the palm trees resist. in the deep blue skies their silhouettes battle the forces we can’t see. the pills negate most of my manic states but my brain continues to rot everything outside of the chaos it contains. my uneven notes create an imbalanced page & i hate imbalance, so i write around the curves of a glass—full of water for the first time in late november as far back as i can remember.
my attempts at a video fall so short of the natural brilliance the air commands. why are we destroying this, the wonder of our life—why do we destroy what we love, what allows our hearts to beat with substance, a sense of meaning, of wonder & belonging. the feeling of fresh air found in the eyes of another.
sit with the wind, collapse in its arms when no one will hold you. listen to the laughter next door & hold hope that someday you’ll laugh again too.
the usual prattle of traffic in hollywood on a friday night has died down—inevitably to return soon as the bars close. cars idle, waiting for parking. the air is ‘unhealthy to breathe’ or something, but nobody turns their key toward change.
the premeditation of writing makes my mind go blank & there is a strange absence of the police helicopters overhead tonight. perhaps it’s the lunar eclipse.
years ago there would be endless attempts to capture the moon, zoomed-in through the camera lens on an iphone 4, filling up instagram feeds. now it’s all horoscopes. people used to strive to capture any moment of beauty in this ugly world—now they just search for any reason it’s falling apart. for any sense of hope at all.
there are worse places to find yourself than los angeles. i’m now more cautious about setting fires, wearing clothes not my own anymore. some never really were.
and i wonder how my friends are doing. the hummingbirds didn’t return this year—or maybe i just missed them over these months of idle revisionism. there are still things i can do, amends to make. slivers to pick at, an open sea.
for now, i’m thirty minutes late.