A couple days before my wife, Lily, and I bid Los Angeles farewell for the duration of 2024, I visited my old stomping grounds of UCLA. Some part of me knew such a visit would be good for my soul. In fact, weeks prior, I had written the four letters (U-C-L-A) in red ink on our wall calendar. Never mind that we are more than thirty years since the onset of desktop computers becoming ubiquitous and twenty years since the widespread usage of smartphones. We are and always have been a decidedly non-digital planner household. We are downright Luddite when it comes to appointment reminders and future scheduling. Several times a month we text each other to “please send a photo” of one or more calendar pages.

There was truly no purpose for my Sunday afternoon visit to the gorgeous institute of higher education in Westwood other than a sense that it would help me continue on my path of emotional recovery following the death of my sister. Lily knew it would prove healing. I have been back on campus more than a handful of times over the past twenty years, but I can’t recall the last time I walked leisurely for as long and as far as I did. The only word to describe the experience was “delicious”. I devoured the architecture, the hills, the trees, the sculpture garden, and the memories that flowed forth. Sometimes, taking a physical stroll down memory lane can prove bittersweet at best. This did nothing but thrill my senses and unleash delightful, peaceful images of bygone days. In fact, as I strolled, I realized that the reason I worked on campus for a few years after my graduation from film school was because I just loved being on campus everyday. It didn’t matter if school was in session or not, if it was summer or winter, weekend or midweek, morning or night. The campus was always, endlessly, a land of wonders in which I took delight.

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For the most part, the many changes to campus since I attended school or worked there proved pleasing. Buildings that were brand new while I was a fixture on campus and which initially stood out, have now aged to the point that they seem to be part of the original master design. On the other hand, I wouldn’t say this is true for the changes to on-campus housing. I went looking for the dormitory (Rieber Hall) where I lived freshman year, and the Saxon Suites where I lived sophomore year. I got lost not once, but twice.

I took a selfie in front of the suites and sent it to Jeff Briggs, my roommate those first two years of college. He did not remember that the suites actually had the name “Saxon” and because we lived in a time before Wikipedia and because I was a teen-ager at the time, I never bothered to learn about those for whom these residences were named. It turns out David S. Saxon taught physics at UCLA and after serving as dean of physical sciences, he was appointed executive vice chancellor and provost of UCLA. Eventually, he would become president of the University of California. Yet years before he had even become vice chancellor, Saxon had been dismissed from his position as a professor, along with 30 other faculty members, because they refused to sign a required loyalty oath. After the U.S. Supreme Court invalidated the loyalty oath requirement, Saxon returned to the school. I find it positively comforting that we no longer have to hear talk about such things as loyalty oaths in this day and age.

Oh, wait …

Never mind.

After finally finding my old on-campus housing digs, I went off in search of the two apartments where I spent years residing off-campus in Westwood while still in school. One, at 507 Glenrock, remains, and looks to be in pretty good shape, especially because many of the surrounding apartment buildings in the residential area have become quite old by comparison. The other apartment building where I lived, no longer exists. It sat at what is now 652 Veteran Avenue, across from the veterans’ Los Angeles National Cemetery. It is absolutely for the best that this apartment building got replaced, as it probably should have been demolished in the late 1980s while we were living there. It had already become that much of a dump. When one of your favorite memories of a place involves being trapped in the subterranean parking garage, in the dark, because the power had gone out after the security gate had closed behind you, you don’t really mourn that place’s passing. I did send a selfie from out in front of 507 Glenrock to one of my roommates with whom I shared both Westwood apartments, Sam Chon, who now lives just outside the nation’s capital. We reconnected when I was in D.C. for Independence Day and inspired by the selfie, we planned another get-together, this one involving our families, which took place just prior to Christmas, and which proved a genuine highlight of the holiday season.

