In a moment of kitschy pathos we encountered the defiled star of Lillian Gish on Vine Street Sunday afternoon, at the CicLAvia in honor of the LA Philharmonic centennial.
Fitting perhaps for an actress known for her doll-like, waifish fragility. Her oeuvre was one of purity in danger, seduction and abandonment, flight from lecherous hands, and being set adrift on ice floes.
In her most famous screen appearance she threw herself off a cliff rather than submit to an amorous white actor in black face.
I was in a Ride of the Valkyries frame of mind as we pedaled downtown. An afternoon of bike as king cranked dormant gears in my head, the ones which say why not?
Why can’t we always bike? Forget arriving to work in a timely manner. Think of the journey! Forget the supply chain, and the power grid. Practicalities are for sissies. This is how it should be! Yes yes! New rules! Clear the roadways! We all pedaling now. Everyone must pedal! We should ride by torchlight! Make way. A new age now begins! Here in LA, where so many utopias were discarded and dystopias foretold.
Why must the essentials for a deliciously stylish life require a four level parking garage? Rethink it!
Every mile or so someone would hold up a foam finger and pull a piece of yellow tape across the road, and just like that, hundreds of people would submissively cooperate. We were digital people in a digital age again, agreeable and rules oriented. My fever dream was bite-sized. My Lillian is sadly never in need of rescue.
With no blood and soil urgency at hand, I filed it away in a drawer in my head called Ironic Historical Feedback Loops. I kept the Wagner, but eliminated the KKK in my chain of association. See how easy that was? The mind is good at lying about what the heart knows to be true.