a girl in her city, watching the sunset

Archive for the month “August, 2016”

The Last Sunday Morning in L.A. (for now)

The week has turned the calendar corner. It’s three days until I’m Portland-bound. I’m sitting on my back porch steps with my 2nd coffee. At first it seemed so very quiet. No wind. Then: a horn sounded from a barge. A dog barked twice. There’s a few crickets yet trying to get some action. The wood fence creaks. Someone a few doors down needs to change the battery in the smoke detector. A garage door opens in the alley and subsequent gravel crunch, whomever it is, coming home late/early.

I’m restless. This is not unusual and it’s certainly reasonable, considering. I’m delivering furniture today and thinning the take-with-me stuff again; revising what’s really needed or wanted. Which treasures are most dear, which closest comforts irreplaceable. There’s probably not many.

When I came back to the city, I had the boots I wore. There was no plan to stay. I did it, though. It was all risk, no promise of investment returns. And I did ok.

You know what? I did way more than OK. And that’s not because I have so many boots now.

I made new friends. Friends I will know for the rest of my life.

And I discovered a friendship I happily, carefully, classify as “best.”

Thomas (the Goodman), you gave me a crash pad that January week in 2012 and it changed my life. But your enduring endearment is sustenance.

The quiet morning is noisy with traffic now, that oddly rhythmic ebb and flow punctuated by my sniffling, my shaky breath. I’m smiling though, encouraged. This move is guaranteed more than any other I’ve done. I am honored by my chief’s confidence in me, grateful for our mutual respect.

Leaving L.A. again is difficult almost solely because I have built such a solid association. I named myself for the ocean, for fuck’s sake.

If I claim possession of anything, anything at all, it is my self. And that is really the only take-with-me that matters.

Despite that manifesto, I’m still packing three pairs of boots.


Facebook status update 28 August 2016.


The Way We L.A., a poem I wrote a while ago


We know.

We know the jokes about traffic,
about celebrities,
about how we only eat kale and seeds,
           and that we’re all ditzes or (at the very least) all of us are uptalkers.

We know
nobody believes
Sunshine is really all that encouraging,
or that anybody could call 450 square feet home,
or having no yard (read: no yard work) could possibly satisfy.

We know
the hour                        at the end of January
when the air is suddenly noted by night-blooming jasmine.


We know
that crazycheap (somewhat dimly lit) sushi place in
Koreatown (on 7th) – where the proprietors speak no English
     you point at pictures to order
(it’s way better than Roku. And you don’t have to plan 2 weeks ahead to eat there.)

We are unconcerned with our tans.
We cut each other’s hair.
None of us gives a fuck what you think of our ink and metal
     (I didn’t get all these holes and scars for any body else, thanks.)

We listen to each other
We stay friends for decades
We shop second-hand
We are good neighbors
We play fair
We fuck well
We drink deep
We stay up too late
 We smile at each other.

    We totally walk in L.A.

  amid the history lessons told by
he Anjac Fashion Buildings
      and old banks-become-lofts
we look up.

And we get it.

We go all the way back, we were here before the freeways.    
                   We are made from cement and seawater.
                                     We are formed of smog and glass

There’s sand in my shoes
   but when I turn them upside down,
it spills out as a castle.





Post Navigation