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