Tag Archives: LA

“The Heart Breaks and Breaks and Lives…”

Remember the young love, the tumultuous and the difficult?  It would be a cause for arousing great anxieties — and for their dissipation, too — that would make one feel, at the very least, alive.  And for a gracious while, love could last on the suspended idealism of the two lovers:  Love conquers all.  Love will overcome…

Except that, sometimes — it wouldn’t.

Yet, even in that failure, one could confuse loving — for living.

“I think you’re, like, addicted to drama!” accused my last standing friend, Taisha, over sushi.  (She was actually sitting — cross-legged on a silk pillow — craning her neck over a bowl of udon noodle soup.  The long, swollen noodles shined through the brown broth with surprising starkness.)

“They’re famous for their noodles here!” proclaimed my last sitting friend.  She mostly spoke in exclamation points.  Taisha was always up on the hippest places to eat, in LA; and she spoke of them with a sense of urgency and worship, as if passing along the name of the best heart surgeon, in the country.

From the reclining passenger seat of her Prius, I had earlier protested:  “But I don’t even like sushi.”  I had been dragged out of my routine of melancholy and self-neglect; and even though I was glad to see the City’s never-ending light of day — grateful to have my heartbeat shocked back to its rhythm by the speed of it all — I still felt I had to throw a fit, just to suit the timeline a little better.  Because every love — had a timeline; and according to mine, I was still in the self-pitying stages of my mourning:

“My girlfriend.  Had left me.  For her ex.”

“Wasn’t it more like…  She never left her ex?!” Taisha was relentless.  Her people back in Kenya, whose suffering seemed to fit every argument of Taisha’s making (kind of like “Confucius say” of her own invention) — her people back in Kenya “were starving to death!  That’s tragedy!”  Whatever I was going through — was just “some frivolous, American bullshit”, including my current stage of raising objections to my god (for the likeness of whom I searched the faces of mortals) and confusing pity for compassion.  But where did I get off thinking that even compassion — was my right?

Taisha was right:  A soggy tissue in hand, my face — pruned, I better resembled a moody teenager, with no other tragedy in his life but the fact that his mother was in love with another man:

“Dad?” I would slobber into the phone, after each love affair’s turn for the worse; holding back my tears, otherwise they would be an admission of my failure.  I’d call, mostly out of needing a witness to my suffering, after the heart’s each little break.  (And what if these little heartbreaks surmounted to an unrepairable damage?  Maybe I did need the name of that surgeon, after all.)  “Is mom there?”

Before getting off the phone and passing off its receiver as some sort of a parental torch, my old man would manage to wedge in a lecture:

“Are you still in LA?  Gosh, kid!  What are you doing with your life?”

Prior to my decision to migrate to the West Coast, his lectures seemed better thought-out, better practiced.  In them, I could still hear the quotation marks of my mother’s gentle voice, as dad brought out the assumptions of my motifs and breakdowns of my troubled psyche.  But with time, he began to run out of breath.  Run out of words.

“I’m speechless,” he’d say, breathing heavily into the receiver, a pummeled heavyweight ready to count down the fights left in him, until his retirement.  “I’m utterly speechless, I tell you.”

Then, why speak at all?  “Please give the phone to mom.”

Speaking to mom was always malleable.  No matter with which expectations I marched into our a conversation, mom would always, capably, receive.  “My baby,” she’d half-whisper, with teary-eyed compassion catching her voice (for that was my right!).  Mom’s love was a place of warm breaths and moldable embraces that consumed so completely, I hardly wanted to come up for air.  There were no rhetorical questions, no passive-aggressive accusations; no drastic resignations at my expense.

“I give up,” was my father’s farewell every time, especially after we received his diagnosis of a coronary artery blockage.

Mom’s heart, on the other hand, was unblocked.  It was a space at which I could flail my objections to all the injustices of love — a padded room for the non-criminally insane and the criminally heart-broken.

 

In every affair, after the clothes had been untangled off of a lover’s body enough times to establish a routine to each other’s orgasms, things would begin to settle down.  Unavoidably.  Either the expectations of the sexual fantasies evaporated, unmet in most cases; or the two lovers would find themselves tired enough to settle down, giving room to domesticity.

