LA has been divorced from whimsy.Droves of displaced people appeared in every corner of the 44 miles of the city. Whether house-less or homeless, think about what that means. Everyone is an occupation or lack there off. Day time jobs dont count in the corner of the bar , only zodiac signs, aspirations and things most can't live off of like talent. Quantified little cul de sacs of being. It became easier that way, to anticipate betrayal or love. Silent judgments arose in me, I didn’t even know I was judging until I started to move in a way to lose people in a crowd. Los Angeles was a city of the starved whether it be attention, love, or food. I don’t know when I became my job, but it happened after I got one I was proud of. Litters of little proud moments slip out, some stories of romance others of heroism emerge over shared silence, wine, weed, and in between the bumming of cigarettes. The land of the free had various Gods, chaperoning decisions. At the heart I could see written on most peoples faces a desire to do good. To do something good- to be something good. I don’t think Hollywood’s promises will ever fade from the western imagination or be fulfilled by the global intellect.
Caught between the thoughts of myself and others somewhere in a bar, with low red humming lights and the rumble of a band I don't really care to listen to. A voice whispers “Have you ever been in love?”, “No.” I say with no thoughts. It's so easy to lie about love. I have been in love and I want to talk about it now. I remember it was terrifying. I remember when he described my art as a “rapture” once, I had to google it.He redefined it for me— a feeling of intense pleasure or joy. Its always been framed as the beginning of the end. the end of being alone didn’t cross my mind. I don’t know if it was really love. I still love him in whatever mossy way I feel about the word. Young and still learning the weight of my actions. It was all stupid, surreal, and sardonic. He read to me in the back of a Ford fairlane with hard plastic seats. He read a book about amputated limbs and lost love, but I can't remember the name. He showed me how to look at the moon, kissed me to shut me up, cupped my face in a way to remind me I had one. Peppered my face with kisses, I was always so resistant to being beautiful— especially then. It is such a strange space that lives in me. Our secret sharing of the same road doesn't help. 5 moles on his face, one on the cheek, another below the eye, another somewhere near his jaw. I can't remember the exact arrangement to match the 5 on my body, 2 under my arms , a tiny one tucked right below my eyebrow, 2 more that I won't disclose. I looked for his eyes in others, for years. We read each other’s minds, we had lived cities apart, with common childhood friends houses apart. We loved the same song covered by a different artist, Forever Dolphin Love. Our lives delicately traced the same ley lines, a cadence mirrored in the way he traced my palms. I can’t hate him no matter how much I’d like- I’ve tried. I hated me for loving him, I hated me for hating him. Loving him— I know I was supposed to. Suppose , I was supposed to? Makes it easier to let go, the idea of fate. I still remember his arms crossed looking at me over a car door, or when he sent me “This Boy”by Hiroshi Satoh. Whenever I see someone fill his stencil, I think I'm in love again. He made brown eyes rare but I saw little pieces of them everywhere like warm honey , carnelian, or orange sunsets. But it wasn't really love, it wasn’t really anything. I think that’s what makes it so sweet.