Tuesday, September 20, 2005

When one lives in Los Angeles, one inevitably spends a lot of time in transit. This is an unfortunate aspect of life in a city of sprawl, but it has its perks. Whether walking (which no one does, by the way. I used to walk to work from my old place in Hollywood, a 30 minute walk, and people were incredulous), driving, or bussing, time rather stops during the journey from point A to point B. I spend my transit time thinking about the city, which is interesting since I spend most of my other time—while working, eating, laughing, sleeping—thinking about whether or not to leave it. But while in transit—these days, in the car—I reflect on LA a lot. Mostly with how huge it is, but also how full of possibility it is.

There is a lot of room for dreams in this city. Certainly, there are the big ones—those who want to make their money and their fame making movies and music, but for every kid with stars in her eyes is one who is here to make a life. I haven’t figured out my dream LA scenario yet, but I like to try them on. Am I Canyon girl, hiking down to market for a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine? A West Hollywood groupie, spending my evenings on the sidewalk cafes of the center of the queer community in LA? A lazy Santa Monican, jogging on the beach and enjoying heaping brunches on Main Street? Or am I a Valley girl, embracing the relative peace and quiet and easy living of life over the mountain? Or might I be more at home in Silverlake with the cool kids and hipsters? Or in Westwood, the artificial college town that UCLA calls home? None of the above is the real answer, but somehow in LA, a choice must be made. Each neighborhood is different, and the city is so large and traffic so bad, that adopting multiple neighborhoods seems logistically impossible. Right now I have no home base. Valley doesn’t quite fit, but Hollywood wasn’t perfect either. I like Westwood, but don’t feel at home there. Santa Monica is nice, but too far away from everyone else. And Silverlake’s hipsters—not my style. In the car, driving through these different neighborhoods, I can picture myself in all of them, and yet picture myself in none of them. So instead of choosing, I live the scenarios in my head and put off decisions until later. Which really is why I’m still sleeping on the floor. I would move, but moving requires picking a neighborhood, and picking a neighborhood requires picking an identity—and right now, that’s out of the question. I’ll drive around and think about it. In which direction is anyone’s guess.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

So I have moved out of the boys' place and moved in with my friend from university. I do thank the boys' for their hospitality, but it was time to move on to a new couch. The new place is in the valley, which I thought I was anti but am actually not. It is actually quite peaceful and nice.

We just ate some Club crackers and once you chew them up they taste like a biscuit. Heather is terrorizing the cat. Cats are alright. I prefer dogs. Like my one in Virginia. Speaking of Virginia--what a great state. Much better than California. Grumpier Old Men is on the television. It's funny. I love Jack Lemmon and Walter Matheau. Too bad I don't want to have anything to do with movies anymore except watch them. Is funny, how you can love love love something but hate hate hate all that goes into making it. Have I mentioned that yet? The entertainment industry is blahhhhhhh. I am glad I figured this out now instead of living in some city and harboring dreams of being a television writer my whole life. No way. I am not willing to sacrifice all my time for something as ridiculous as a TV show, even though I am more than willing to devote hours each week to savoring said TV shows.

Sigh. I'm out.

Monday, September 05, 2005

Our lease is up. The boys have moved out of the Hollywood apartment and have settled into their new pad across town. I, too, have packed up and shipped out, also to the boys’ new place, though my things are still packed up and stashed in a corner, awaiting a final destination, and I am crashing on their couch.

I have spent the past weeks in various degrees of self-loathing and self-pity. I have no home, a car that barely works, a job that doesn’t pay and is rotting my brain, and no plan or dream for the future. I am paralyzed by indecision. This is unfortunate and upsetting. On the other hand, I have a job, friends to stay with, means to fix my car, and, not to get too cliché, but let’s go there, my life and that of my friends and family intact. I’ve been playing the relativity game this week, flashing back from a browser opened to pictures of the newly homeless in mass shelters to one listing apartments that I can’t afford.

I am taking myself too seriously, and I don’t know how to get out of my funk—I feel like I need to do something for someone—volunteer in a hospital or tutor kids or work in a shelter, something that isn’t about me. But then I pause, and try to figure out what I’d like to do, who I’d like to help, and it’s a whole new existential crisis. It’s cumbersome, and I’m over it. A few days ago, I was up and ready to head to the Gulf States to help out—though with no skills specific to healing bodies, repairing shattered lives, or rebuilding devastated towns, the extra mouth to feed most certainly wouldn’t be worth it for the agencies helping out. So here, I suppose, is a manifesto for myself, published here so that I might not forget about it in the morning. I am going to make some changes. I am going to find a place to stay, even if just temporarily to get me off the boys’ couch. I am going to chill out. And, I am going to start keeping a proper blog.

In our first issue: gather knowledge and give out money. The Washington Post ran a really upsetting but insightful article-- "A Nation's Castaways"—analyzing the class and race issues that are perpetuating the devastation from the hurricane. Check it out. And Amazon makes it easy to donate to the Red Cross’s Hurricane Relief Efforts. I’m donating the bounty from giving up my $4 a day coffee habit.