golden state

Rediscovering subway rides and ears full of music, the pleasure of a view as it races by in blur.

Moving through, moving past. Velocity, once again.

Los Angeles, CA // August 2014

first day, first night


A front stoop. The snake-like green loops of a garden hose. A brown and thirsty front yard. New noises. New smells. The best light coming late in the afternoon, almost like a afterthought. Trails of ants. Corner nests of spiders. Flocks of parrots, my morning wake up call. I’m discovering this new home…slowly. Making my peace with it, slowly. It’s been full of strange surprises.

I’m not sure what it means to stay outside of a place you’re inhabiting. Not letting your guard down. Simply biding time.

Experiencing, but not embracing. Unpacking, but not settling in.

I’m living from my office, from my car, from a suitcase, from the road. Home is a place to hang my clothes. Someplace to sleep a quick night. Home has become a place I’m moving through, touching on, like some lucky stone in my pocket. It doesn’t mean what it once did.

There was a time in my life when I thought I knew what it meant to feel a sort of homelessness. Home-less-ness. I thought it meant the absence of address. To be without walls, without things. But I understand it differently now.

A sense of belonging is a sneaky, fickle thing. It jumps out from your grasp as soon as you think you have it down. A place is familiar, but suddenly strange. It’s full of your things, but you don’t quite fit in. How can this be, I keep asking.

Home, now:

my favorite pair of black boots. A leather jacket. A few moments alone at the end of each day. The long drive down the freeway each night. A stack of plays to read. Fingers full of stone rings. A large black bag heaped daily over my shoulder and the things tumbling messily within.

give and take

Discovering new wrinkles and folds, new shades of light and shadow. Wrestling with a new sense of home.

Los Angeles, CA // August 2014

other desert cities

Twenty four hours in the desert with a trunk full of groceries, too much on my mind and a perfect driving companion. We had dinner outside under dark stars and fell asleep in side-by-side beds, like teenagers sharing a camp bunk. In the light of morning, the house was breathtaking, too much for only four people. Nooks and crannies, tables here, corners there, places to hide and read and share and disappear. A fountain. A giant horse statue. A bright white piano.

On the drive back to Los Angeles we stopped for a drink and a smoke at a hotel with enormous orange doors and a backside that felt like a maze. Little inlets of greenery and shrubs and padded wrought iron chairs. Even more places to hide, to share. To disappear.

Back in LA just in time for a shower and a change and a drive across town to a house on a hill, crammed full of people and noise and everything unfamiliar. Some part of me was still in the desert. I didn’t stay long. Just enough to float through, to linger for a moment, to leave with the music at my back.

The final notes of summer, bittersweet and strange.

Zoe in Palm Springs, CA // August 2014