Little girl, Big City

7:30am 1.19.12

Scene: a bedroom in a spooky historical loft, just outside of downtown Los Angeles

Yesterday was a doozy.  I went to bed early and woke up even earlier than usual.  I pinged the dark horse to say hello.

“Hi.”

“Hey there sexy.”

“How was your day?   You weren’t on all day.”

“Yeah it was good.  What did I do?  Oh went out drinking again.”

“No drunk text messages.”

“Yeah I know.  Next time.”

I told him about the disaster of my evening last night.

“I wanted to participate in a poetry reading yesterday and I got stuck with car crap.”

We talked more in private.  Things that maybe if I decide to tell you, you will know.

“I have flaws.  I am not perfect.” he said.

“I know.  But thanks for reminding me.”

“You need reminding.” he laughed.

“Don’t worry.  I’ll probably use them against you when I feel is appropriate and to my advantage.  Because I have a vagina and all that.”

“What are my flaws?”

“I’m not mad at you right now so…”

We talked more.  He teased.  I taunted back.

“You don’t want to be my sex prisoner? I will give you a metal bikini and chain you to my bed like I was in a Star Wars movie.”

“My hair isn’t long enough to braid like that.  So I guess that won’t work.”

“Wig.”

“Oh so you’re going to send me wigs now?  Fabulous!  You have my address.  You can send more flowers too.  Pretty please?”

He wanted to trade something.  Something that if we hadn’t had a six year long history I might have been off put by it.  Something a bit higher in a demand list than a guy I went out with once had asked on that first date.  Well, almost.  But that’s a different story.

“Not fair.”

“So fair.  You do that and you get presents.  You can juggle all the guys you want.  With me as safety, trips, dinners, presents.”

That was so not fair of him to say.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s an exciting invitation. And, quite frankly, I might be a bit crazy for not taking it and running with it.  He’s my best friend.  He’s been there in the background for years.  I never gave him a real chance when he was local but he always makes a point to see me when he comes home.  I’ve had an open invitation to travel Europe with a man whom adores me… and yet here I am, happily dating one failed romance after another, without a passport and not taking him up on that.

“How far is Dresden from you?”

“Far.  Prague is closer.”

“Someone sent me a postcard from there.  The water looks so close to the houses.  Darling will you send me to Peru?”

“No I want to go to Columbia.  I hear it’s awesome.  Plus lots of h0t Columbians.  Hot Columbians and jungle and coke.”

“But dear there’s mummies in Peru!  I want to get a hat and whip and pretend I’m the girl Indiana Jones!”

“Go to Egypt for that.  It’s closer to me.”

“Take me?

“Maybe.”

Happily ever after… is here whenever I decide to go into the after.  This just doesn’t seem real.

8:30pm 1.12.12

Scene: a bar at an artist colony, Lincoln Heights

She had skin like honey and a shine that resided like a warm glow on her face.  I’d met her online.  She also, had a few not quite secrets as well as friends in common.

“I was thinking either tonight we could go to art walk or we could have a drink at this bar at the artist colony I used to live at.” I texted her from work.

“Either way, you pick!”

I was really looking forward to meeting her.  I don’t date girls that often.  Not because I don’t want to or I have a preference.  It’s just because while I’m normally fairly confident… let’s face it I still am scared shitless of girls.

We got a couple of beers and sat on the couches underneath a projection screen.

“There’s a story about that.”

“There is?”

“There are many stories.  The people here are amazing.  The Brewery is an experience in itself.”

I told her my tale about how I ended up there.  Perhaps in a later post, I will tell you as well.

“What is it you’re looking for?”

“Stability.  Independence.  To travel.”

“What’s holding you back?”

“Money mostly.”

Ah the telltale sign of an artist.  I know it all too well.

“I’m going to Germany this year.” I told her nonchalantly.

“When?”

“May tentatively.  I’m also trying to take part in an opportunity to collaborate with other artists on a project in New Orleans in March.  Travel is there.  The opportunities are too.  You just have to keep your eyes open to the possibilities and not be afraid to grab them when they come about.”

