Running away from home and running into 2016.
I’m glad to watch 2015 dissolve. Sure, years are constructs. But they’re cultural. The ball drop was Dunkin Donuts-themed. That’s going to have some effect on your psyche. And mine.
The shared commodity of human experience.
I entered last January so raw and scared. I pulled around weights of broken sentimental sludge. They identified me, remaining relevant. Stamping me fragile.
When I think of how immense and seizure-like the excitement and loneliness of Los Angeles first was, I know how important it now is. I know no other city can drench me in dopamine sunshine and crushing unimportance so swiftly. I know, had I not found the friends I now have, I might have moved anywhere else.
I brought up my broken heart when it was barely relevant. I wanted to talk and heal and understand, but I’d already driveled my lips dry by then. It took me a few months to really get new. To stop drinking so much wine that I woke up with a digital demo of sloppy guitar and bitter breath every few days.
I sweated and fumbled and grasped for laughs at my first LA open-mic. Immediately afterward, I felt like I’d at least done one cannonball off the high dive. Nobody could call me splash-less.
I drank and talked movies with people who planted their opinions firmly, parked them overnight. On occasion I found myself bold enough to state opposing remarks. Those breaths are real air. Those lines felt vital leaving me.
I learned to sleep alone again. I fell asleep and woke up with movies, read scripts, scripts, scripts. Drove in dizzying rays.
Some people liked me and many didn’t.
A harsh talk-down from an assistant turned bountiful. It was okay to matter. I knew it was okay to matter. Finally.
I did a few stand-up shows. I did some improv.
I got a blowjob on a balcony.
I was honest with people and I wasn’t. When I wasn’t, I later was.
I slept well sometimes. I barely slept.
A lot of things sucked. Crazy problems arose. I solved them. I became a person who went through those things. I wrote down accounts no one else has access to.
A six-month experiment turned into writing and comedy and dancing. I don’t really dance until a White Stripes song comes on. I pretend I’m hearing them in a garage, live. Just me.
I wrote a lot of music and I loved some of it. Even songs I hated sounded like me, and I felt good about this.
Parties in beautiful houses swerved by me, none of the occupants knowing whose sofa we were spilling wine on.
“That’s Ringo Starr’s house, over there,” somebody says, and we all figure that makes sense.
I see movies and stand in parking lots for hours talking with people who care about them. We argue ourselves into delirium. I feel ten years older every second.
The hills and stars drench themselves in syrup. A saccharine salve to a bad set.
I grow impatient but I grow up. I get terse. I go home. I remember being a person.
Ending in this. Scraps of certainties and details. Truths sometimes.
I want to get out of abstracts. I want to remember some things. I don’t make resolutions, because I’m always making resolutions, and nothing is completed. Everything is in transit. Everything is broken. Everything is becoming something else.
Like how I’m becoming nicer to myself. Crossing out poison posts. Forgetting what it was like to not be here, now.
I’ll love someone again. I’ll be a person someone wants to love. Already am one.
Create some things people will see. Disappear when I have to. Sometimes I have to.