prickvixen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
prickvixen) wrote2004-07-26 05:54 am
prickvixen) wrote2004-07-26 05:54 am
(no subject)
Another day begins with the glow of tiki lanterns slowly giving way to dawn, and the final scene of Pulp Fiction playing out on the TV before I get my ass to bed.
The reek of bad off-brand cigarettes reminds me to close my bedroom window, even though there's still another couple hours of cool left. Neighbors play the faucets as though to spite me. Outside I can hear the homeless people with their shopping carts in the trash alley, starting their day. I contemplate my dark deeds of the early morning, and wish to get to sleep before I become reflective, but suspect that after masturbating I'll lay awake another hour or two, slave to my elliptical sleep cycle. I'm almost out of earplugs.
I wonder things. Will I be homeless soon? In five years will I be doing the same things I'm doing now? Is everything getting worse, or am I just noticing it more? When does all the good stuff happen? Maybe it already did.
Los Angeles is as unpleasant as I suspected it would be, but I didn't imagine it would take so long for its nature to be revealed. At first you think maybe you can live peacably with it, but it creeps up on you, and after a couple of years you realize you're surrounded by the dead, and maybe you're one of them. But in compensation, the light in the sky does interesting things at dusk and dawn.
The southern California sky seems intent upon placing blue and orange against each other in ways which make them truly complimentary, rather than the crass colors of a beer-sports logo. This it does by cheating; the peach and salmon and orange blossom of concrete and window glare is only orange by a technicality; the indigo and iris-blue and magenta of sky thick with automobile filth are also far off the mark. Keep your eyes off of ground level and you might think you're in a beautiful place.
In another hour there will be the sound of washing machines and screaming babies, neighbors bickering in unknown languages, garbage trucks grunting in the alleys, cars peeling out, drivers resenting every inch they must yield to each other, waste heat pouring out of ventilators and exhaust pipes, a half-invisible scrim of petrol by-products dressing the stage. All signs displayed. Money exchanged for unhealthy food, unnecessary goods. Hard work for little pay and no respect. Competitors pour into the streets for the great battle at 5pm, while later in the evening, pedestrians enter and exit shops and restaurants, one last bid for self-determination before the curfew of exhaustion and sitcom worship comes down. Above all this, unseen by most, Los Angeles displays its only reward.
The reek of bad off-brand cigarettes reminds me to close my bedroom window, even though there's still another couple hours of cool left. Neighbors play the faucets as though to spite me. Outside I can hear the homeless people with their shopping carts in the trash alley, starting their day. I contemplate my dark deeds of the early morning, and wish to get to sleep before I become reflective, but suspect that after masturbating I'll lay awake another hour or two, slave to my elliptical sleep cycle. I'm almost out of earplugs.
I wonder things. Will I be homeless soon? In five years will I be doing the same things I'm doing now? Is everything getting worse, or am I just noticing it more? When does all the good stuff happen? Maybe it already did.
Los Angeles is as unpleasant as I suspected it would be, but I didn't imagine it would take so long for its nature to be revealed. At first you think maybe you can live peacably with it, but it creeps up on you, and after a couple of years you realize you're surrounded by the dead, and maybe you're one of them. But in compensation, the light in the sky does interesting things at dusk and dawn.
The southern California sky seems intent upon placing blue and orange against each other in ways which make them truly complimentary, rather than the crass colors of a beer-sports logo. This it does by cheating; the peach and salmon and orange blossom of concrete and window glare is only orange by a technicality; the indigo and iris-blue and magenta of sky thick with automobile filth are also far off the mark. Keep your eyes off of ground level and you might think you're in a beautiful place.
In another hour there will be the sound of washing machines and screaming babies, neighbors bickering in unknown languages, garbage trucks grunting in the alleys, cars peeling out, drivers resenting every inch they must yield to each other, waste heat pouring out of ventilators and exhaust pipes, a half-invisible scrim of petrol by-products dressing the stage. All signs displayed. Money exchanged for unhealthy food, unnecessary goods. Hard work for little pay and no respect. Competitors pour into the streets for the great battle at 5pm, while later in the evening, pedestrians enter and exit shops and restaurants, one last bid for self-determination before the curfew of exhaustion and sitcom worship comes down. Above all this, unseen by most, Los Angeles displays its only reward.
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All of you people need to come to Portland. :D And whatever happened to Ashy's Swank Pit?
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PUPPY!!
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