Somehow, summer has quickly slipped into autumn. Scoff all you want, all you non-Californians, but there are too seasons in Southern California. You just have to look a lot closer. It’s all about subtlety. And in any case, the sunlight still fades this far south.
A week and a day ago, I headed back to S.D. from L.A., and I had this portentious sensation, and I felt like all these memories were suddenly bleeding together.
L.A., the city of my birth, the place where I spent the first 17 years of my life. For a time, it was the entirety of my universe. Chicago was just a name. NYC a rumor. Manila a distant dream. The Bay Area came in fitful episodes, brief summers, and a fog-filled memory of wandering down Market St, the mist so thick that you couldn’t see more than 10 feet in front of you.
And so all these memories, long forgotten in these years of self-inflicted exile, came upon me with a vengeance.
This was the song I was listening to as I drove south on the Glendale Fwy., and that feeling of being haunted by a dream didn’t pass until I made it to the Golden State Fwy. It was like a shadow thrust upon me. A dark weight cast on my heart.
This is why I feel like I can’t move back to L.A. just yet. Some ghosts just pop out of nowhere. I need an exorcist or something.