After seeking out past residences, I headed into the village of Westwood, where I spent so much time seeing films, dining, shopping, and drinking through the years. I was feeling really good about my afternoon and despite having walked a few miles, which included some hilly terrain, I had a definite spring in my step. Sadly, Westwood Village let the wind out of my sails. My last good memory there had been seeing a pre-release screening of Daniel Craig’s swan song as James Bond (No Time to Die) in fall of 2021. The film proved to be a massive letdown for me, but being in the old Bruin Theater would have been a cause for celebration at any juncture, but on that occasion was an emotionally stirring thrill for me as it represented my post-Covid return to moviegoing. The Bruin, along with the (Fox) Village Theatre across the street, and Stan’s Donuts between and across from both of them, served to form the beating-heart triangle of the village for decades. Now, all three establishments are shuttered. The buildings stand, but they are dark, lifeless, uninhabited and as such, fitting symbols of the current Westwood Village.

Aside from being a college town, Westwood was historically a major center for the movie industry, hosting countless lavish premieres, and serving as the home to dozens of movie screens. Now there is only one screen, the Landmark Westwood, and the day I was there, it was showing a Netflix movie. Modern Westwood Village evokes feelings of so many small towns I have visited that were once situated on major roads, but with the introduction of the highway system found themselves bypassed, and eventually forgotten. Westwood, like many of these towns, is still there, and still has purpose, but much of their reason for being and what made them unique is no more. Even the shuttered Stan’s Donuts evoked silver screen memories for me, as it was there where I would sometimes go after late night editing sessions while working on my thesis film. On one of these visits, I encountered Tony Curtis. He was in pajamas, and dropping off a lady friend on the streets of Westwood. After bidding her a pleasant goodnight, he strolled into Stan’s for refreshment, before returning to the friendly confines of his limousine.

Though I was finding the atmosphere in Westwood sad, I reminded myself that with school being out for the duration of the year, the area had emptied out. Besides, I was really hungry after a long afternoon of walking. So, I shoved the lifelessness of the village to a back room of my consciousness and I sought out one of my old stalwarts, Headlines Diner, home to the best tuna melt anywhere. Unfortunately, it was no longer there. Or rather, it was no longer where it used to be, having moved into new digs some five years ago. The food and coffee were excellent as ever, but gone were the iconic chalkboards that gave meaning to the diner’s name. In the days before the internet, patrons of the diner could acquaint themselves with the headlines of major newspapers by reading them on one of the boards. Now I am not even sure newspapers exist, but, of course, I am sure no one need bother to write their headlines in chalk, when we are probably getting alerts about them all day long. Another board that used to be maintained at Headlines was one that listed all the movies playing in the village, along with their showtimes and venues. That was awesome, but again, sadly, not needed in the Westwood of today. After all, if Headlines did still maintain such a board, on the day I was there, it would have only listed the one Netflix film and instead of a showtime, they could have written “see it at home”.

Satisfied by my meal, but rather traumatized by what was no longer needed at the diner’s new locale, I continued to stroll the village and as I passed several locations where movie theaters once stood, I came to a couple startling realizations. The first was that it was, in part, people’s love of movies that helped spur on the advent of streaming, which means our love of movies might have been responsible for killing off moviegoing. Further, as I contemplated a world without movie theaters, I began to think that maybe all my life, it wasn’t movies I loved so much as it was going to movie theaters. As I continued to walk, I remembered that whereas current students can walk to both a Whole Foods and a Trader Joe’s, we only had a small market called Breadsticks, where a dozen eggs cost probably a dozen dollars back in the late 80s, and where Alan Alda was a regular patron. So, today’s college students can eat food, but we could see movies. We had it better.

By the time night had fallen and I was awaiting the #2 bus that would take me back to Los Feliz via Sunset Boulevard, I was too bummed out, and too cold, to much care that I was sitting outside the beautiful Geffen Playhouse. The venue had been home to many shows I have seen through the years, including the great Coney Island Christmas in which Lily starred back in 2012. It is also wonderfully haunted. None of that mattered to me in the moments I spent on that bus stop bench, however, as I was too haunted by my walk through the village. I made a vow to myself to make return trips to the UCLA campus a regular feature in 2025. I will walk, I will read, I will take in nature and art and architecture. And I will give Westwood Village a wide berth.

