LA-LA started purring early this morning:
“Purrr-tty. I’m purrr-tty, don’t you think?”
Yes, you are, my darlin’. Yes, you are.
But today, I have woken up with a headache: This life of a freelancer is one pain in the ass. Floating, always floating in some vague self-assurance that it is all gonna work out for the better; that everything is gonna fall into its place. Because it always has, before; and because I’m good enough. And even if it doesn’t work out, there are lessons to be learned, right?
“Yeah. Well. Sure! Everything happens for a reason!” — other people tell me.
It takes very little for other people to chime-in. Other people always seem so much smarter, or more opinionated, at least; more self-assured. Or maybe they are just full of shit and know how to talk out of their asses. I don’t know. But do they know? Do they know that they’re full of shit when they start their talkin’? Or has their self-assuredness taken them beyond their recognition of denial — beyond their awareness of their full-of-shit-ness?
Yet, still: It is all gonna work out for the better, I must believe that. Because it always has, before. And because I’m good enough. And because (and herein lies my leprosy) I so fully, so strongly believe that it’s all in the intention: One’s life — is all in one’s intention! And my intentions — have always been good.
So, it is all gonna work out for the better. It must. It absolutely has to! Because it always has, before — and because I had always been good enough.
And LA-LA: She started purring early this morning, slipping through the shades of my bedroom window with that hazy sunshine that only She can manufacture. I’ve never seen this sort of weather before, anywhere. Not anywhere else, in the world! There is a decisiveness in this mood of Hers: It’s gonna be a hot day. No room for negotiating. You, little humans, can cough up enough smog to block some of Her rays with your fake clouds. But as far as LA-LA is concerned: It’s gonna be a hot day — decidedly!
And early this morning, She purred, rolling over onto Her back and playfully sharpening Her claws against my windowsill; nibbling on the chipping paint:
“Purrr-tty. I’m purrr-tty. Don’t you think?”
Yes. Yes, you are, my darlin’. Yes, you are.
But today, I had woken up with a headache.
I had just returned to Her, the other day. Like a thief, I slipped into the city without telling a single soul. Because I knew that even before the pilot announced the descent into yet another decidedly hot day, I would begin to get homesick for the City I had just left behind.
I have never seen that anywhere. Not anywhere else, in the world! LA-LA is not really a chosen city, for many of us. She is the one we settle for, while impatiently waiting for the fruition of our dreams.
And it’s a common pattern out here: I have watched too many bait their dreams against this city (which is way too much pressure for any dream to withstand). When the dreams don’t happen fast enough, they fling their failures in Her face, forever blaming Her for the slowness of Her clocks; for Her lack of cooperation; for Her traffic, for Her industry, for Her lack of imagination; for Her decidedly hot days. So, I thought I would just slip back into Her, quietly — under the sun of Her another decidedly hot day — and not voice my immediate homesickness for the City I had just left behind.
Because it takes very little for other people to chime-in:
“Yeah. Well. Sure! It sucks! But at least, you’ve learned a lesson!” — and off they go again, talking out of their asses so self-assuredly, I begin to wonder why they had settled here, so decidedly unhappy.
“I’ll be leaving in a month,” a neighbor had decided to confide in me during an elevator ride this morning. I hadn’t seen him in a while — and I hadn’t really known him all that well.
So, “What the fuck is his name?!” I thought, squinting at him past my headache. All I said this morning — was, “Hello.”
“There is just nothing for me to do here! No good jobs. No good women,” he carried on; and then, he shrugged in a way that made me want to recoil inside my very spine. There was an aggression in that shrug: a painful flaunting of his griefs.
Goddamn it, I thought, squinting past my headache. I was just picking up my mail accumulated during my departure and the days that it took for me to get over my homesickness for the City I had just left behind. And all I said this morning — was “Hello.”
“So: Where to?” I asked. Somehow, the elevator has been programed to stop on nearly every floor; and to avoid that elevator silence, I chose to participate. But I would chime-in very little, laconically. Because I had woken up with a headache, and the unhappy neighbors’ griefs were a pain in the ass.
“San Diego!” he announced emphatically. “Makes so much sense!”
In all truth, I had not a single clue as to how that other city made sense; but in juxtaposition to his griefs, his reasons to celebrate were a better cause. So, I squinted at him, past my headache, and said:
“Well. Yeah. Everything happens for a reason.”
Not good enough of a response made my unhappy neighbor shrug again, this time definitely at my expense. And I would recoil inside my very spine, but the elevator jolted and came to a stop. First floor. The ride’s over. So was the confiding chat.
“Good luck,” he said to me, and started jogging across the lobby filled with that hazy sunshine that only LA-LA can manufacture.
I wasn’t sure why I needed luck, but I swear I thought I heard the city roll over onto her back again and whimper:
“Purrr-tty. Am I purrr-tty? What do you think?”
Yes. Yes, you are, my darlin’. Yes, you are.
You may not work out for your every unhappy resident. You may not live up to every dream. But you do happen to all of us for a reason. And somehow, everything does tend to work out. It always does.
And everything falls into its place.
And everyone falls — into his.
But regardless: You’re very pretty, my darlin’. Very, very pretty.
Yes, you are. Yes, you are. Yes, you are.