Weeks of oppressive, desert heat finally broke this morning. I felt it coming last night, walking through the hum of downtown, the air cool and thin. I think it’s safe to say that fall has finally descended.
I’ve been reading nearly a play a day lately, unearthing voices and worlds I’d never really taken the time to discover. Suddenly, time is of the essence. There’s an urgency in my bones. My blood feels constantly on fire.
It occurred to me the other day, mid-performance, and seemingly out of the blue, that LA might not be my home forever. A new horizon line rolled in, unwillingly, uninvited, but I’ve been captivated by its presence. It’s easy to forget that we’re never a fixed point but always moving through, moving towards something unknown, moving away from something else. I’m not sure yet what comes after Los Angeles… but I feel it coming up fast.
Somehow I don’t think there will be much more to say here, this space that began as my love letter to Los Angeles and the unexpected time I called it home.
In the meantime, I’ll keep sharing photographs here and hope that you’ll stick with me.
A handful of photos from back in June, saved for no reason really, nothing other than some lingering instinct that their scent of early summer–the soft heat and the hazy light, the cigarettes and tomato juice and a weekday wide open and completely free–would be even sweeter come September.
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.
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.