Could you pick-up my dry-cleaning, dear?  Can you check on our bathtub drain, hun?

Our.  By the hour (for every love affair had its timeline), things would begin changing their possessives.

But love should never be possessive.  If you love something — set it free.

Or, so I heard from that one Canadian author who’d made a fortune from tinkering with the ideas of free will and self-liberation from fear, in his books.  Now! — he emphasized — “is what matters.  Focus on the Now!”  (His philosophy hit all the right notes with the youngest culture in the world that hadn’t acquired enough past to dwell on, yet — a culture whose grudges weren’t long enough to demand forgiveness.  The year — was, still, 2000.)  I, the American lover, had the Canadian’s tape rolling around  on the floor of my car; and at yet another little break of the heart, I’d attempt to listen to it.  His voice wouldn’t hum monotonously through the speakers for three minutes — and I would begin to fall asleep behind the wheel.  Yet another sleep-walker, in LA.  Another sleep-driver.  The Canadian Zen Master instructed for me to feel Nothing! in the Now!  Instead, I would feel so much! — “My heart would explode!”

(Seriously.  What was the name of that heart surgeon?)

Eventually, one simmered down.  Settled down.  Unavoidably:

Shouldn’t we just stay in, darling?  (Be weary of sharing spaces.  A home is only as safe as the compatibility of one’s habits.)

Do you wanna just rent a movie, doll?  (Words began colliding into each other, losing their endings:  wanna, gonna, sorta, kinda.  Familiarity attacked the language from its extremities, and it worked its way in.)

One suddenly found oneself falling in (long past having fallen in love, by now); falling into the softness of comfort you think you want, but suspect you may despise.  Because, with age and enough witnessed tales, marriage became to sound like a tired story.  And even if the fantasy could be prolonged for while — exhausting in itself, with its maintenance of reality’s suspension (which required its own discipline of rituals) — one would eventually agree to share a meal after sex via shortcuts.

And so, the familiarity would begin to slip in:  with a pair of earrings left behind on a dresser or an eventual invitation to spend the night.  (Although, in my history, it would always be accidental, like my crying myself to sleep on the couch after watching a rented flick.  A tired heart.)  But therein — exactly! — I would find my favorite parts.

And even though I despised my own desire to belong (not yet!  NOT Now!), I knew that after a night of shared sleep, things would demand being specified, even if it meant their ending.  Still, I would stay:  for the sake of learning the nooks along a lover’s body, measuring my curvatures against them:  the ying to the yang, the jig to the saw.  By then, the strained politeness of one lover’s visiting another’s bed would give room to exhaustion and voyeurism.  The secretly harbored hopes that, in their actuality, the lovers would be as glamorous as they had led each other to believe, would linger.  Please let there be no runs in the stockings or mascara!  No dirty underwear, no orphaned socks!

But the unconsciousness, already unleashed by tiredness, would begin to crowd the room, treading in the footsteps of the night’s shadows and revealing the private habits of both participants.  That’s when the true intimacy, however untimely or ungraceful, would knock on the door.

 

It would always be after the washing up (“I’m just gonna rinse-off, quickly!”), both of our skins emitting the perfumes of shared supplies, that Nina would stretch out on top of the covers — a big cat baby-talking of her kitten days:

“I love baths, don’t you?” she purred.

“Ah!  That’s the smell!” the recognition would piece itself together, as I buried my nose behind her earlobe or in the small of her back, where each pore was still exhaling the heat it had endured in the water of nearly scorching temperatures.  With every pore, she breathed against my face.

When love first reared its outlines, I would want to leave, wearing her on my skin.  I succeeded, but only in that point along the timeline:  only after using Nina’s toiletries — after the familiarity, the domesticity, the intimacy of co-habitation knocked on the door.  Each lover became a mere chart of chemical elements, taken apart, and then yielded together again.

She flipped over:  “I feel safe with you.”

My darling girl.  She was younger.  Young enough to belong to the previous generation that suffered from ailments I’d never even heard of, in my time.  Learning disabilities and controversial psychological malfunctions, with acronyms instead of names.  But the young were smarter than us (as well as they’re suppose to be).  Never before had the generation gap been so gaping:  a giant jaw chomping out chunks of common ground.  These kids would be more advanced, savvier with technology — and more impatient with humanity.  They spoke a whole different language, filled with abbreviations and smiley faces.  The generation of the easily distracted and bored, and of the perpetually amused.  LOL.

