Waking

I am in Los Angeles with a restless mind thats tag teaming between despair and a freaky confidence that emerges when things seem to fall apart. I have two purifiers going, a humidifier, ac blasting, and am refreshing my emails which are mostly about how there is a discount on barre classes right now! If I don’t get snatched through this period in history then… crap. Never has my mind been so vulnerable to a good deal. A materialist hunger grows when things feel out of control. A meaningless amazon beauty tool, endless supplements to solve my mental health, or how about I go on a very restrictive diet and keep myself occupied that way. Sure, whatever, sweetie.

My congestion feels like cement up my nostrils and my throat is tight like its choking on itself. I still have my silver christmas tree up and a wreath on the door. I am embarrassed by both and refuse to let them go, a stubborn demand for some joy in this world, god damn it. We deserve a second christmas. And better yet, I deserve someone to slowly give me the information on this Blake Lively/ Justin Baldini? drama that I know nothing about. I need a man to sit down across from me (preferably early 40s, undeservingly authoritative) stare into my eyes with his legs spread (hes wearing pants/ regular, respectable grey slacks.) and just tell me what the hell is going on with that Blake Lively thang. Is it serious? Should I change the locks on my door?

I would also love to stop all this pre-cum business with the drones. I started taking drone footage myself in the desert and had to slap myself out of it. No, I am not gonna be hoisted away by the waist of my Zara pants into a spaceship out of firey California. Just forget about it for now and focus on something else. Maybe develop a new skill that could help you when, you know, eveything collapses.

I spent the night dreaming about recommending Altadena as a place to move to, as though the fires didn’t happen. I talked about how much of a respite it is, how full of healing magic, and small town sweetness. In the dream I was spelling out how big of an adjustment it would be from living in Los Feliz to moving there. I wish I could recall what points I made. I’m happy to have lived in this city long enough to have such strong opinions even though they’re baked in my own past here and projections. “That side of town sucks!” *where I spent time as an addicted nightmare of myself. “West Hollywood rules!” *where I found a lot of joy at a certain age.

The dream ended and I woke up to pee after the Nyquil wore off. After Nyquil sleep ends, around 2 am, I feel like I’ve drank espresso and should be riding a bicycle around a parking lot or running errands at the Grove for a high powered stylist that deals with KTLA hosts. My task? Grab a cobalt blue peplum shirt at Nordstroms and a man’s burgundy tie within twenty minutes or you’ll have to profusely apologize to Tasia, a blonde with watery eyes and unnaturally stiff straight peroxide hair who always has goosebumps on her forearms. In that 30 minute window of Nyquil drain, life feels like an easy A to B puzzle. Then, I’m drawn back into a less drugged sleep that invites every nuance and complexity to stir up again. I wake in the morning, confused about my priorities during the wee, grumbling start of a revolution.

Hal, my cat, sleeps wedged up close to my chest. His personality has shifted this month. His playfulness isn’t there. He demands his food like I have a conspiracy to starve him. He sleeps most of the day and seems to know his role is to sleep close to me at night. He isn’t snuggly, more like a parent reluctantly letting their too old child sleep in bed with them so that they wont have a tantrum. He rests all day to balance out the energy of a stressed household.

I am returning to my substack after a hiatus of not feeling particularly drawn to writing sentences into what can sometimes feel like a void, no matter how filling and kind responses are. Meta has brought me back here. My grief and love has brought me back here.

I am so grateful for everyone I know and love in Los Angeles. A truly, beautiful, mysterious place that has shaped, changed, and raised me in my adulthood. I can’t comprehend the devastation of peoples homes, businesses, and lives being lost. Writing about an emotional processing of something I wasn’t directly impacted by besides evacuating feels trite. I keep returning to the story of the mother with the broken arm who couldn’t save her son. The unraveling heartbreak that this town is feeling should be respected, leave behind the capitalist chug, and feel bolstered by community.

The moon looked so David Lynch-esque the night after he died. Fast black clouds moved in front of a glowing white waning gibbous moon face. It looked like it was designed by him.

I do not have any insights worth sharing about anything right now, but there is a need to roll up my sleeve, submerge my arm into the water, and look for a hand that wants to hold mine. And if this is you- Hi. I am sending you love