The streets of Los Angeles Are utterly my Entrails. Its juicy registries Countless That Are gutters merge with my intestines. Truly I only know Things When I Feel Them here, you know the way to kiss or smell, my innards tell me so, with whispers of joy and nausea. Los Angeles, my exo-skeleton, my outer spleen. Its Pavements Risen up, shattered here and there, with spot repair, sloping like scars Kello, caterpillars of tar on asphalt and gravel, pushed up from underground by the madcap feet and Elbows of a subterranean life, a Pentecostal light. For strangers, the appeal is cosmetic. To Them, the surface is something like a beauty mask gone dry, cracked and crumbling, the wake of bygone, fabulous years, but I'm too familiarPatrick's, on Central Avenue, dwarfs the new Islamic Center across the street, Not to mention the size of STI fence. There Are Black Activists, wearing white camouflage and Berets on a corner in Crenshaw, with posters of men hanging from trees, and One of These bears the title
Were Mexicans lynched, too!
Former Alpha Beta, Ralphs ex-, ex-Vons, post-1993-riots-Jons Market now lies in ruins, ruins , a dirt lot for traveling Carnivals! Streets filled with upheaval, graffiti, lies, music, murder, all cradled in my inner Qualities MOST self, sprinkled with bones, peels, seeds, wax cups, straw, blown in from the Farmer's Market downtown - my childhood bazaar. How can I Explain? I feel very Strongly That There is Something in Los Angeles That I like.I like it so much that I don't like it when other people like it. It is a love like that, jealous. A large part of me is headquartered here. I understand how ghosts can get stuck to a place, even though it's very dreadful, even if it changes beyond recognition over time. If I leave this place, I will start to eat less and less, the longer I'm away, and perhaps I'll eventually starve. I've never stuck around anywhere long enough to find out. It's not that other cities aren't lovely, and it has nothing to do with the quality of food, nor any leeriness versus unfamiliar dishes. I'll try anything new and odds are I'll like it. I have learned to negate my eyes, my nose, several of my senses, actually, so that unfamiliar and outlandish-looking food won't revile me at all, as long as others are e
falling piano. You tingle with subtle warnings, but disaster never strikes, more so it phases in and out, behind the scenes. There is a changing of the guard, but there is no perceptible harm, only the obvious change that took place. In a sense, the food has the quality of being stale, it
tastes stale while being very fresh, and it's forgettable the moment it's arrived, like you've already half-eaten it and lost interest. The timing of the food is wrong. The Frenchman Marcel Proust once wrote that when we miss a certain place we are really missing the moments we have spent in it and not the place itself. The place merely serves as a receptacle. The people, objects, and events of bygone times, the things that inspire the sensation of longing, ceahat are not even worth the fuss--anywhere but here. I will drum up doubts and dismiss any kind expectations on grounds of naiveté. I will even have the audacity to complain about the weather, such as The heat is unbearable! Scoff at this, think about the severity of other summers, but keep in mind that Los Angeles is spoiled year round with pleasant weather, so we are not apt to suffer sustained climactic annoyances. We have this luxury called a marine layer . Winds off the coast are cool and continuous. Oppressive weather comes and goes in a flash. When it lingers on, there's no justice to it. One hundred degrees in the winter is a joke between the deities. And so we smolder and torture ourselves with the foolish hope that the insolent weather will movNot t I prefer to drive. I Take What Argentines call the collective
, the bus. The soles of my shoes go bald Long Before I ever scuff the tops of Them. I walk the streets, I trample about Them. I am More Than acquaint. The streets wind in and out of me in Ways dog map not ascertain.
Of course, I will only resort to negative remarks Because I Feel That Others Do not have a right to like Los Angeles. Even so, What appeals to visitors is never What appeals to me. The idea of someone staring in wonderment at the Hollywood sign or the attraction Likewise Altogether is depressing. I remember the smattering of buildings Replaced by the Staples Center arena and how the new Stood in skeletal form. Just past it, There's the orchestra murals, with violinist Ralph Morris
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