And then, she would kiss me, loudly; and while her muscles melted around the bones of her back, I rested my head above her heart and traced the constellations of the beauty marks in the tides of her falling, rising, and falling again stomach; while her chest visibly vibrated, a restless heart fluttering in the confines of her ribcage.  An unblocked heart of the young.

(To Be Continued.)

“I’ll Be Home for Christmas…” I think.

It started with a text:

“Bring warm clothes.  It is f…ing COLD outside and inside.”

Thanks, motha.

No more excuses could be fabricated for my resistance to visit her part of Cali; and unlike most children, I hadn’t fantasized about “getting out of LA” — for my sanity’s sake — and going “home”, since… well, never.  Home had to be wherever the fuck I landed, for at least two decades of my life now.  I hadn’t even let myself the martyrdom shtick since 1994.  It’s just the way our family’s shit sorted itself out.  So be it, eh?

Besides, each on their own, my old folks were kinda rad:  funny and very specific.  And as far as their parental duties were concerned, they had already done one hell of a job considering my Motha’land’s continuous turmoil.

This year, though, after missing all the major holidays in the last six months AND with my plans to avoid my daughterly obligations to visit for Christmas, motha’s birthday could NOT be missed.  Well…  Actually, it could.  And it was.  I had delayed my visit by nearly a week, but bargained that, on my visit, I would deliver a few make-up gifts.  And take her out to dinner.  And bring Starbucks.

So, there I was:  Waking up early, after pulling my chronic, city-livin’ all-nighter, and immediately checking my iPhone for work emails.  Anything to delay the reality of having to get out of bed and getting my ass rolling on the 10-East.  Not once, not twice, but half a dozen times I touched base with my boss, in the morning.  Look at me:  All diligent and nearly altruistic, just mere weeks before bloody Christmas!  While washing up — thirty minutes before my originally scheduled departure time — I missed a call from motha:

“Verra!  Call me vhen you starrt drrivingg.”

Okay, motha.  Will do.

But you know what I hadn’t done today yet?  Yoga!  I’d have to do that before I leave, because my centered self drove much better through every clusterfuck related to other people’s season of hysterical shopping.  So, I did that.

Ooh, and you know what else?  I’d better wash my car too.

In the bathroom of the carwash, another missed phone call from motha lit up my phone screen.

“I’m on my way,” I lied via a text:  My ride wasn’t even getting soaped yet.  “I can be there anywhere between 1:30 and 2:00.”  (Had I noticed:  The case of my unrealistic expectations from the clocks and the traffic of LA-LA had been getting worse?!)

In another thirty minutes, I finally climbed up — then down — onto 10 East.

“DOWNTOWN 12 MINUTES” — the first sign promised.

“I suppose I could still make it by my promised deadline,” a glimpse of hope inspired me to turn on some Christmas music.  “Hey, this ain’t so bad!” I thought and attempted to whistle along.  (I don’t know how to whistle, actually, so I was more like hissing along. Yeah.  I hissed along.)

Culver and Century City zipped by me.  (Or was it in the opposite order?  I had always confused the two.)  Downtown came up on me, in all of its newly built glory, in ten minutes.  Gorgeous!  Completely white and silver, it glistened in the sun.  I checked my car’s thermometer.  Sixty six degrees?  Really?  ‘Cause inside the greenhouse underneath my sunroof, it’s feeling closer to seventy two.  And, as instructed, I was now carrying only sweaters in my suitcase.

I rolled down the windows.  No, wait!  Too much wind.  I just washed my hair and it was doing its Medusa-in-a-Horrid-Mood routine.  With just the passenger window down, though, the car began sounding like a jet plane in the midst of a turbulent take-off.  Plus the smell of dust and endless construction smacked me out of my mood.  With one whack of my fist, I turned off the jolly tune on the radio station.

Too early for Christmas, after all!  Christmas was for other people, and their children heading “home”.

But I — was a busy working girl, wedging in some premature festivities into her life, and mostly out of guilt.

Scarlett Johansson fpr Vanity Fair

The orange diamonds of construction signs were sure to come up in a few minutes and right around the dodgy part of LA-LA, I noticed I was low on gas.

