i am going through my usual bout of why am i here? and i am not talking about LA, because i feel like i have finally found a slice of sprawl that i can call home. (good food and drinks and art and people, and i can walk down a street without feeling like a misshapen puzzle piece.)
i am so predictable.
i went home last friday–”home” to orange county, to the town where i grew up, to my parents’ house. i slept in the bed i had throughout most of my childhood. the brass ball at the end of the corner post still rattles when i walk by too quickly. we never could fix it.
a friend got married, yes, another one. she is somebody i have known since grade school, except we didn’t become friends until after college. she wore her mother’s dress and she looked so beautiful and she made me tear up. twice. that is a mark of a good wedding, if you ask me.
throughout the day, i felt a little off, like i was home but i didn’t quite know how to get around but everyone knew me and it was just weird. even after the wedding, at a bar in downtown fullerton, i saw people i knew, including a former gap kid. she was wearing denim shortalls and a white t-shirt, and i honestly think that’s why i recognized her so quickly. we used to gossip and fold denim together. i answered the question “what have you been up to?” at least a half a dozen times, each time changing the order of things, just to keep it interesting for me.
my story is good compared to others, but i still think there are pieces missing. a paragraph here, a chapter there, and maybe that’s my problem. maybe that’s where the doubt and confusion lies. in the blank pages. why am i here?
i owe a lot of people a lot of things (and for that i apologize and beg for understanding) but mostly i owe myself more time to cultivate, to build, to create. i am just too darned fickle for my own good; how am i supposed to finish anything when i get sick of it after a while?
maybe i need to concentrate on things more timeless. something that will last longer than a while.