We talked about happiness.  We talked about despair.   I was ever so nervous.  She was ever so lovely.

“Pardon me if this is too forward, but I want to see you again.” I said partway through the evening.

“I want to see you again too.”

We had a great time.  She was a sweetheart.  She drove me home around midnight.  As we were leaving, I had a feeling something was off but it had nothing to do with her.  After I walked into my apartment I felt it too.

Shit. Where the fuck is my phone?

8:45 pm 1.1.12

Scene: a partitioned room in a spooky historical loft, just outside of downtown Los Angeles

“I’ve never seen this.  Is it good?”

“Yeah.  Do you want to watch it?”

“Sure.”

“I’m sorry I’m so exhausted today.”

I’d slept in the car on the way here back from San Diego.  My medication had hit me hard down there.  Add to that our late night out in San Diego with him pampering me and the buzz of Hollywood to buy some underwear for the No Pants Train Ride next weekend, and I had headache.

“If you give us your email, we have all kinds of exclusive parties…” the counter attendant at Frederick’s of Hollywood had told me.

“I’m a downtowner.  I’m not a fan of Hollywood.  But thank you.”

We’d driven back to my place.  It was going to be something quiet for now.  We’d get dinner later.

We laid in bed and just watched Ghost World. Of all the places that I could have been for the weekend.  Of all the people beyond family that I could have been with, I’d chosen him- the dark prince of my past.  The dark prince of my… ever constant.

He was due to leave back overseas the next day.  Our time together was very limited.  We could have been parading about the town tonight.   But this was comfortable.  This was something that… I am still not sure how to define even after all of these years.  Even after all of this history.

“What time is it?  Did you want to get something to eat?”

“We can go when this is over.  I’m in no rush.  This is just kind of… for lack of a better word… nice.”

He kissed my forehead and held me tighter.

“Yes it is.”

6:49pm 12.21.11

Scene: a bar in an artist colony, Lincoln Heights

“I’m taking a trip to New Orleans.” I told him as he handed me my regular brew.

“Where? What district?”

“I’m not sure.  I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“Well what hotel are you going to be staying at?”

“Another one I’m not sure about.  I’m thinking about visiting friends.. and maybe him.  Where should I go?”

He retreated to another side of the bar and helped someone else only to return a few moments later with a pen and a piece of paper.

“Here.  Also write down Elizabeth’s, Frady’s and Stella’s.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.  When are you going?”

“Not until next year.”

He walked away again.  I looked at my phone to check the time.  My friend should be here any minute.  In my messenger bag there are multiple notebooks currently.  Each one of them has its own series of stories.  I got the two books at the same time- on that Strawberry Sunday.  One was to be professional and the other was to be creative.  Corporate and creative have met many times.  With one of my moves, the red notebook became stashed in a bin.  I had no clue where it had gone… until I’d found it this weekend.

“I want to show you something.” I told him as I pointed to a page in the red notebook.  A section of it had been devoted to journal pieces written this summer.

“What is it?”

“Read the top line.”

He grabbed the book and began to thumb through it.

We laughed and talked some more.  He gave me the book back.

“This book is about you.” I told him.

“No it’s not.  It’s about you.”

He walked away as a text came in.  I drank my beer and thought about things some more.  About how honest the pages in that red notebook were.  About it’s initial purpose being an art piece.  About how it’s evolved.

On the front of this cover is an emblem stamp.  Looking closer you can see that it is two people kissing.  It is a tale that may never grace the inside of that notebook.

This is not a love story but it is a story I write about the life that I love.

130pm 5.5.11

Scene: a parking lot outside a convenience store, Lincoln Heights

“The interview went really well.” I told my friend as I got into the car.  It was dreadfully hot outside and I was near the point of heat stroke.  Thankfully, home wasn’t far away.

“Awesome.  When will you know?”

“Soon. Give me a second I’m driving.”