“Shit.  Shoulda done that last night!”

It’s the worst habit of mine:  Procrastinating with gas by thinking that there would be more hours in the next day of LA-LA.  I examined the eroded walls of abandoned warehouses on the side of the freeway and chipping road signs, mostly in Spanish, and decided to see how long my tank would last.

The traffic wasn’t really crawling yet, but I could see a corridor of break lights for at least quarter of a mile ahead of me.  Might be a while, but as we say in the Motha’land, “Whoever doesn’t risk — doesn’t get to drink champagne!”

The itch of my badass-ness needed some background music, so I smacked the radio again.

“Blame it on the ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-alcohol,” the new station blasted.  That’ll do for now.

The merger to continue onto the 10-East looped around the graffitied walls, arid lawns and long dead flowerbeds.  With one-eighth of my gas tank, I was speeding and leaving the City — exhausted by traffic, lack of time and money, never-ending construction and unrealistic expectations of its dreamers — behind.

(To Be Continued.)

“… And Our Way Is: On The Road Again.”

Which way?

Northward.  Onward.

I leap up.  I must’ve drifted off.

I’m pretty sure I was just dreaming, redefining my stories in my resting state.  Redefining memories of my family, understanding the departures of those who were supposed to stand in — for my loves.  Remembering, memorizing, redefining my journeys.  Maybe it was a bump in the road or my road partner’s drumming on the steering wheel, but I wake up.

“Ventura?” I recognize it immediately.

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye:  “Yep.”

Seaward.

The Ocean over his shoulder is blending with the sky.  The glorious giant is calm today.  In shallow spots, it shimmers with emeralds.  A single pier jots out.  At the end of it, there sits a seafood joint that emits the smell of overcooked frying oil.  I wonder if it can be smelled under the pier, where flocks of homeless teenagers and aging hippies reconvene before the rain.

There is that white metal bridge of the railroad that runs through the town and always hums throughout the night instead of the roaring Ocean.  I should take a train up here, sometimes, for an adventure.  The traffic of LA has been long surpassed, but the cluster fuck of that two-lane Santa Barbara stretch is coming up, right around the bend.

Yep, here we go:  The perfectly manicured golf courses to the right of me and the Spanish villas flocking the greenery of the mountains gives away the higher expectations of the locals on their standards of living.  Time moves slower here, more obediently.  That’s one of the biggest expectations that money can buy.

Where to?

Northward.  Forward.

Past Seaward.

After a few more miles north, we hit the land of ranches.  Brown wooden signs with names of farms and modest advertisements for their produce begin to mark our mileage.  The mountains seem more arid here, yet somehow the land seems more prosperous.  After the yet another dry summer, the greenery is starting to come back.  It will never look like the East Coast out here.  But neither will my adventures be the same.

I keep on moving, dreaming, redefining.  I draw up maps of future trajectories, but even I know better:  That when it comes to dreams, I’ve gotta roll with it.  

A few more miles up and the wondering cattle starts to punctuate the more even greenery.  They are like commas in black ink.  The ellipses.  The horses here are more red, and they match the clay colored rocks protruding in between the green.

Were we to take the 1 Northward, the terrain would have been much prettier.  But the 101 is slightly more efficient.  Besides, if offers up a thrill of weaving in between the mountains, where the eye can easily miss all signs of rising elevation, but the ears can’t help it and plug up.  I get that same sensation when taking off in steel birds from the giant airports of Moscow, San Francisco and New York.  In those moments, whereI’ve come from seems to give room to where I’m heading.  And I continue to redefine the journey.

Lompoc comes and stays behind.  I’ve once leapt out of a steel bird here; and the fear of falling did not get to live in me, for long.  After enough falls, it would become a way of being.  Free falling was just another form of flying.

Which way?

Not downward, but onward.

Onward and free.

In fifty more miles, we reach the vineyards.  They cling to the sides of these heels like patches of cotton upon a corduroy or velvet jacket with thinning material on its elbow.  Some patches are golden.  They look harvested and ready to retire.  Others are garnet red and brown.  Above the ones that are bright green I notice thin hairs of silver tinsel in the air.

