’ on the radio ascending with clapping hands in the second verse, and continuing throughout the song with the Gospel choir and church organs that are played on Sunday morning. Now in walks a man who I’ve seen here once before, dressed as Jesus, and I think it’s best now that I go.