I’ve seen the lives of miserable, asleep people, lives spent running around for naught – and they think the dream is real.
I did too. At times, I look back and wish I had taken a different course, wish I hadn’t played the game so long; but alas, I loved the game: I loved every squarefoot of hardwood floor and every dollar of premium fuel I burned. I loved chasing a life judged as successful by others and I enjoyed the approval – until it was gone and I was alone again without so much as that sweet, tenderhearted girl with perfect, Nymphet’s feet looking after me. Good riddance, she surely felt. Sour, hard, bitter candy of the heart. The salty, dejected, lonely scorn of love departed so tough to forget.
I suppose mourning comes in stages; however, I’m no Young Werther; I’m moving on: The City of Angels lures me forth with the siren’s promise of immortality and the potential to fulfill my infantile (born yet not realized) dreams – dreams, which ignored would cause me a more sorrowful demise than a thousand lost loves.
Thankfully, I’m fairly unconcerned with love – that itch having been perfectly scratched in my twenties, and the scars still healing – besides, love is nothing compared to the promise art offers. Love offers fleeting joy between two persons. Art offers the artist and the world a solace that can never be taken away.
A book wants nothing. A beautiful painting demands nothing. Artists give the public a bit of their souls – whether troubled or pure, wise or foolish; either way, we look upon art and – intentionally or not – we learn about life: art as mirror for the ego. Of the forty or so books I’ve read this year, I regret none; although, a few I could not get into – but having given myself a literary education of sorts, I at least know quite precisely why. Let’s just hope this all makes sense. All this sacrifice. All this love. All this passion made way for.
I am turning thirty in four days. I want to wear all black and have a wake for my twenties. Frankly, I don’t really care to do much. I just want to leave ——— soon and return to LA. I left there three years ago after nine months in Milwaukee, but I was only six months in LA (Koreatown and Hollywood) before I fell in love on vacation down here. Three years later: the girl gone, the vacation over.
Technically I’ve been back – living for a time in Hermosa, but it wasn’t real LA; Hermosa is like San Diego North, and for that reason I hated it. I miss real El Lay: taco trucks, Piano Bar, 24 Hour Fitness on ——–, Runyon, Larchmont, K-Town, hell, I even miss The Grove.
I can’t wait to go back and to stay for as long as it takes. It feels so good knowing I am.
Being in my hometown is too much. There’s too much psychic baggage inherent to a place you grew up. The other day I went to Joe’s Crab Shack just to go somewhere anonymous – just to feel anonymous. I can’t even find a good restaurant here I haven’t taken an ex to. I like a life of newness. I’m all for routine, but I’m done here.
El Lay, I miss you more than I miss my first love. Please embrace me as you did before, as she did again. Do so, and I will give you my art. I will love you. My home. My muse.