This is such a difficult place to leave. I had trouble coming to terms with coming here but now I am having trouble thinking about what LA has come to mean to me.
Why is it that I inevitably write love letters to Los Angeles? What is it about this place that captures us so tenaciously?
I went up to my roof to smoke (even though I’m not supposed to), and with the new chill in the air, I became awash in the memory of the first weeks I spent in this building, in awe of the view I had, of the fact that I’d gone and moved to a tiny studio apartment in a city, of being here and writing. Life wasn’t so crazy then– I spent a lot more time on that roof, a lot more time randomly writing by candlelight when fluorescent lights hurt my eyes, I even took hot baths. I was in heartbreak-recovery-mode and I had to do those things or I would have gone completely insane.
Now I’m facing a different kind of insane. I feel like The Clash just keeps playing over and over in my mind when I think about all the plans I’d made to satisfy my wanderlust. I’m torn. It’s not as though I really have to make a decision any time soon or that any decision I make would banish me from this place, but a part of me doesn’t want to lose my place in the story of Here.
Maybe I’ve just dreamt up some sense of purpose for myself here in order to avoid leaving this newfound comfort zone.
Just over a year ago I thought I was going to leave southern California, probably forever, and I didn’t. There was something to be found here, I think. My sanity? No, that’s still lost, and it doesn’t need to be found.
A different muse. Maybe.