Everything is starkly obvious here, in LA. A demonic garden of fluorescent lights, haunted by beasts of the night, bitter women, broken boys. The injured earth rings with invisible songs, it's starry pavements sing laments of the legendary. Disguise your enthusiasm. Try and come up with a more digestible, finite definition of love. And you can survive.
I say I am ready to leave LA, and I never do, it's sticky air and dust clouds shackle me to it’s grids, weave me in and out of it's dimensions. Leaving me to make sense of a sacred, unfinished map. A tapestry, a holy war. Unconsciousness fucking the conscious. Bottish bretherin and their plastic consorts. Mystics and their mundane counterparts. In the delirium of the heat, I am almost thoughtless. Pondering group chats and chastity, genetic engineering, fake boobs and faker weather.
It's safer for everyone if women like me don't think. Our thoughts become things with a lethal quickness. Charged items--prone to infecting or blessing everything in our strange spheres. In the delirium of the heat, I am thoughtless. Just a feeling. Amorphous . Sending rhythms through the canyon.
I follow orchards of hawks and get on a metal bird. Fly away, to a convent in New Orleans. Armed with found feathers and blistered feet, beating to the assertive hum of diabolical curiosity. I’ve been politer than I could have been. I pocketed my pain, tidied it away. I went to five churches, four bars, three hoodoo apothecaries. Two parks. The banks of the Mississippii. Three airports. Everyone was looking for the same thing.