“Is that to ward off the birds?” I ask my road partner.

He answers indirectly:  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

And it is.

It is quite beautiful up here, and I am tempted to pull off the road and temporarily forget about my general direction.  Perhaps, it matters little:  As to where I’m heading and how fast.  But the way (as in the manner, and my manner is always grateful) must make the only difference in the end.

“Except, Around Hollywood and Western — We Have to Keep Doing It!”

“Oh, but everyone’s got these stories!” a man of tired compassion told me as he heard my saga of homecoming, this jolly holiday season. “I mean, after all,” he said, “this country is made entirely of immigrants!”

I wondered, as I studied his ethnically ambiguous face:  Was he East Indian, a couple of generations removed from his native land and now free from all the confines of his original tradition — to make what he could of it?  It not, how ever did he find his way into my yoga class?

Was he like me:  Tasting all religions in his youth, in hopes of finding a recipe to peace?  Some religious texts had tempted me with their poetry before; others — with their majority.  I’d always wanted to belong, so I kept looking.

Was he, like me, at liberty to pick and choose between the details of his heritage, only wearing it when most convenient for his now American identity?  Did he carry his comedy routines in side pockets:  At the expense of his immigrant and heavily accented parents, he could whip ‘em out at gatherings of curious American friends?  Did he practice the routines on paper first, or did he merely get addicted to the laughter he could cause — and so he’d work them out in public?

The evening city hummed and sparkled outside the windows.  Across the street, I could see a casting space where I had once nearly died of shame by bumping into an ex-lover from a disastrous affair.  He sat in the corner, with his giant legs stretched out ahead, sounding every bit like that one asshole actor who must practice his lines out loud, at full volume, in a waiting room filled with his competition and the rookies from Ohio.

That morning, I had announced official warfare against my acne; and my Hollywood haircut refused to cooperate at covering it.

I saw him first, pretended not to, and thankfully got called immediately.  That’s when he must’ve heard my name; because by the time I had stepped out, he was standing by the doorway.

“I thought that was you!” he said and shifted on his feet as if leaning in for a hug.

Our story was so typical, it should’ve made it into a sitcom about actors in LA-LA:  He wanted a rebound with someone with his ex’s Slavic face — another actress — and I had wanted more.

“No fuckin’ way, American buddy!” I thought.

But out loud, I said, “I’ve gotta run,” and blew my bangs out of my eyes.  He noticed the stampede of pimples across my forehead:  stubborn and multiplying.  “Another audition!  Gotta run!”

“Yeah,” he said, mesmerized by my forehead.  “Yeah.  Definitely.  But let’s do coffee sometime!”

Natalia Vodianova

Everyone’s got these stories, it is true.  My friends had all suffered, at least once, from having used someone for sex, or from having been used.  And then, we’d all scrape up our dignity to have the courage to keep showing up:  to other dates and to auditions; and to the companies of friends, where we readily whip out our comedy routines and force-feed ourselves with laughter.

To be happy here, it takes discipline.  Or some serious delusion. Some of us had had those mental breakdowns that justified our flight from this fucking place.  Others would just have an episode, go home to recover — then return for more.

The ethnically ambiguous man continued:

“I’m going home myself,” he said.  “Can you believe it’s holidays already?!”

The traffic crawled along the boulevard underneath.  Two lanes of it:  one fire-engine red, another — silver.  An eatery at the corner was glistening with Christmas lights; and reflected by the changing colors of the traffic light, its giant windows would take on different shades, at well timed intervals.  With the shimmer of the hills behind it, the city looked so pretty, suddenly.  And standing above the traffic, out of it, I thought to find it peaceful.  But then, I changed my mind.

I wanted to object to my ethnically ambiguous co-practitioner of yoga:

“It’s not your turn to speak, American buddy!”

But he had been carrying on, by then.  He’s got that story, too!

And so:  I listened.

“Hey. Hey-Hey. Hey. Hey-Hey. HEY! I’M GOOD!”

I was studying the faces of passengers on a downtown-bound subway the other night, and I thought:  Surely, these people had to be good.  Because I would much rather subscribe to the idea that the world was primarily filled with good people.  And I myself — would much rather be good, too.

(And I remember there was a man once who told me to never start a sentence with an “and”.  And I didn’t listen.  Obviously.)

