Witches and Water

"Let yourself melt away," she instructs the class.  We abide and melt away.  She walks across the studio, stops, dims the lights, and walks back to the front.  "And breathe." 

Melting away feels funny and it tickles my stomach.  I'm seeping into the cushions of my flat mat and boiling through the wood floor like acid--- all the while, breathing rhythmically, in tune with the rest of the class.

"Clear your head."  Our heads are clear.

"On your next exhale, I want you to fall even deeper, and melt away even more."

We melt like popsicles.  And this is nothingness.  Peaceful, good old nothingness.

Larry and Me: And Frank too (A story from a story from a story)

I was wearing my mink that night and my emerald green dress with the deep 'v' in the back.  My hair was up in a bouffant and my cheeks were pink.  Larry was speaking about his day at work.  He got a promotion and we were out celebrating, and I was waiting for our drinks to arrive because I specifically remember that my mouth was so dry that I couldn't swallow.
That's when he came in.  Mr. Frank Sinatra in his dapper suit and slanted hat.  The room was quiet and he walked through, past Larry and me, to the end of the restaurant.  Now, this was an upscale place, mind you, with waiters and servants in every corner, and the crowd!  What a proper bunch we all were!  Napkins on our laps... and there's Frank walking through.
Of course, Larry was completely oblivious to the whole situation, you know how he is, and imagine: he's talking to himself out loud, off in his own world, staring at his empty place setting, not looking up once, and Frank's walking past our table.  I look up, and he's staring directly at me.  He's smiling and looking straight at me.  I swear on my mother's mother that this is true.

Downward Facing Dog

Yoga class and the smell of feet and the sound of deep inhales and OMs.  I like it because there's a studio, jam-packed with pretty girls and mid-life crisis men who can't stretch too far.  That's not why I like it, but it helps.  And the music too--- new agey riffs with lots of xylophone and keyboard.  You escape from the aesthetics: the organic spandex, the vegans, the out-of-date boom box vibrating on the floor... and you just breathe and stretch and the brick wall is ahead of you, but beyond that brick and mortar is space that continues indefinitely.

Yeah, the spirituality is a bit surface, but it's well-intentioned and you can't really complain.  And after an hour and a half of downward dog and plank position, colors are a little brighter and, at least for the moment, everything is aligned.

So, I'm on a mission...
I'm seeking balance.  New Balance; I own a pair with inserts because I walk on the outsides of my feet and there's no balance otherwise.  But, balance can be attained if a sturdy ground is laid.  And, I plan to investigate this further.

You put your hands to your heart and bow your head and breathe Namaste.

(Untitled)

Ketamine.  It's all a dream and your head is thick with fluid and Nepalese pollen, but mostly ketamine.

It's death!  That's exactly what this is.

And after four hours of in and out and back in, he says, "Come with me to Australia."
"But I can't," you say, because you don't know what you want.
"That's right," he says a little disappointed, "you're 21 and you've got your whole life ahead of you."

And he holds you and says he'll miss your eyes.  And your thighs.  And your toes too.  And that's it.
And your face is dripping off your skull and you kiss him.
How romantic.

Hi Mom!

Hi Mom.  I don't care that you're my only follower.  I'm not embarrassed.  No way.  I'm so proud to be your daughter.  I love you and please make more comments on my posts.

P.S. Please forward my blog to some of your tennis friends.

Your Show of Shows

Sid Caesar's house is far up on a hill and there are lots of pictures on the walls. He's being watched over by two Philipino gays who feed him and dress him.

Sid Caesar is wearing thick cotton socks and a light blue robe.
He gets wheeled around and says profound things like, "Isn't it marvelous that we're all floating in space?"

Today

It starts with you asking her if it's going to rain today.  And she answers, while looking up at the clouds, "I don't know."
It's a weird day because the air is thick and the fog is low.  And nobody's outside.  It's just a bunch of cars with headlights that shine bright and show particles floating in the air.  It's gray.  It's the kind of day where you can sit inside and drink lots of hot sake and not get drunk.
Everything's quiet and green lamp posts are flickering and humming...  And that's this whole day.  There's no human interaction.  Just yourself, thinking about drinking hot sake and not getting drunk, sitting on a mustard yellow chair, listening to the typing of a keyboard (and the silence in between), and that's it.  The clouds are too low to rain.  And it's too cold anyhow.

Coming to Terms With It: Mail Order Bride

(This is my clumsy interpretation of Tatyana)

Tatyana is talking.  She talks a lot.  She's speaking about Siberia and San Francisco and Kentucky.  She's sitting in the family room, on a white chair with wheels that's supposed to be in the dining room, speaking with her legs crossed.
I wouldn't say that she's pretty because she's too harsh to be pretty.  More attractive than anything.  Starch blonde hair, a high forehead, and paper thin lips.  A small nose too.  A pink leather jacket, sparkly ripped jeans, and metallic crocodile pumps.  

"I used to be ashamed that I was a mail-order bride."  But, now, I guess, she's come to terms with it. 

He was a doctor from a small town in Kentucky.  He went to Siberia and they met a couple times (standard practice) before they got married.  He was nice enough, but they couldn't communicate.
So, there she was, this Siberian mail order bride at 19 years old, married to this small-town doc from the outskirts of Kentucky, all alone in this foreign place, playing wife and cooking pot roast and baked potato because that's what mail order wives do.  And the marriage crumbled like day-old buttermilk biscuits.  Who wouldda thunk?
She relocated to San Fran and he re-married another mail order from some other Slavic country- and now she's here, sitting on an out-of-place chair with wheels, speaking matter-of-factly about the whole ordeal.
And Kentucky- what a terrible place to be all alone.

