The Long and Winding Road

Dear Los Angeles,

It's been over a year since I moved here but still, I often forget where I am. Really, there must be a mistake – I can’t possibly be living in Los Angeles. I tried…but I can’t.

I guess I just really wasn’t made for this place. My lungs can’t take it. My eyes can’t take it. My hands can’t take it. And sometimes, I wonder what the hell exactly it is that I’m doing because I can no longer see clearly. You're not a part of me and I'm definitely not a part of you.

I’ve been feeling in between a lot of things. Like a million things for me to do, for me to find. Like 2 minute rain. Actually, it’s exactly like 2 minute rain. I think about what it SHOULD be like…as opposed to what it really is. I’m not saying that I haven’t enjoyed being here in LA at all. There have been times, I admit, where I’ve found it to be almost impossible not to like you. There were times when you would play the saxophone on a street corner...or when you would weave in and out of the morning traffic. Really, at those times, I’d feel as if I might actually be falling for you.

But this wasn’t the plan. I had planned on spending my free time at Chelsea Market, or at Dean & Deluca’s on Broadway; I had planned on walking along Bleecker Street and stopping by Magnolia’s every once in a while. I had hoped that I’d be able to talk to someone about “bouquets of sharpened pencils”. But I guess there’s nothing I can do because the city didn’t want me. Still, I can’t help but think about it. Still, I can't forget it.

So, to remedy all this, I've been drowning days in Doris Day and Rock Hudson movies. I put in Harry Connick Jr. and I crank up the volume. I buy nice espresso cups and cans of Illy’s coffee. All in the hopes of forgetting where I actually am and what I’m actually doing. I guess it’s working for now…but I’m not sure it’ll be able to hold out for much longer and I really don't think that this is the best solution.

I guess then, that these past few weeks have acted as a confirmation of sorts: no matter how hard I try, I just really can’t bring myself to like it here. I want to break it off because this will only end up being a waste of time for both of us. But Los Angeles, it’s not your fault…it’s me. It’s all me. LA, you deserve someone much better.

Hell, I still love you New York.

- Dorothy


(Reasons to be Cheerful: Illy's Espresso + Mint-Chocolate Chip Cookie)

The Day of the Dead

Today, as I was walking down the hill, an old man of about 63 was walking up. He carried three plastic bags in one hand and a roll of paper towels in another. Almost instinctively, I started thinking about the 63 years of his life. I thought about his childhood, his parents, his first day of high school, his graduation. I thought about how he didn’t enjoy his first job but kept with it because it was a way of making ends meet. I'm guessing he quit and found a new job a few years later. He also probably met a young girl at his new work place and the two of them fell madly in love. They got married, had 3 children and now all 3 of their children are working out of state. I bet that’s when he decided to move here with his wife. And that was why he was here, carrying 3 plastic bags in one hand and a roll of paper towels in another.


I wondered to myself, did November always smell like ash?

Living in Oblivion

Living is...

Coffees weaved into 2 hours of thoughts, images, paper and pen
San Pellegrino and Stan Getz
5.30 mornings and a drab gray sky
A bottle full of rye
The Hong Kong international airport too early in the day
Rain on the streets
Thoughts that can't be articulated
Gimme Shelter
Robert Doisneau and a day alone
Conversations with strangers
A 3 hour bus ride
Mandarin Oriental elevators and Madison Avenue
7 people listening to songs in a basement bar
Riding over speed bumps
Home
Hot sandwiches and good music
A combination of things
Sunday morning newspapers
The smell of winter
A ferry ride across the harbour
Chasing ducks and breakfast indoors
Late night supermarket-ing
Thinking too much into things
CNN in foreign countries
Parisien train tracks
Days spent at Chelsea Market
Waiting on writing

...among other things

Don't Let Me Down

I’m in between days. White sky, gray sky, red sky, dead sky…it’s all the same really.

It’s such a familiar feeling. I’m all too used to this. But then again, what good is being “used to” it? Under control…we’re under control. I think I just miss home a little too much. The last 2 years were the best. The days surrounding Christmas, we spent in small restaurants along streets with names that all sounded the same. Lights lit up “Casa Nostra” and we spent hours in a cluster of buildings that all linked together.

For no less than 3 days a week, I’d pay $9.40 for a half-hour ride across the city on the 619. I’d get off at Queen’s Statue Square and walk down to the basement of Jardine House. Then, nonchalantly, I’d order my drink.

“Tall Latte”.

Everything was at its own pace. A bottle of Calistoga, heels, hours spent doing the crossword puzzles at the back of magazines. Hours spent feeling as if everything was in its right place.

And during many 5.30s in the morning, I would look out the window and be happy with what I saw. But I knew it wasn’t enough to sustain me through a whole day. My open-windows, CD-cluttered desk and magazine-strewn room. Shoeboxes from Luiza Mirnar and a guitar in the corner. Black and white photographs here and there, documenting trips I’ve taken and a ceramic coaster. I just never wanted to sleep until the sky turned to the color of my curtains.

And then there was that day I found myself sitting in front of the CD storage cabinets of SONY music. That was the same day that I saw the city disappearing before my eyes. I was Positively 4th Street.

If I could wake up and feel mornings, I think I might just write something out. I’m so tired though. I guess it’s time to go tonight. Tomorrow, maybe tomorrow.

(What I make nowadays in my free time)

Song of Sixpence

There’s this thing which I keep thinking about but I have no idea what it is. I can’t write it out, I can’t speak it out, I can’t do anything about it.

I guess it’s an accumulation of things. Things that have been building up in the back of my head and at the back of my eyes. Or maybe, it’s nothing at all. It’s something that happened a long time ago but I can’t exactly remember anymore. All I know is that it’s been this way for a long time. Years in and still…really, what good have years done for you?

And please don’t think I’m trying to deliberately write cryptically. This is literally how it all sounds like in my head. That’s why I can’t make any fucking sense of it either. I’m just hoping that I can find a way to understand it a little better if I see it all in writing.

But it’s not helping at all. Fuck.

A couple of years back, I wrote about things that actually existed. It was about the beautiful goal Roberto Carlos scored during the InterContinental Cup match; it was about the death of Brian Jones and why I liked Ronnie Woods more than Mick Taylor.

But now, I’m just writing about things that don’t make sense and things that don’t exist. I’m thinking about things that don’t make sense and things that don’t exist. And after all that, what’s left? A small square of paper with the directions to Jim Morrison's grave scrawled on it. You don't know what you're supposed to do and I doubt that you ever will.

But why don’t you give it another chance? Because if months and years passed by in a way that doesn’t seem to have mattered, then there’s really nothing much you can do about it. You can try your hardest to put dates to things, put memories to things…but in the end, it will all pass in a way that won’t seem to have mattered.

But I won’t stop you from trying. Good luck.


(At least this makes sense: Bella Pita)