The Sun Isn't Always Warm

If you write at all with any frequency, you surely know what it's like to want to write something but you can't. I'm horribly guilty of this but I am duly guilty of not being able to write simply because there's so much shit piled up in there that I get buried and I can't even move my fingers.

I've been trying to define my life in LA to myself for the last several weeks. I've never lived outside of Massachusetts until six months ago, but I had been living with this burning desire to live in California since I was 16. I apparently was waiting for a real reason to make such an uprooting move, thus it took me 13 years to go through with the transplant. I knew what California was when I was 16. It was sunshine, sand, surfing and it was indelible on my sixteen-year-old mind. That same fantastical thinking stuck with me until I moved here, which made the anticipation of finally being here a cyclone of nervous excitement. That subsided over the course of a month or two.

There's only a few anticipatory times in one's life that I can think of at this very second that might always deliver forethought results. The first is Christmas when you're young enough to still truly wonder if Santa is real (forgive my unintentional ignorance of other religions here). You wonder what might be under that tree but you still have a pretty good idea. But more often than not, the realization matches the anticipation in terms of intensity. Another might be report card day (for better or worse, but in my case almost always worse) or maybe the day you propose to someone. I also link anxiety to these occasions, which might well have been better served as a precursor.

As previously stated, I haven't lived in many different places (2). But I feel safe in assuming that it doesn't matter for shit where you are, it matters what your state of mind is and what solaces you have within your reach. Moving is always a big deal, sure. Uprooting is an entirely different story altogether. You get to a new place with all your anticipatory excitement...you glow for awhile and you might carry some sense of false arrogance or stature because you're "from (insert city name here)". It's your defense mechanism for the fear of not being from wherever the hell you are. All of that quickly fades because you begin to realize that none of these people care that you're new in this city; that you're from that place and you do whatever it is you do. Well, no...unless you're somebody and in that case you can rapidly move into entirely new circles with zero obstacles. But that novelty of being in this great, new place wears off quicker than I ever imagined it would. Aesthetics are a barrel of fucking monkeys, man. A giant barrel of monkeys. Maybe the girl is gorgeous but if that's all she is, I give you perhaps a day and a half until you run for the hills. Maybe that suit looks like it was made specifically for you alone, but once you get in the office and realize no one gives a flying fuck about your duds, you recall that it's still work. And it blows. That was a bad example, I'm sorry. I'd take it back if I could...wait...

Warm weather is a farce. Ironically, I'd kill for the heating system I had in my previous apartment. I wake up in the morning staring at 59 degrees on my alarm clock screen. My nose could serve as an ice cube. My point is that warm weather can't make you happy if you're not happy about most other stuff. Neither can a good chiropractor, a really good sub or a sunset into a mountain just beyond the edge of the sea. These are just add-ons or enhancers that can also serve as the opposite once you start to understand their meanings. Most of the time they go completely unnoticed simply because of their iridescence.

I don't know how often we carry thoughts derived from childhood well into adulthood but there's a very tangible loss of innocence when that happens. I wanted to feel California for what it meant to me when I was 16 but that stinks of severe naivety. I carried the excitement of a teenager into an extremely effectual event of life, then I felt the loss as a an overly emotional and analytical adult. I think it best not to allow oneself to let this happen. Except that it's impossible...which creates some quandaries.

The Pacific Coast is a beautiful location; a very aesthetic place. But it's still just a place. LA is just a city. Venice is just an area. It's you that make these into memorable places...romantic cities...meaningful areas.

This blog entry has been brought to you by Heineken, painfully introspective music and solitude. Want to help? Simply visit www.helpfrench.com. Cash or check only. Sorry, no COD's.