28.9.09

pleasant homecoming?


Fuck.

I don't know how I expected to feel after crushing that mammoth fear demon, but it certainly wasn't this --------->

A little postpartum depression is par for the course, I've been told.

24.9.09

Los Angeles Sept. 21/09

Los Angeles is a city not built for pedestrians. The garbage cans are miles apart. L.A residents have forgotten how to walk. When they do walk, they always stand in the sun and patiently wait for their light to turn green- a city without jay walkers.
The road burns holes in my Wal-Mart keds so I never wait for my light to cross; running across six lanes of traffic on Sunset Boulevard, attracting bewildered stared through sunglasses the size of a small country.
I'm sitting on the sidewalk on Rodeo Drive. Around me are the most expensive designer stores on earth- YSL, Prada, Tiffany's, Ermenegildo Zegna, Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Alexander McQueen, Armani, Miu Miu and Jimmy Choo to name the merest few.
I am struck by this feeling that this is the red light district of L.A. Here stand the world's most expensive prostitutes- some plastered on window panes, adorned in wares woth a small fortune. Some are standing marking our way across the district like silver plated flags and arrows.
It's hard not to peer through tinted windows. Everyone looks famous, though no one is beautiful. This is a city constructed for the rich, perpetuated by fame and splendor.
Over breakfast this morning, I spoke with a tear stained recovered drug addict named Sally Boyden. She was a child star, who later in life toured with the Rolling Stones and Duran Duran singing backup vocals.
I sat with her while she talked about her very recent breakup, but wasn't able to hear the whole story because her tale was peppered with notable names of famous people she knew- from Sesame Street to Steely Dan.
Everyone has something to prove and someone they know, and they are wired to schmooze so deeply that it prevents them from getting to the heart of the matter. (even when the matter is so pressing!)
At the end of our conversation, she asked me what I did- I said I'm a musician. She asked me what I play, to which I replied "the guitar."
As if that wasn't enough, she fixed me with a hard look and pressed, "are you good?"
I looked at her straight and I said "yes I am."
That seemed to satisfy her.

Talent is irrelevant when dealing in fame and fame is irrelevant when dealing in talent.

6.8.09

let's all get used to sitting down


the wind filled my grocery bags today as i coasted down lansdowne hill and the weight of my headache and the weight of the bags made the bike unstable and i barely retained my balance as my speed increased. afraid and unsure, i walked the rest of the way home and was briefly intercepted by a crackhead sighing, “ah” at me as he walked by. fantasy. sex. briefcase. thirst. suffering an anxiety induced hangover or a hangover induced anxiety attack, i forgot my sweater outside on the sweaty, rot soaked ground. i carted my yoghurt and lettuce up half the stairs and went back for it. the crackhead was back- a different corner of the street, walking towards me, emerging presumably from a dark corner where the users congregate. he looked at me and said “hello”


maybe i was lonely, but i didn’t say hello back. In my head i kept reciting “mom told me not to talk to strangers” and concocting elaborate situations in my head where we would become familiar with each other in the course of one conversation and he really wouldn’t seem so bad until one day we established a rapport and he became creepy and stalker-ish and killed me via a knife to my solar plexus after climbing up my fire escape in the middle of the night. i’m broke. i need money. i need an excuse.


*note: the above image is the first result I got when I googled "crack"