I sound like an idiot in print.
I use exclamations too much.
Perhaps it’s because I’m so hot.
It’s SO hot here.
But I do use too many.
Anyone who knows me would probably think this sounded like me on drugs.
Some would find that a relief I suppose.
But, if you had read the beginning of this blog, you’d know that it was all started on the pretext of not wallowing in abysmal sorrows and whining.
What’s left are the times when I sound like I’m on drugs.
And they are therefore, rather few and far in between.
Since I have done a lot of that kind of reporting, and it sounds in print something like Abba used to sound musically, and I come out rather like cottoncandybarf, I intend to start reporting all of it.
The dark and twisty person as well as the shiny happy idiot.
We think it’s time.
The small discontent:
There’s no privacy at all at work, and yet as I’ve no work at the moment, my tolerance grows more strained with each half hour. I have no way to be anything close to myself here, so it’s a bit exhausting. I tap dance on warm water every day.
Thoreau, how right you were, I am full of regret over these clothes.
Another small one:
Thanksgiving is coming, two days away, and we have absolutely no plans, and my husband who will most likely not eat turkey, and no one close enough to extend an invitation to us, which means Thanksgiving will be another boring homebound day when everything is closed and the Los Angeles sun shines and shines and shines like a friend who’s trying to convince you of your good fortune when both of you know you’re shitouttaluck.
I detest holidays without my friends.
The large one:
WHY did I MOVE, WHY?.
::sigh::
It’s hot here.
Materialistic heatwave.
(The sun created some mist today coming off the waters in Santa Monica, so there were at least vapourous clouds in the air. A quote about human miasma comes to mind…)
I miss San Francisco daily.
I should never have left. It was unquestionably home.
I miss its cold fog, I miss its blustering cold wind crossing the bay on the ferry, I miss Chinatown with all its strong smells (yes even the fishmarket bleach smell)and wonderful food (yes even stinky tofu).
I miss not sweating.
I miss the silver Bay Bridge and the tiled Treasure Island tunnel on the way back that twinkles gold and orange when the sun sets.
I miss wearing a stylish velvet coat.
I miss knowing where everything is, and finding interesting views at every turn.
I miss the goths and the gutterpunks in the Haight.
I miss raven blue hair.
I miss being on real hills.
I don’t miss parking or the homeless, or the smelly cars at the end of
the BART, they are a vivid memory too.
But it’s my home.
If I could move back there as a single person, I would take a place in Chinatown or near it, perhaps Richmond district.
An odd choice, but … I’m odd.
I don’t mind the rain, I can deal with the roughness of the homie kids,
and I miss the glam-in-your-face honesty of the Castro.
I miss seeing people in black and navy and sharp artistic lines.
I miss the art schools and their healthy crazy students.
I miss rice rockets.
I miss the huge green cemetery where my pets are buried. (Don’t tell.)
Everything here is beige, candy-colored, Barbie-fied, palmtree glitterbling dyejob crap.
This town is about money, stocks, bags, shoes, nothing else.
It is not about soul, or origins, or stories, or music, or GOD HELP US innovation. Hell no.
You put a pink and aqua cadillac into the setting of, say, Seattle, and it’s kitsch. It’s immensely cheerful and nutty. It’s a grand gesture.
You put it here in L.A. and you’re either a lowrider or a complete asshole with a fleet of them, among which this is a lesser sample.
I actually felt smarter there.
Here I feel like sand in the hourglass.
Settings are important. Immensely.
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