LPs and Matzah Balls

A little background:
I'm with two girls and one guy.
One girl has bangs and chain smokes. The other doesn't.
The guy is average height and three letters long.

It's Thursday night, downtown art walk. Parking's a bitch and I'm not one to relent so easily, but I'm not the one driving, so we surrender early and cough up $2.50 each, which, in consideration, really isn't that bad, but still...
And we join the zombie crowd of night-time stalkers and art connoisseurs, sort of, or just Downtown hipsters. Dia de los Muertos relics and lots of graffiti on canvas. And isn't the whole point of graffiti, the very fact that it's on a wall and not a canvas?
Anyways, a whole bunch of vendors and art work with price tags. That's about it. And people, lots of people. And some patrol officers, pretty friendly too, so long as you don't jay walk or start a riot. So, you just go inside and out, from one vendor to the other.

The two girls are rummaging through one vendor's LP collection. He has black-frame glasses and lots of tattoos. Fantastic collection. Rare Misfits b-sides and Japanese-electro-jazz. Just plain, old eclectic. I'm being a little snotty and ask him, "Where do you get your records? From thrift stores?" The prices are a bit steep and I'm trying to expose him. Nope, they're all his. He's a collector. And he preserves these records in ebay-status "Like New" condition. "What's your favorite album of all time?" And that's when he tells me. And for the life of me, I can't remember the band. And it's not even a record because the record was never made; it's just the album cover. And it's $6,000 dollars. And he doesn't own it yet. And that's why he's here, selling his records, speaking to me. And if all goes as planned, after he's sold his whole collection, he'll earn enough to buy that cover. And once he does, he says, his life will be complete.
But, wait...
Yeah?
What happens after you get that record cover? What then?
My life will be complete.
Yeah, but what happens? Once you get it... won't that be a bit anticlimactic?
No.
Are you going to frame it?
It's already in a frame.
Where are you going to hang it?
In my living room

Okay. But, what happens when he finally sells everything and he buys that cover in a frame and he nails it to his living room wall? And it just hangs there, droops there, collects dust, and nothing changes and he realizes that inside that frame is an empty jacket, something intangible and nonexistent like the American dream. And then what? I guess it doesn't really matter.

The girl with bangs invests in a record and brings him one step closer to that picture frame. We're thirsty and we sit on a picnic-style bench of a restaurant reputed for the first thing on their menu: a matzah ball wrapped in bacon. It's a big "F' You" on a platter. The irony is forced. And as "far-fetched" and "out-there" is commendable, it's just plain old unappealing--- and a bit irreverent. Although the waitress swears by them, we opt to wine and dine the night away elsewhere. Koreatown to be exact, and I can't say enough good about this place.

To you: Just go. Get lost. Eat frog legs and gizzards and corn cheese (or is it cheese corn) in a dark-lit room with soju being slammed and hite being slurped. And California-state law being blatantly defied with lots of Koreans huffing and puffing on American Spirits- inside! It's a smoke box with ambiance. And you get smashed. And the trips to the bathroom, which is dirty as heck and the walls are lined with Jonas Brothers posters - and they watch you pee.
And everything's spinning and everyone's laughing. The girl with bangs is telling a story about how just last week, she had coffee with her long-lost, childhood best friend. And everything was seemingly perfect, just like old times. Except, something was off. Her voice. The friend's voice has permanently reverted to, as Bangs explains, "this baby voice." They had coffee a few years back and she noticed it then as well, but it wasn't as pronounced. And besides that, everything was normal as can be. She has no idea why and it's bothering her because it makes no sense.

How bazaar. A night of bazaar anecdotes that I can't figure out. It's all too bazaar and the room's still spinning.

Rebuttle to first post

And I'm not some elite "L.A." snob who puts her nose in the air and says, "Nobody's from L.A. anymore," because it gives me some sort of legitimacy. And nobody's really from L.A. We're all fake handbags, bad knock-offs. And it's just a bunch of swampland anyhow. The true natives have been raided out and lost and buried elsewhere- and if the true locals did come back, they'd be confused. Where did all our swamps go?
It's been replaced with Coffee Beans and parking lots.
And these new people, who call themselves natives, who twitch with caffeine and scratch at their elbows? Who were born on this land, first generation- maybe second, in a hospital. And not even born on this land! Elevated on the sixth or seventh floor, far away from the land, in a building made out of dry wall and fluorescent light fixtures.
That's my response to my first post. You pretentious fuck, you.

Where did all the locals go?

I've looked. I've googled "things to do in L.A." and nothing good comes up. Nothing that exemplifies the city like it should. So... it begins. And I'm a native, born and raised in Los Angeles.

Last night, on Melrose, in a skanky bar with a bunch of sweating, drunk, young professionals... shmoozing. A bunch of shmoozing and some networking. Business cards being exchanged. And can you imagine!? Business Cards! In this day and age. How barbaric.

So, last night in this skanky bar, I shmoozed with these two young professionals from Michigan. And I tell them I'm from L.A. "Nobody's from L.A.!" And it's true. Where did all the locals go?
I've diverged. So, this is pretty much the beginning. I'm going to create a city guide. And if any one happens to read this... great.