Los Angeles

There’s something about Los Angeles that makes me think I could grow to like it if I had enough time. (They say it takes three years).

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It seems the opposite of the northeast, with its surfers, dispensaries, real Mexican food, and palm trees. Erin and Julia seemed as at-home there as they did in Boston.  

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It was good to be with my friends–these precious, silly ladies who can make me laugh till I cry. And the ugly, sweet dog rescued from the side of the highway only months before.

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Other highlights: the flamboyant kitsch, wearing sundresses for the first time in months, wine tasting, the Museum of Jurassic Technology, the Santa Monica farmer’s market, Frida Kahlo at the LACMA. 

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When I saw her paintings, I understood this on a more visceral level than ever before: that there’s no shame in the vividness of feeling. That it can be splayed open for anyone with a strong enough constitution to explore. That it might also be beautiful. 

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I want to go on expressing and exploring in that splayed-open way. One can never work up too much courage for it.