Between Deserts in Los Angeles
Traveling back and forth and wearing an exquisitely sleek and altogether inappropriate ensemble, made of different colors of cowskin, he was wondering when this wandering would settle in one place. This wasn’t the first time these thought would come. They got keener and more exacting the more he enjoyed time in the desert on the water. This was a real Los Angeles, not the one constructed with sand in the imaginations of children. This is what Hollywood decided was the perfect mother for itself, right before moving in to be born.
It’s hard to evade a mystery as powerful as that, and at the same time, hard to evade anything that was calling, and there was so much. It would be simpler if there were nothing preventing the crossing over, but there always is, only this was more difficult than anything else he could imagine. Suddenly, an image.
He is where he is supposed to be and he is older, a version of himself that is making sense, and not unreadable to many who once thought him too dense to bother with. She is there to ask questions, because something very important is about to happen, and he’s been there before. She is nervous and has been chewing her lip again, and this, the scariest part.
She once imagined how it might be better to be touching a source, throwing ideas out of the mind and into a workable container, where they could be seen, and it happens in a city. It begins with a trip and a hotel in a real Los Angeles, and it comes together when it should.
This is a moment crossed over on the edges of many deserts, this place and that place countering each other with an enormous familiarity. This is a tempo that is worth following because this is a moment that shifts, and cannot utter anything except itself, and life goes on into something as deep and exquisite as a symphony .
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