Los Angeles, like a whore who knew all the right moves, glistens in her golden sun that always sets on the road that never ends, its iridescent marble columns weathered soft by the warm off-shore winds beckoning the young, the rebellious, the driven, and the lost to come and re-invent themselves-to get found and discovered in her promises. Her continually changing face covered mostly by asphalt, concrete and Italian quartz depending on what side of the politically correct Palm trees one finds themselves, her inviting hearth of possibilities abound at all times, as night turns to day. Not knowing the rules, some come ill-prepared, their own desires doing them in, consumed, being stripped of their humanity by her promises- much like a tigress pouncing upon her kill. L.A., she will do that, and like an exotic sparkling and lonely flower full of color and all that glitters in a barren desert-an act of determination, she will survival as she bleeds the unwitting slow, leaving its finished meal to stale its bones in the constant summer’s desert dust, to reside there in perpetuity.
At Hollywood and Orange, I went back to reading my book, consumed by the inquisitive look of a woman sweeping the deck. I see her big, round, brown eyes that cannot hide the layers of eons of her people’s history, stealing a glance in the direction of my pen and paper. Later, getting up to go and feeling somewhat like a lowly tourist in the presence of this lands historical peoples I kept heading west towards the sun that never sat, chasing her on a freeway that has so many exits yet goes nowhere, looking for her.