I ache for Los Angeles, the city of angels, of family and friends and lovers from another lifetime. A home like no other to me. A place of searing heat and the relentless crash and roar of waves upon my body dancing on the sand. A city hidden under a perpetual layer of smog and dusty clouds that we create and consume. A land of poisoned air and water, a toxicity that electrifies us til we are brilliant creatures, starlit exotic wonders glimmering in the night. Los Angeles with its freeways like so many arteries and veins pumping its precious denizens for miles and miles to see sunsets and marble museums on hilltops and canals under periwinkle skies. Los Angeles, land of perpetual sunrise and sunset and adventure. Metamorphosis into an irresistible Medusa, hair writhing in the wind as I travel 60, 70, 80 miles down freeways and through neighbourhoods. Purgatory in standstill traffic, the collective sigh and drum of fingers on steering wheels like the frantic, carnal heartbeat, dying dance of one million soldiers. Sun flooding into windows performing alchemy turning alabaster into bronze and gold.
There are very few things I am good at in life, but staying up too late is one of them.
to sleep until noon and only emerge from your room for a bowl of soup. To listen to new music and stay silent. To remind yourself how many moments can pass where it’s needless to say a single word.
I want you
like autumn leaves crave winter
like a canyon seeks a river
like a wick yearns for a flame.
— The Cuckoo’s Calling, Robert Galbraith
I am not an unpredictable person. I find comfort in small rituals that help me pretend there is some semblance of order in the ever increasing entropy of our lives. I am easy to read. By the unwilling up and downwards movement of my eyelids, the way my pupils dilate and contract upon certain words that unlock fury, terror, love, and anguish. I am simple when you reduce me to the bits and pieces of my being. In the way I laugh and smile and in the way hot tears steadily burst forth from my eyes when the world grows a bit too heavy to bear. But your ability to predict my actions does not mean you have a right to think you know me. Your recognition of my myriad symptoms does not mean you know the dark and hidden places so tightly wrapped in flesh and bones and wild gestures.
I want to be far away from here and where I was and just be where I’m meant to be.
I want needles in my skin
leaving black mark ink maps of the stories I have to tell.
I want shining, glimmering metals and jewels adorning my body like so many stars.