Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Final 24 hours in Los Angeles:

Cleaned. Packed. Drove to Zuma Beach.

Met retired couple from airplane at their house because they are kindly keeping my car for me for the next six to eight weeks. They drove me to their best friends' house, where I was subsequently supposed to be picked by my best friend and whisked off to happy hour at Firefly in Studio City. But there was this awkward time between when Robo dropped me off at her friends' place and when N picked me up in which I was relaxing in the beautiful house of a brand new stranger who offered to heat me up some leftover pasta and served it with a side of bourbon in a crystal glass. The kindness of strangers never ceases to amaze me. Typically I would have turned down the pasta because I would have felt like an imposition, but I was starving, and something about where I was told me I was safe and could let go a little of the things that hold me back. So when I finally arrived at Firefly, my stomach was more than ready for the tasty whiskey beverages I continued to order.

Post-Firefly took N and me to The Victorian where we waited out our remaining hours before the midnight premiere of Man of Steel by drinking old fashioneds purchased for us by some volleyball player gentlemen. This made not falling asleep in the movie a little difficult, but it made waking up for my 10am flight the next morning practically impossible.

All off the above is a prime example of why I'm feeling the following:

If you crack open my ribcage, open my ribs like a set of double doors on a church, you'll hear this blasting out at you:

And if you look inside, you'll find the northern lights, stretched over a vast, cold expanse, glittering in silence.

The five senses contained in me right now. 

What I see: stillness that is full of movement, emptiness that is full of gorgeous glowing light. 

What I hear: "Contact." The most perfect song I could have ever imagined to absorb into myself. 

What I smell: salted Pacific air. 

What I feel: the enveloping warmth of fog just floated onto shore from a summertime ocean. 

What I taste: the freshest, most delicious cold water from coconuts. Like the kind I drank every day in Brazil in January.

I left for New York City Friday morning feeling like I'd just returned from a week at the spa, despite a massive hang over and despite a man yelling at his assistant who dared to book him a coach seat which was "bad news" because it meant he had to sit with "those people for six goddamn hours."

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