There are people who skate through the geography of their lives as though they are made of teflon. I'm not one of them. Places enter me. The dust and air into my nose. Aridness or humidity against my skin. The exact color of the sky. Where have I seen that shade of green before? Every place I go, whether I like it or not, I imagine living there. That would be my house. There's my apartment building. Places can smell like dirt or taxi cabs or potatoes or chestnuts or garbage or jasmine or orange blossoms or cow shit or frost or dill. And it gets tangled up once it's inside me. A certain spicy sweet rose with the sound of a friend's voice and her Brazilian accent. The squawk of wild parrots and texture of a lover's skin. Los Angeles has drilled itself into my bone marrow.
I'm glad that I have a grevelia tree outside my window here at my "new" townhouse.
Not a jacaranda.
I'm exchanging what I hope will be the last few emails with my attorney over the division of community property. Then some stuff will be mine & other stuff will be his.
Los Angeles will have to belong to both of us, I guess. Unless I tear it out of me, blossom by blossom.
2 comments:
I hope you don't tear it out of you blossom by blossom, although that is a fantastic thought.
Beautiful post...
wouldn't it be fantastic to have an "aroma" so you could upload smells like you upload photos. Click on the icon and the room fills with the fragrance of jasmine or spring rain or the ocean or fresh cookies...
Post a Comment