Los Angeles is a Teenage Girl / by grace mcgrade

Los Angeles is a teenage girl.  I am bewildered and intoxicated by her.

Where else in the world do mystics, psychiatrists, psychics, musicians, yogis, actresses and club promoters all come to convene? In a  foreboding desert city with many cities inside of it, with the quietude and vastness of the valley, the magic of the canyons, the quirk of the eastside,  the boxed and refined corners of beverly hills. An endless neon expanse of deciet, fame, love, beauty and chaos. People travel between these lands in bumper to bumper traffic on a spectrum of psychiatric drugs and speeds, driving in metal boxes. It was once  said to be inhabited by angels, where Mayans and natives  convened with spirits of the earth. Now it is a stage set for manifestations where people make dreams appear on giant screens.

It's like if all the most popular girls, in every high school in America decided to move to one place, and compete for attention, acting jobs, juices and parking spaces.

Like a teenage girl, I have mixed feelings about it here. There are so many lost souls, ungrounded and unintegrated. There is a feeling that most people emanate, of always impatiently wanting to be in the best possible place, with the best people, and never actually arriving. An invisible ladder heading to nowhere.

Fame provokes a rare kind of toxicity in people, and I learned that early on. I grew up in an inherited culture of celebrity nepotism. Spending my formative years in a cesspool of ego and attention, unaware that it didn’t belong to us, but was holographically inserted by the hollywood machine. Everyone has to be on guard because there is a transactional nature to most relationships here, and some people will view others as stepping stones on the invisible ladder.

In hindsight, I see that artists and empaths have been infected by a need to be heard and  recognized, because they feel like their personal relationships don’t mirror back to them the intimacy we deserve. That is why they seek fame.

The earth is on fire, and people still feel a compulsion to create an endless stream of entertainment away from reality. It is a beautiful, terrible, coping mechanism. We are being overloaded with stimuli and media, and it is tearing us away from our bodies. It feels surreal to be in the epicenter of it all. Madness. Utter madness.

However, there is an air of unreality here that seems to serve me. I feel like there is a powerful energetic signature over Los Angeles, a dreamy, neptunian frequency that speeds up manifestations and magic with agile accuracy. It feels like layers of dimensions and currents, waiting to be switched on.

I love the dreamers, I love the artists, I love the special, slightly crazy people. I love them and they are all famous in my heart.

I see the innocence in the teenage girl that is Los Angeles, I see that she is a child at heart and just needs to be noticed.  She can wear as much make up as she wants, and dance until her legs give out, but she is still a child. She can be a crazy, emotional, irrational mindfuck. She needs to get off her phone. She is bold and expressive, lit by the fire of spontaneity. I see that she will adorn and glamorize herself to shield her growing pains in a world of an unnerving state of flux that clamors into the deepest chambers of her being. I hope she grows into herself beautifully.