I backed up the car as a classic burgundy mustang zipped in.  It was too late.

I got out and talked to the other driver.  It couldn’t have come at a worse time.  My car insurance had lapsed.  He was calm about it and was willing to work with me.

I took a deep breath and got back into my car. I turned left out of the parking lot and eased my way into the intersection to turn left again.

In the opposite direction is a bit of an incline.  It is not uncommon for people to fire down this piece of road enroute to the freeway.

As I looked to check if it was clear it felt as if time sped up.  The next few seconds could have been hours.  A car veered and screeched its tires behind me to turn left.  Another car next to me blurred on the other side.  The next thing that I saw was the van.

I got out of the car and talked to everyone.

“Is everyone ok? Is everyone ok.”

A family appeared and walked around.  Everyone nodded their heads that they were alright.  Everyone.. except him.

“Why the fuck did you hit my cousin’s car?”

2:00pm 10.19.2011

Scene:  The Brewery Artist colony, Lincoln Heights, just outside downtown LA

The rains came and washed over the old Brewery in waves of downpour and speckled silence.  The sky lit to a vacant shade of white.  Is it irony in the former Pabst Blue Ribbon brewery yet again?  Or just coincidence.

The canvas of the sky commanded to be painted and the girl searched her soul for the ways to do it.

I was stir crazy.  The job search had been arduous.  The path to my destiny felt unanswered but I was relatively disaffected by it all.

How could someone be so lost and yet found at the same time?

As the rains came down that day I laid on the concrete floor of my friend’s loft and dreamed dreamed dreamed.  I couldn’t bear it anymore.  I had to get out.

I grabbed my coat, a notebook, and a pair of purple polka dot galoshes.  The world and I were going to have a chat.

I walked around the grounds and explored.  The orange red of the rust covered buildings became even more vibrant as it pressed on.  As I pressed on without a care in the world but the weight of the world.

The rains poured on me.  There was no sunshine.  None of it mattered.  Nothing mattered.  All there was was dancing in between those raindrops- if nothing more than in my mind’s eye.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

An overcoming wave of peace washed over me as the world whispered an answer as simple as that white backdrop.

“This is your canvas.  Do with it as you will.”

10:49pm 12.7.11

Scene:  The Brewery Artist colony, Lincoln Heights, just outside downtown LA

“I have to go get the bus back now.  It was good seeing you guys.  I’ll talk to you more about the party on Friday.”

“Do you want someone to stand with you?”

“Yeah.  That’d be nice having some company on the corner with a strange man.  It sounds like something my father would totally approve of.”

We packed up our things and walked down the atrium stairs to the bus stop across the street.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?  It’s cold.”

“Just give me a smoke and we’re good.”

I looked in my bag.  All I had were the last smokes left in two boxes of cloves.

“I guess you get lucky.  All I have are the last of my cloves.”

We stood there about ten minutes.  We talked about the suited gent.  We talked about our friends we’d just left.  We talked about politics and yadda yadda yadda yadda.

Ten minutes well spent.

“Where would you be if you weren’t at the Brew?” I asked him.

“I’d probably leave LA then.”

“How’d you end up here?”

“I didn’t know where else to go. I don’t know where else I’d go if I left.  I lack another destination.”

And that’s how I’ve come to realize that it is for many a soul at the Brewery.  There’s something truly capturing about that former Pabst Blue Ribbon brewery that’s creeps up and embeds a home in the hearts of these misfit toys.  It’s the comfort of good friends that will be there standing beside you for a bus at a late hour in the evening.  It’s the comfort knowing that whenever you walk outside your apartment you will most likely run into one, if not multiple people that inspire you.  It’s the warmth of a community that you can spend hours exchanging ideas, collaborating, learning, and evolving with.

This world of artistry is magic in itself.  It is its own island.  And, after you’ve had that kind of experience, it’s hard to go back.  Perhaps, that’s why even though I no longer live here, I still do.

Because no where else will do.