I have nearly forgotten what it’s like to people-watch.  Unless on a rare occasion of some public gathering in LA-LA, one must always keep the eyes on the road.  Here, we drive, we speed; and we complain if we aren’t moving fast enough.  All the other people become mere faces which we quickly glaze over, behind the wheels of other cars, at stop signs and in the oncoming traffic:

Everyone keeps their eyes on the road.  Or on their cellphones, in the passenger seat.

Sometimes, I watch the faces reflected in my rearview mirror.  And every once in a while, I steel a gaze or a nod from the guy over in the next lane.  And that’s kind of nice.   It’s good.

 

(And I do remember:  There was a man once who told me to never start a sentence with an “and”.  And I didn’t listen.  Obviously.  And I am glad — that I didn’t.)

The accidental faces of pedestrians tend to zoom by us.  We aren’t used to them around here, unless driving through a rare public space expected to be packed with tourists.  Yet, even then, we avoid making eye contact with them, as if these people — who are most likely good — are nonexistent.  Instead, we nervously watch the quickly expiring gap to make a turn over a pedestrian walkway.  And if the guy on foot isn’t moving fast enough, we pretend not to see him and cut in front.  (Ah, shit!  What an inconvenience!)

Some pedestrians have a certain swagger around here.  They tend to live in those rare occasional spaces expected to be packed with tourists.  As locals, they tend to take their time crossing the street.  Ballsy, they make an eye contact with us, as if saying:

“What cha gonna do?  Run me ova’?!”

So, you wait, embarrassed at having caught yourself at being less than good.  And to avoid that shameful stare, you look over at your cellphone in the passenger seat.

The best thing is to wait.  Sometimes, the guy waves you over.  He’s moving on foot, and he knows he is not fast enough.  Because even when we are on the road (while not always keeping our eyes on it), we often wish to be miles ahead.  Around here, we are overwhelmed by the commitments that we continue negotiating on our cellphones in the passenger seat.

Here, we drive.  We speed.  LA-LA — is a working city, primarily.  Sometimes, we pretend to fit our lives in between; but most of us have come here to work.  And sometimes, we tend to forget that the world is still primarily filled with good people.  And that, no matter the work, we ourselves would much rather be good, too.

(And I do remember:  There was a man once who told me to never start a sentence with an “and”.  And he also told me that not everyone — was good.  And I didn’t listen.  Obviously.)

This middle-aged Mexican woman napping, with her tired head leaned against an anti-terrorism warning:  Surely, she’d put in a good day of work.  And surely, she had to be good!

The man in a construction worker’s overalls:  He looked like the guy stuck in our traffic for the entirety of his working day.  His already dark skin was filled with dust, exhaust — and exhaustion.  Because of his work, at some typical non-public space in LA-LA, there was probably more congestion on the road today.  And he watched us driving, speeding by, wishing to be miles ahead.

The businessman in a suit that lacked the sheen of a designer label:  He was staring down and a few feet ahead — in a New York subway fashion — and he wouldn’t steal as much as a gaze at a pretty girl who got on at the City College stop, at Santa Monica and Vermont.

And the pretty girl who got on at the City College stop:  Under her arm she carried a thick tome of some nursing book I myself would find impossible to decipher.  I wondered what made her choose the goodness of her future profession.  And what made her choose to be good.

And surely, these other people — on the way home from their days of good work — had to be good, too!

Because I would much rather subscribe to the idea that the world was primarily filled with good people. 

And I myself — would much rather choose to be good, too.

I Came To Win. To Fight. To Conquer. To Thrive. I Came To Win. To Survive. To Prosper. To Rise. TO FLY-AH-AH-AI!

I normally don’t do this, but after serving nearly seven years in LA-LA, I decided to skip the shortcuts the other night — and take the long way home.  It’s rare, but I felt like I had nowhere to be.  And no one — was waiting for me.

By now, I had thrown myself into a few affairs; and for while, each would fool me into thinking that my life was somehow made better:  Elevated.  And I would dash across town, using shortcuts, to get myself tangled up in my lovers’ limbs, stories, messes and hair — just so that I could get distracted from the mundaneness that happens after one starts taking her breathing for granted.