The following night was my last in Los Angeles for 2024. I spent a bulk of the evening at the Griffith Observatory, where I had been invited to attend Nithya Raman’s swearing in ceremony for her second term as the District 4 Representative to the Los Angeles City Council. The event began at 4 pm on the observatory terrace. I got all gussied up and took advantage of the free DASH bus that heads up to the observatory every fifteen minutes from Vermont Avenue. I was concerned that I might be late, but my timing could not have been more perfect as I walked in at the same time as Nithya and her family. The setting, which, of course, would be extraordinary under any conditions, was at its most magnificent, with the views of the Hollywood sign, the ocean, and downtown, all absolutely open for business. A high school jazz band and light refreshment welcomed us. A short while later, atop the elevated terrace, a high school girls’ choir delighted and amazed those in attendance with specially chosen gospel-flavored selections, including one particularly spirited rendition of Sam Cooke’s “A Change is Gonna Come”. After a few opening welcome remarks and acknowledgements, everyone in attendance snapped to attention with the astonishing announcement, “And now, Jane Fonda …”

Sure enough, Ms. Fonda took to the podium and began by observing, “Wow. Nithya sure has a lot of friends.” All of us in attendance count ourselves as such and so we let out a heartfelt cheer in response. Ms. Fonda followed by saying, “Good. She is going to need every one of you,” and continued by pointing out that the coming years will prove to be quite challenging. After her speech, Ms. Fonda introduced Nithya and administered to her the oath of office. By the time Nithya took to the podium, I was already quite choked up. Much of what Nithya had to say reduced me to tears.

She spoke about the city, its future, and her pledges to us. She spoke of the need for audaciousness. She spoke of traveling to other major cities of the world, and of finding Los Angeles to be, perhaps, the most beautiful city of them all. As the sun set behind her, bathing the city I love in a majestic panoply of colors, it was quite hard to argue. On that night, at least, Los Angeles looked almost unspeakably beautiful. After the ceremony, as I headed inside the observatory and downstairs to the deep space exhibit, where a wine reception was taking place, I was sad not to have a few more nights in the City of Angels before heading to the east coast.

The Gunther Depths of Space Exhibit had long been one of my favorite places anywhere in Los Angeles. Prior to the pandemic, I would frequently hike up to the observatory, and plant myself before “The Big Picture”, the largest astronomical image in the world, glazed onto the exhibit wall. 152 feet long and 20 feet tall, the image always filled me with awe. On this night, filled with the images I had just seen up above, and stirred by Nithya’s words about “audaciousness”, I found that “The Big Picture” looked a lot smaller than I had remembered. Perhaps it was because my relationship to the city, my roots in the neighborhood, and the audaciousness of my own expressions about that which I love have grown larger. My life has grown bigger, and so “The Big Picture” has grown smaller.

I would hope that most people, no matter where they choose to live, would find that place to be the most beautiful place in the world. Prior to making my first visit to the Mississippi Delta, a region I have come to love more than almost any place on Earth, I was attending a wedding in Nashville. Many of those in attendance, knowing I would be visiting the Delta, asked me to tell people when I got home that the Mississippi Delta “isn’t what people think it is”.

This took me aback. “What do people think it is?” I wanted to ask. After all, so much of our nation’s best music, art and literature have flowed from those shores, and as soon as I got there, I viscerally understood why. Apparently, the confluence of the rivers, and the natural climate, has led to topsoil some 50 feet deep that can grow anything. In addition to agriculture needs, this topsoil serves as a wondrous metaphor for the creative fertility the area has inspired and nurtured through its long history. I would never claim to understand the Delta, but as soon as I stepped foot there, it made sense to me. Deep in my soul, I do feel at home there, for it is a place where you can not help but connect with the long arduous journey our species has taken in an effort to become human. The natural ecosystem of the Delta, seemingly primeval in places, almost threatens to reclaim everything human beings have built if given half a chance. In fact, there are plenty of examples of this actually happening. It all serves to create a cauldron that has cooked up profound expressions of hardship and aspiration, sorrow and joy, expressions that have proved lasting in a variety of artistic forms. In that context, the good, the bad, and the so-called “ugly” all become beautiful. Of course, what really serves to make the Delta almost unspeakably beautiful to me is all the people I love there.

Lily and I spend almost every Christmas in the nation’s capital. Having grown up in the area, Lily is justifiably proud of its history, its cultural institutions and its almost-without-parallel integration of natural beauty and urban landscape. We enjoy something similar in Los Feliz with Griffith Park, of course, but our natural beauty has defined borders. We are in the park, or we are in a residential area, or we are in the village. In the D.C. Metro area, public spaces, living spaces, and natural spaces weave, ebb and flow together. A case could easily be made that D.C. is the most beautiful city in the world.

