#im so glad i moved to oregon and its probably gonna save my life but... my heart still hurts deeply about la

[lifeinthegladhouse]

im thinking about the few brief moments we spent in los angeles, how scintillating they were, all the grime, and the dirt, the danger, the promises. i never had such big, painful dreams in my life, until i walked around hollywood and wanted to be poor there too because it was better than being poor here, except it wasn't. it was worse than anywhere, and it was heartless. but i have the memories of how every day it's bright, and every night it's never quite dark, because the port lights everything up in LB, and los angeles is like cocaine and a bad abusive lover you can't stop going back to. it always felt that way for me. all the years of 'why dont you just try it?' 'why dont you live here' 'we're your new family now' and then nothing, just, absofuckinglutely nothing, i had never been made to feel so worthless until living there, but in a different way than seattle. everyone in los angeles is in a DEEP state of denial. i dont believe most people there are happy. all the industry people are so depressing, the name drops, the photo ops, the jealousy, the money, the nepotism, the everything it's everywhere. and beneath all the beautiful veneer of money and glamour and rock n roll is the stupid freeway being shut down because of wood pallets catching on fire, or the rats and the roaches and the sycophant fucking landlords and the class traitors of every race and the freakshow of the tourism industry and the heroin and the missing teeth and the netflix building looming red in the distance neon through the marine layer fog and yet somehow despite the grime and the fags throwing up in west hollywood and the fancy horribly opulent topiaries in beverly hills, it was still beautiful. and it broke my heart over and over and over like a horrible drug, bad lover, cocaine. my only friends the dirty ocean and the silent heavy blue sky and the palm trees and the ravens distracting me from rent and my slumlord and my slumboss and my only friends really being the homeless aids community and a handful of fellow fags i sometimes saw and even though everything seems to be collapsing beneath us there infrastructurally, we couldn't deny the full moon on a night driving into town after dodging and ducking and swerving through so many fucking freeways and then stepping free onto the sidewalk onto the street before a show with stories and actors and weirdos and players and all the memories the brief flash in a pan, it breaks my heart because it could never be mine, and for some reason, the only delusional tale i ever believed in as a poor transsexual from texas, was that i could be somebody too, a small somebody, because if i could be a small somebody in seattle, i could be a small somebody in LA, i could have friends again, or smile into the sun, but without seasons and with all the glad handing and lying, time stood still and all the cheap vinyl and battered leather jackets and fishnets and whiskey could never be alluring again because it wasn't real. just a cheap fake attraction. a disaster. not even a crisis anymore just a dying hopeless crushed bug gasping beneath the boot of corporate lipgloss kits. and for someone so rational, so rigid, so moral, i thought somehow, there was a place for me, because everyone that ever knew me, they knew one thing, and they knew that i was meant for and could live in a place like los angeles, but los angeles didn't want me, and i learned to give up the ghost.