The men wouldn’t last:  They had “their own set of problems”.  They too — were serving their time in LA-A.  And they would go away, taking shortcuts out of my limbs, my stories, my messes.  My tangled hair.

So many of them had left, during the last seven years, I would start confusing my heartache for being alive.  And I would crave this chronic state of getting over a man — instead craving the love that I had never actually received.

“This one — is for the sake of the departed,” I thought when choosing my route, in my mind, while simultaneously starting up my car.

I was leaving the West Side of the city which runs in its own timezone depending on how many people are trying to get through traffic — to their own shortcuts — and into the limbs, the stories and the messes that wait for them in other distant neighborhoods.  After nearly seven years in LA-LA, I had learned how to wait out the crowds:  not because I dislike serving my time amidst humanity; but because I prefer not to do so — amidst the worst of it.

So, by the time I was choosing my route the other night — while simultaneously starting up my car — I had avoided the traffic and the worst of human behavior that comes with it.

I looked in my rear view mirror, West bound.

“Remember that departed?” I thought while seeing the neighborhood I had started to explore in a company of a man full of stories and messes.

I looped around the block, but then realized:

Love had never really lived there.

So, I got back onto Venice — and started heading East.

Venice was moving, speeding at times.  I saw the tired faces of other drivers taking their shortcuts, after serving enough time on the West Side to avoid the traffic and the worst of human behavior that came with it.  They seemed focused:  in the know.

A pretty blonde in a well-aged red Jeep seemed to sense my curious gaze, studied me for a split second:  She saw that I was meaning well, smiled tiredly and took down her hair, out of the tiny ponytail at the base of her neck.

“That’s my girl!” I thought, speeding past her in the other lane.  My windows were down:  I wanted to taste the incoming marine layer, crawling in like a giant wet tongue — and to outrun it, while heading East.  I slid open my sunroof, and the wind immediately swooshed inside.

I took down my hair.

The Melrose District came up on me quite quickly, despite my taking the long way home; and it greeted me with heavier pedestrian traffic and the smell of anything else but the Ocean.  Joggers in stylish clothing, smart enough to wait out the heat, strutted along the crooked pavements.  Pretty Jewish girls in modest, long skirts somehow reminded me of the old country.  Sporty mothers with yoga asses:  What made them flock to this ‘hood?  And girls, in gladiator sandals or sparkly stilettos, smart as whips, chasing their bargains along Melrose:

They weren’t a breath of fresh air, no; but a mouthful of something very specific.

Normally, I would take a shortcut here.  Instead, I obeyed the residential speed, turning into the less travelled streets with open-mindedness; and I let them surprise me with memories.

“And remember that one?” I thought suddenly, swinging past a lavender sign of a restaurant resilient enough to serve its time for the last seven years, in LA-LA.  I had first come here with another departed, even though love — had never really lived there.

“Or this?” I was sitting in an alley, passing a funky yoga studio in which I had once fallen for a boy.  He wouldn’t last:  He had “his own set of problems”.  And he would go away — run away, actually — taking shortcuts out of my life.

I took the long way home.  I never planned for it, but after serving seven years, here — has become my home.  And history was written everywhere.

I’m Much Prettier — in LA

Let me paint you a picture, my comrades:

Still jet-lagged since my departure from LA-LA Land half a week ago, every ungodly hour of the morning, I’ve been treading my home ground of Man’s-Hattan on foot:  either in running shoes or 6-inch heels.  Whenever reuniting with my people here, I observed their beloved faces, blotchy-red and frozen, emerge from the ice-covered cabs or appear from behind the swamp-green gates of the Subway.  They defrosted their bodies in my embraces; their darling hands—on cups of hot water and coffee or while groping tea lights at perpetually packed bars; and injected their blood with red wine:  anything to escape the cold.

“What do you mean:  You’re walking?” they lisped when saying their goodbyes outside, droplets of their breath freezing on every syllable and hitting the pavement between us like hail.  Then, they ran for cover while I watched the City eat up their bodies.  Oh how many of my loves this Island has swallowed!  Despite the MAN in its name, this City must be a woman—a woman of exceptional beauty, with a boudoir full of addicting potions and perfumes and custom-made, designer frocks.  It took the Bitch less than 48 hours to enter my system, and before I had the chance to miss the vast real estate of the West Coast—She was in my blood stream.  So, how can I possibly blame my beloveds for committing to Her for life? 

