Wednesday Again
Today is Wednesday which means yesterday was Tuesday and before Monday came, Saturday and Sunday happened. This past week was hot and I was reminded of what it feels like to leave the house in the evening without a jacket (it feels like I am forgetting something). Many good things filled these past few days and I would like to blame that on the sunshine. Everything was illuminated and alive and sweating and I finally realized when I was reading in the backyard before work for the third morning in a row that those Parrots that live here, in San Francisco, fly over my house around 8:30 am and the church bells toll at 9:00 am.
For some reason the thing that kept repeating itself over the past seven days is something I attempt to never acknowledge. I rather loathe saying that I “write” because it is a compulsion. Because it is something that does not necessarily feel hard to do, but something that I have to do. It is cause and effect in some cases. Bad things happen. I write them down. Good things happen. I write them down. In the case where it feels like nothing happened I write that down too.
I have begun to live my life in a way that I hope looks interesting on a page because I cannot get material any other way. I think that is why I am more inclined to stoke a conversation or take multiple pictures of the same vista—it is all in the pursuit of my so-called material. My world looks a lot different when I am looking for something than when I am just getting the mail. I am particularly embarrassed to even admit whatever it is that I am saying here. Being a writer is being something, not doing something, although you must write to be in this case–but then everyone is a writer. It never feels impressive to me because everyone is capable of thoughts and most people are literate, so quid pro quo I guess.
However, the beginning of this year, which now falls closer to the phrase a while ago than it does to the word yesterday, reminds me why I am even doing this. It was a sunny particularly warm morning in Beachwood Canyon January 1, 2024. I arrived at a party I figured I would know plenty of people at, but only managed to know the host. A symptom from the previous night’s festivities was a hangover and I did not bring with me Beachwood Canyon house party brunch attire. I arrived only to see a quintessential cool kid Los Angeles attendees. Guys who wore rings and expensive sunglasses. Gorgeous skinny girls who were wearing the kinds of clothes that would either make me look like a milk maid or a token fat friend in a 90s movie (who is not fat, just not anorexic). I saw Teddy (the one face I knew). She gave me a tour of the most perfect Los Angeles home and then we went out to her backyard and stood on a deck looking over Los Angeles. It was a smogless day so Long Beach was visible and all the nodding Palm Trees looked just right. We talked about how life after leaving college was hard because you never wanted to admit that it was hard. We talked about boys and who we kissed at midnight. We talked about food because Teddy is the most fabulous cook. Then other friends joined us. I proceeded to go inside and enter a hallway conversation upon hearing the phrase, “Don’t let your boyfriend keep you from meeting your husband.” Zoe (Teddy’s roommate) introduced me to her wise cousin Maude.
When I first noticed her, I saw her long black hair, full lips, and a fading tan. We started talking to each other the way you do when you first meet someone. Maude lives in New York, but grew up in West Hollywood. It was discovered how we both ended up at this party. We both had different New Year’s Eves. Maude was at her childhood home and lit candles and journaled. I was with my friend Marley at a house party filled with faces from college giving them the bullet point updates. Single. Jobless. Living in San Francisco. Certain points landed differently with certain friends.
Maude and I eventually left the hallway and opted to sit at a sunny dining table. Maude told me about her life. Like how she has worked in fashion since she was 18 (which translates to modeling). Then she started writing. She now has an agent that to her dismay is a man (she thought only women would understand her work). We talked about what we each like to write about and how we go about writing things down. Maude made me feel like a writer for the first time. I was so inspired in the way Los Angeles can convince you anything can happen because the only thing scraping the sky are trees that are not even from here.
I remember leaving the party and seeing the capitol records building and believing that when (although this word now feels like if) I move to Los Angeles I will live in Beachwood Canyon.
[ AUTHOR’S NOTE: In the spirit of transparency I really hate mentioning my ex boyfriend because it sounds childish, embarrassing, cliché, and also passé. It was a long time ago and now I am just realizing that it probably is only cringey to me, but nonetheless please accept my apology]
I got a text from my ex boyfriend asking me to meet him. He was driving up from Mexico and I was just leaving Los Angeles. We met on the crumbling bluff we spent our first date on almost exactly 3 years ago. He was just camping in Mexico for the past few days. I remember being so excited to hear about it because for so long I heard him say how much he wanted to camp in Mexico. He smelled salty and looked tired. I remember being so excited to tell him about Maude, the girl with fake lips who made me want to actually write something. Maude told me “some people’s happy, is your unhappy” and I relayed that to Riley, although I think the point probably fell flat. I felt so confident in the possibility of this next year. He asked what was going to happen. He meant with us and I thought about my life in general. We said our final salty eyed goodbye and I was annoyingly reassuring that everything was going to be okay. And everything did turn out okay.
It turned out even better than okay. Since then I have had something to write about once a week and generally feel very happy. This marks week 41 out of 52. Which means that I have to have 11 more things to say to uphold my side of an imaginary contract I have with myself.
This past week was full of slight moments that would have been each worthy of their own time. Like what Chloe and I talked about at the beach. She told me what kind of guy I would marry which led us to talk about that thing when you are so eager for what is to come that sometimes it can rob what you already have in your hands. We swam in the cool water laughing and tried to make sand castles. We walked down to the nude beach section while tracing other people’s sandy fossil footsteps. Later that night we bought felt dolls Erica made that matched our outfits–it was serendipitous. Then we went to Zeitgeist and we saw the Karaoke King of San Francisco from afar, meanwhile we sparked up a conversation with Jimmy. Jimmy has his own drink named after him at Zeitgeist and we found it funny he did not buy us one. Then on Sunday the sun was still out and it was still hot. I saw one of my favorite bands play one of my favorite songs and it was the right amount of exciting and underwhelming (I wish it was louder). Later, Chloe and I went night swimming because Charlie called me and we were catching up for so long that the sun fell. These were all things that I feel like I am not done with. Things that I have to write down and ponder.
A few weeks ago the writer Melissa Febos came and did a reading for my program. She said that when she writes she does not write for a targeted audience, but rather a younger version of herself. She described this relief when works of her’s have been published. There is anguish in the editing phases. Many eyes and ideas, but once it is out there it is out there. So, for 41 weeks I have told myself no one reads whatever it is that I am saying because I do not think I write for anyone. I write because it feels like the most normal thing for me to do. Because I have things on my mind and because 41 weeks ago I wrote something and shared it on a Wednesday and did it 40 more times after the fact.
