Have you ever wanted to be in a certain place so badly that it completely takes over your mental state and body? There must be a word for this. It’s almost sexual. Hazy. It’s intimate, daring, dangerous, and vulnerable. It persuades your mind to always return to that vast space of longing. Once the thought starts to sneak out the window, obsession grabs your brain by the ankles and tugs it back into the bin and quietly closes the lid. This form of thinking can be dangerous. It can urge us to make irrational decisions, neglect reality, and ultimately, stay lost in a dream. But how do we know this isn’t such a bad thing? Maybe this is life’s way of flaunting desires in front of our face which pushes us past the point of no return? Maybe this is what allows us to act on our dreams? After all, whoever said that this process would be pretty?
For me, it doesn’t really matter how happy I am or how well I’m getting on- my mind is always somewhere else and I feel like i’m missing a vital piece. This has been a reoccurring issue in a few areas of my life- relationships with others, jobs, the relationship with myself.. I constantly have the same questions flashing before my eyes: “Is this really what you want?” “What if you die tomorrow?” (Let’s not sway too far down that alley). Nobody wants to deal with that much doubt and wishy-washy shenanigans.
The point is, I cant help but feel like a fucking fish swimming against the current. Drowning in debt, flopping around at my day job, floating idly by waiting to repeat the same routine the next day. Is everyone REALLY content with just munching on grass all day, pissing, shitting, going to work, sleep, then repeat? There’s this unspoken pressure that I should shut my mouth..hunker down in an office downtown filled with dumb wits who spend their whole paycheck on one article of clothing to convince others that they’re really somebody. On lunch breaks we’ll gossip about our closest friends, belittle our co-workers, and chat about how hard day 5 of our juice cleanse is. Nah, no thanks.
I may not have the specifics all laid out on what exactly I want to do to make paper, but I know damn well I don’t want to turn into one of those she-devils. This tends to push me into what I like to refer to as my ‘flee moment.’ My flee moment is when I think about the special place. The place of escape or planning how to get out.
Even when I was a little girl, I would have these same obsessive thoughts about Los Angeles. Of course, it was mainly because it held two of my favourite places on this earth: Universal Studios and Disneyland. But even aside from that, and even as a child, I felt this mystical magicness about the place. It seemed to forever be in the golden hour; like all the edges were soft and shadowed. I made a trip back to California about a year ago and from the moment I stepped outside, I was overcome with the same sensation and excitement as I had in earlier years. The giddyness, the sparkle, the overwhelming lingering scent of old Hollywood glitz and glamour. Best part, the al a mode of it all: being with the one you love, both with sun bedazzled eyes, strolling up Winward Ave, hand in hand, stumbling on affection and boozy steps.
Now I find myself pulling the covers over my face and embracing those moments. Closing my eyes and clenching onto even the tiniest of details and how I felt while I was there. Like the way my coffee looked in a styrofoam cup from the lobby of a shitty hotel room. I’d bite the edges of the cup all the way around to make tiny indents with my teeth and then grab the carafe to fill up again just to hear the pouring sound and feel the steam on my face . Or how my egg yolks wobbled on a plate at a diner at 10pm. Admiring those tiny dishes placed on each sticky table that held coffee creamers. (That coffee was always the best tasting to me). How about the tacos from a questionable taco stand well after midnight on a sketchy side of LA? The best part about eating those tacos, was that there were only three tables set outside. And everyone shared a table, and ate in silence. Pure, beautiful, quiet. We all were so overcome with joy and orgasmic deliciousness, that we reverted back to our caveman days, and didn’t give a damn who was watching the sauce drip down our arms or how fast we were eating. Salivating at the thought. I miss the bright sun and the way the blue sky always seemed white. There’s no shame, in LA. Everyone is who they are and put it out there for the world to see. Trends don’t exist. You won’t see the same two outfits. Want to have the best (and cheapest) margarita you’ve ever had in your life and possibly see some genitals? Head to Venice Beach. It can be a dark and deceiving, depressing and scummy, but it’s fucking beautiful. It’s a warm womb that brings encouragement of being oneself without any filters, holding back, or intimidation of opinions, and frankly it’s quite blissful. Imagine what we could discover about our selves if we all just simply WERE who we are without giving two shits what that looked like to anyone else. Not to mention how relaxing that would be. I imagine it to have the same sensation as not wearing a bra or going pee with the door open in an empty house.
THIS is my problem. I’ve been spritzed with a love potion with a little skull and crossbones on the warning label. I obsess and trap myself in moments like these and I never want to leave them. I don’t want to come out and play unless I’m placed back in California, and in the meantime, I turn into a grumpy old troll. Gritting teeth, clenching fists, a restless mind, and an intoxicating desire to leave. The Golden Hour is the best time of day, but also the darkest and most dangerous. And sometimes it’s impossible to snap out of its hazy aftermath. The question is, how do we know when to ignore these desires or when to act on them…