songs: the mess inside, the mountain goats; lost in my mind, the head and the heart; fake tales of san francisco, the arctic monkeys; iowa city, eleni mandell; there will be no divorce, the mountain goats; where we go, folded light.
I sat in the park today near Columbus Circle, where I drank the second cup of coffee cart coffee and intensified the tan line on the middle finger of my left hand, where I usually wear my silver ring with the giant purple stone in the middle.
I’ve started to write this new piece, which takes place in Los Angeles. I know only a few things about Los Angeles, having been there once. They include: what stores were in the Sherman Oaks Galleria two years ago, the fact that no one walks anywhere, the Getty is breathtaking and free, Whole Foods is cheaper, a churro is a delicious food and not a furry animal, Santa Monica is awesome, and that when you are standing on a tree lined, good smelling street in the Pacific Palisades, it’s hard to imagine a smog filled city sky.
I’m feeling very inside of this new piece, very aware of my process, which seems to be amassing a significant amount of material and then somehow shrinking it all down into 1,000 words that I hopefully really like and that feel true to what I’m trying to make. Whenever this happens, and my head feels wrapped securely around it, like I’m swimming in water with the perfect temperature, I resent anything that pulls me out of it-peeing, a phone call, a low computer battery. It took a while for this to happen today, mainly because I ignored my physical needs until I could get to a certain place with the writing, so thoroughly am I in the thrall of these characters and their weird, safe beauty.