On the other hand, a friend of Lily’s, who grew up keenly aware of both his Japanese and his German ancestry, left the city to move to New Hampshire because in his opinion, the integration of the natural and the urban that D.C. offers, actually prevents one from fully delving into either. It’s an interesting point. Does wanting to enjoy both this AND that actually require one, in the moment, to have only this OR that? I find that I need both Griffith Park and Los Feliz Village, but I also need Montecito, and I need D.C. and I need the Mississippi Delta, and I need New York City. And what’s more important, perhaps, I need the people I love in all those places. Whether connecting as deeply as possible with natural splendor or with the experience of immersing myself in an urban landscape, the value of both is reflected in how much I learn about myself while doing so. If I don’t delve into that deep reflection, then I am just a tourist. And everyone hates tourists.

On Christmas Eve, we attended church service at St. David’s Episcopal Church. It’s the third Episcopal Church in Washington, D.C. where I have attended Christmas Eve service. The first was the National Cathedral, where I have also attended weddings, funerals, and graduations. The second was St. Columba’s, where I did appreciate the Christmas service, though I did not appreciate it enough to be inspired to return. St. David’s is by far the smallest of the three churches, and it is utterly magical.

Whenever the opportunity to receive communion is offered, I am torn. I do not belong to any church. I am not an adherent of any faith. As such, in any place of worship, I am quite literally a tourist. This Christmas Eve, with that feeling foremost upon me, I decided to forego communion. It just didn’t feel right to participate. Until the moment occurred, at which point I suddenly heard a voice reminding myself that any opportunity to connect as deeply as possible with where I am in the moment is not to be rejected. That powerful reminder to connect as deeply as possible with life no matter where I am, coupled with ever-present thoughts of my recently deceased sister, and our not-so-long-dead parents, served to make my hands tremble with emotion.

Perhaps my favorite part of the various Christmas Eve services I have attended around the world involves candles and moments of darkness. During this service, we were each given a candle. Sometime after communion, the lights were turned off and we were to ignite our candles with offered flames. The singing of “Silent Night” would ensue. Because of my trembling hands, and my shaky emotional state, I had dropped my candle to the ground, where it promptly disappeared. I am not joking or exaggerating. After the service, I went back and scoured the floor, in our row, and under the pews and rows in front and behind us, and there was no candle to be found. “Oh, well,” I thought silently, “I guess I am not meant to participate in the candle ceremony” and I genuinely felt sorry for myself.

The lights went out, and I started to cry because of my inability to participate. Did my sadness over my sister and her death mean that my light was no longer available? Do I have to be resigned to sitting in darkness, merely witnessing, but not allowed to participate in the beauty of things? I mean, I was brokenhearted in that moment, succumbing to feeling sorry for myself as tears streamed down my face. It was at that moment that I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. I turned to find a lit candle being offered to me. My sister-in-law, Liz, had an extra one and though it did not appear to have a wick, she managed to get it lit. As I took it, utter joy replaced heartbreak and yet the reality of what was happening actually caused me to sob uncontrollably.

Thoughts of my sister had caused me to lose my light. My other sister gave my light back to me. With all due respect to the wise-seeming friend of Lily’s who fled the area in search of more meaning, Washington D.C. was, on that night at least, the most beautiful place on Earth because it was the only place on Earth with my sister, Elizabeth Holleman Brown.

On December 16, the most beautiful place on Earth was atop the Griffith Observatory Terrace, with its spectacular views, bathed in an almost-unbelievable sunset, because it was, at that moment, the only place on Earth that could boast the presence of my friend, Nithya Raman.

On Thanksgiving, the Delta proved the most beautiful place I could be, for it was the only place on Earth where I could, in that moment, enjoy the company of Katherine Pearson, her family, my Mississippi relations, and witness the light provided by my nephews Vernon and Mason, and my niece Schuyler.

And in 2025, I will re-visit the UCLA campus on those occasions where I know it will prove to be exactly the right kind of beautiful to restore me to this strange experience in space and time we call “life”.

But again, I will be giving Westwood Village a pass.

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