I was struck by an early morning scene when I was scouting a return to LA last year...
Four twenty five in the morning. Santa Monica boulevard looks like the rapture hit last night and all the painted saints went to heaven. The pavement wet and dark like the scar tissue of my soul that you don't seem to really mind. You should be here. You belong here with the fading Gypsies and seven foot trannies. Construction blocks my ramp to the 405 but I can always count on Lincoln to snake me south to the airport my rental car silent with radio off because the music of my city is all I need to hear. You should be here. You belong here with the Promenade cellist and the vampire boys who walk Ventura, never knowing I can see them. I am their king, scouting a return from exile. Forty nine degrees in LA. Boiling point for transfiguration. Got to get the alchemists lined up. Got to get the alchemists lined up. I'm coming home, even if alone. I'm coming home.
After 25 years I escaped LA. Construction will block your access to the 405 for the rest of your life and Santa Monica will remain rapture's bulls eye. That said I hope your return works out and your royal subjects pay their appropriate tribute.
Expands beyond the safety of pages bound by predictability to explore and often confirm exciting creative possibilities. A shimmering collage of memoir, creative nonfiction, literary journalism, and dizzying flights into poetic observation, this is t
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Patrick
but you express a universal sentiment that is easy to identify with.
This is down to the pavement good.
Sandie