Little girl, Big City

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?

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.

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.