…in Los Angeles. South Pasadena, really.
I’ve made it. The months have passed since last I wrote. I was in the in-between of recovery. Then packing, boxes and boxes, some shipped ahead of me, the rest strategically packed to reach fullest capacity in my Jeep Liberty with the plastic surfer on the antenna (named Sven in high school). The drive across country with my man: we crossed the endless flatlands of Iowa and Nebraska, listened to The Great Gatsby on CD, drank huge goblets of margaritas in Rock Springs, Wyoming, got a little queasy on the wealth of Park City (though we still plan to attend Sundance – my dream, even more than the Oscars), had the shittiest pizza of my life in Reno, read Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley aloud to one another as we drove, and finally rolled down through the Sierras into the Bay Area (a first stop for my boyfriend’s flying job) listening to Gillian Welch, wistfully kissing that gorgeous empty space (physical and mental) of a road trip goodbye.
And now, we’ve been here, in LA (or the outskirts, I’ll say) for some weeks now, and things are starting to feel normal, though they’re certainly not yet.
So can I say it ? I hate transition. I fuckin hate it.
I like travel. Or I like home. One or the other.
Things are all right now. But those weeks at the Motel 6 without a home? I mean, I’ve done it before – I did it up in the Bay last time. But it’s a spirit killer. No job without a home, no home without a job. The same old dance where they just won’t let you in. I didn’t want to write in here. It would have been one day after another of me saying, “well, it’ll work out soon, I know it will.”
You tell yourself that to keep your spirits up, but just how much you mean it starts to fade.
But here I am, on the other side. With an apartment finally, a teeny tiny month to month apartment right next to a train (yep, leave it to us to find the one apartment that’s directly next to a train). And a job – at least, a part time job I can do on the internet for as many hours as I can stand. All I can say really. Well, it’s for an app. I’ll say that too.
I need more work. But for now we’re getting by.
The place is shaping up. I’ve baked bread for us a couple times. I’ve made bookshelves from cardboard boxes. All our thrift store furniture is out of storage, and we’re making a little home. Hanging twinkle lights and prayer flags and posters. Playing guitar and going out for beers at our local Irish pub.
Every day you do something to move forward, even just a little.
And you collect the experiences – that time we found the perfect, perfect apartment….and then an enormous cockroach walked across the kitchen floor.
Or the interview I did at a new cafe in Pasadena with a crazy Chinese lady who told me she could send me to China if we could do better there as a cafe – because that’s where the money is.
Or the other job interview I did with a lady who owns a nursery (a dream job for me) who began complaining to me the second I walked in about how terrible young people are today at working, how stupid they can be.
I mean, motherfucker.
So, tonight, I am making a declaration, after all the bullshit of moving (in fact, still right in the midst of it), I must continue to do the work I am here to do: Tomorrow morning, it’s back to writing. The feature length screenplay and the short that’s been buzzing around in my head.
Because even when you’re not getting paid for it, even when you’re poor (or, “po'” as we say), even when you owe your mom way way too much money, you’ve got to do the work as if it’s your real job so that it can one day be true.
Tomorrow I write. And every day I am taking steps to get that other job (or two) that will get us the money for rent and for Final Cut Pro, so I can edit that damn movie I made in January.
One day at a time. And I promise to keep you posted better than I have been.