Friday, March 04, 2005
From June 16th, 2004
08:06 pm
Toward L. A.
We took the 14 all the way to Lancaster which wound further through the mountains, all the way back to the Grapevine: the freeway that marches over the Los Padres and down into the LA steppes. You still don’t know who I’m with, do you? Or who I am? Or what car? You don’t care. I have no traffic with this blog, so no one asks. There’s been a few inquiries; gentle probes really. When the big questions come, then maybe we’ll talk. I’m getting impatient: too much driving; too much time away from my metropolis of the Southland. The people were too slow back in the conservatism wasteland of Bakersfield. The streets were too wide. The farmland too close to infinity; the desert the infinite expanse. But we scoped the land, we mapped out a few details, we had meetings, we discussed, we drank tea and peered at storyboards laid out on the floor of a big empty room like they’d just fallen off an autumn tree. And if the desert drive scenes never make the movie cut? Ah, you know what I’d say to that. End of story.
08:15 pm
A night at the Rialto
I’m going to see M***** soon. I have to keep this short. I’m in Santa Monica. You know the place—if you’re in Southern California—you’ve walked the promenade. I have an apartment here. I like my big house too, but we can talk about that later: all the homes, all the decadence, all the snares of entrapment. I just got out of the shower. Here’s a thought: we’ll have our theatre night, then I’ll bring her back here and at the moment of eternal chaos I will tell her I wrote about her lips in a blog. She will think I am insane for sure. Ok, forget about that—we’ll talk of Fusion Suit and addictions and when we come back here we’ll act out the love scenes. ¶ 4:42 AM
Toward L. A.
We took the 14 all the way to Lancaster which wound further through the mountains, all the way back to the Grapevine: the freeway that marches over the Los Padres and down into the LA steppes. You still don’t know who I’m with, do you? Or who I am? Or what car? You don’t care. I have no traffic with this blog, so no one asks. There’s been a few inquiries; gentle probes really. When the big questions come, then maybe we’ll talk. I’m getting impatient: too much driving; too much time away from my metropolis of the Southland. The people were too slow back in the conservatism wasteland of Bakersfield. The streets were too wide. The farmland too close to infinity; the desert the infinite expanse. But we scoped the land, we mapped out a few details, we had meetings, we discussed, we drank tea and peered at storyboards laid out on the floor of a big empty room like they’d just fallen off an autumn tree. And if the desert drive scenes never make the movie cut? Ah, you know what I’d say to that. End of story.
08:15 pm
A night at the Rialto
I’m going to see M***** soon. I have to keep this short. I’m in Santa Monica. You know the place—if you’re in Southern California—you’ve walked the promenade. I have an apartment here. I like my big house too, but we can talk about that later: all the homes, all the decadence, all the snares of entrapment. I just got out of the shower. Here’s a thought: we’ll have our theatre night, then I’ll bring her back here and at the moment of eternal chaos I will tell her I wrote about her lips in a blog. She will think I am insane for sure. Ok, forget about that—we’ll talk of Fusion Suit and addictions and when we come back here we’ll act out the love scenes. ¶ 4:42 AM
