I think I’m moving back to LA. I miss feeling important at Century City and everything having a luster in Malibu. I miss the ocean breeze in Santa Monica, infinite art and cafes in Silver Lake and Los Feliz. I miss the optimism and vapidness of La Brea.
Omaha is a glimpse at an alternative timeline of domestic life. Where I raise a family of my own and accrue the homeliness of years and years of practice. Omaha isn’t where you come to die it’s where you come to notice and repeat. And that noticing and repeating is easy and comforting and salves the wickedness of the world.
But, it’s also predictable. And at times mediocre. Sometimes exceptional but that’s an exception. And I don’t want exceptions—I want a guarantee. I’d like for there to be—in a radically certain kind of way—hope and excitement. I want to wander down the 10 and see the beach come into view where the PCH begins. Rather than your accrued value it’s the accrued value of culture that transmits its impression of the meaning of things onto you. And I want to bathe in that and receive it rather than make my own. I don’t feel ready or confident or deserving of creating my own. Maybe I might learn something from this impression to create my own—someday.