The only thing I really miss about living in San Francisco is the weather. The microclimate of the Bay Area meant the weather could really be anything on any given morning and be something completely different by afternoon. It felt like the weather really didn’t know what it was, or what it wanted to be. Its honesty was in its ambiguity. Its nature was steadiness through flexibility. I could really relate to that. (The rest of what life was like in SF, not so much.)
Los Angeles is a different beast. For the most part, it is one thing and one thing only. The blue sky is direct and determined. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why people here are so confident in their ambitions. Like the consistency of the weather reinforces the consistency of their nature; that the fleeting expressions of seasonal fashion or temporary gigs matches up with all the molting billboards and leased cars. Meanwhile, at the core of it all, is a certainty of the self. A, ‘The rest be damned, this is who I am,’ lease on life. A sentiment where only an earthquake will change anything.
It’s a difficult puzzle to try and fit in to—the type where people compete with one another to sell scripts or go viral not because they have something to actually say, but just because they want to ‘make it.’ Watching the idea of creativity become nothing more than a horse race for material success and not a meaningful cultural dialogue is grotesque, and the constant sun makes it feel almost like the Gods are rewarding such behavior.
One thing is for sure: there is a climate crisis in this world, and it’s not just about the weather.