But this morning, the temperatures dropped even more:

“How do you like me now?” the indifferent Bitch arched her eyebrow at me. 

Oh, but I do!  I do. 

This morning, while my host was still stretching her model-esque Mediterranean body in bed next to me, I took off—in my pink-and-silver running shoes and my Little-Red-Riding-Hood hat.  (In my defense, the rest of me was still clad in black!)  Past the pale and ghostly faces of the natives I jetted, still immune to the cold treatment by the Bitch.  An occasional dog-owner trotted past me, dragging his or her animal’s frozen corpse through the snow.  No other jogger was anywhere to be found.  My toes tapped along the Island’s brown skin—”I-do, I-do, I-do”—never slipping on any traps of black ice or dog shit.  I flew, utterly in love with my old flame.  Accidental pedestrians looked at me askance:  “She must insane.”  But they’re used to oddities around here, and I am finally grown-up enough to not mind being one. 

My breakfast?  A shot of nuclear, jet black espresso and a granola bar laced with dark chocolate—the pleasure of the minimum.  As I strutted down 7th Ave., I chomped down my breakfast of champions with utter satisfaction and stubborn joy.  A brown man at a bus stop faced North, and, after noticing my inconvenient intrusion on his privacy, mumbled to himself.  Oh you, another sufferer, an incident away from loosing your shit—never mind me!  I took the last mighty bite out of my bar (or rather shoved one-third of it into my mouth, smearing its chocolate on my lips and chin).      

“You’re very beautiful, ma’am,” the stranger suddenly spoke up, traces of old-fashioned grace and Southern accent reigning over his vocabulary.  This entire time, he must’ve been mumbling to me!

Startled, I covered my mouth with my mitten, and struggled to relieve my tongue from the grainy texture.  “Shank you,” I manage to say. 

The brown stranger nodded, in seemingly sincere awe, and when I passed him, said:  “Oh my god:  Beauty.”

This—was the first flirtation I’ve encountered here.  So bogged down by hard life, poor diet, lack of time and space the men of the Island appear, none have made a pass at me so far.  There’ve been a few arousing and mysterious glances from the tall, dark strangers in bars; but no phone number requests—or offers.  Even to catch a cab, my unbuttoned coat and exposed leg no longer did the trick:  I’ve had to leap under its wheels, Anna Karenina style, in order to hail one. 

(Just the other day, I’m on Lex and 45th, when the Bitch decided to jumpstart a snow flurry.

“Need a ride?” a sickly looking driver of a yellow cab asked through the rolled-down window.  I considered for a moment and nodded.  Fuck it:  Let’s party it up, even if I am only four blocks away.

“Where to?” he asked me once I situated my floor-length black coat on his back seat. 

“Broadway.  Thanks.”

His eyes, under an awning of a uni-brow, examined me in the rear-view mirror for a moment, and then he said:  “No.”

“‘Cuse me?”  I couldn’t believe the fucker!  He picked me up!

After another moment of silence and another glare, he negotiated:  “Twenty dollars then.”

Half-a-blink of an eye—and V’s new-agey, Californian pleasantries evaporated:  “Fuck you:  I’ll walk!”)

But the brown stranger this morning made me fantasize about the possibility of dating in New York again.  I’ve thought about it, and to quote the uni-browed taxi driver, I must say:  “No.”  Even though back in LA-LA, I’ve often been guilty of being that ass-hole New Yorker reminiscing about the City she left behind, I would not want to be single in Manhattan.  Besides the lack of personal space, overcrowded commute, miniscule apartments and lack of sanitary bathrooms in which to fix one’s make-up, I would not be able to put up with the competition.  By that, I don’t even mean competition with other women.  I mean:  Competition with the Island—the Bitch of my own bitter-sweet addiction.  Surviving Her is difficult enough, for either gender.  But if I had to figure out how to notice a Nice Guy in a unanimously black-clad crowd, or in an overstuffed restaurant; or how to read him past the stress lines and the furrowed brows; or how to decipher a flirtation in an innocent greeting or a rare compliment—I would most likely lose my mind.  But then, again:  I don’t mind being odd.