I: Lately, I feel as though everything is falling into alignment. I even hate to admit it. It’s like I’ve been back in LA for three months and can’t avoid the inevitable spirituality that comes with this city. Like for the first time in a while, the sequencing is in order.
II: We’re talking about how he was listening to someone talk about how he is energetically spiritual. How the things that he encounters are informing him. As if the things he needs just show up. It’s romantic. He finds them when he needs them. Or, really, they somehow find him.
III: I found Eve Babitz when I needed her. I’d spent three weeks, editing the same writing over and over again. Starting to fear that it would never find a conclusion. She was the key to all of it. The final round of editing, so that I could complete the draft. At least in this form of it. She wrote about Los Angeles and love in a way that I wanted to. Without a standard sequence. Reminding me that it didn’t have to be so straightforward. For nothing here occurs out of consequence. While her LA was wild and glamorous, mine is sober and softer. Post-party. But, we’re both caught up in love for this place and people in a way that feels synchronous. Mine is liminal. Longing, for it all. To be eternal.
As if, once I write it down, it’ll last.
IV: It feels like the success of it all is imminent. I can smell what Babitz describes as the smell of rancid gardenias. While this city promises success, it is one that can’t be kept.
V: I met a girl the other day. She told me that growing up, she had wished for a different name. My name. I told her that before I was born, my parents considered naming me Mia. Like her. It felt like it meant something. Between us. Maybe it did.
VI: I’m confronted with my life, telling the same story over and over again. Trying to find meaning in it. But it isn’t present in the sequence. It’s held in the place. In the desire for the eternal. And in the brutally self aware. It was never about the sequence, but the possibility of making it true. Even when I know better.
I can imagine the different versions of myself. The versions of myself that weren’t so far out of reach. If I had stayed longer, if they had. If I’d ended up somewhere else. If they’d left sooner.
We’re talking about what ending felt within reach. Without accomplishment. So many half-broken hearts, cities I’ve never seen, conversations I didn’t have. Out of fear. Losing control. Or in a way, imposing it. I guess.
On the phone, she tells me they’re going to meet. For closure. I ask her if my writing is too delicate. She tells me that sensitivity is a blessing. That my writing reminds her of city lights. I’m not sure what she means. I like the sound of it. God, heart break is the worst.
I’m struggling. Not in any catastrophic sense, just an awareness that I’ve lost parts of myself.
It’s what we talked about the other night. What we now own isn’t property or time or even truth. It’s our version of beauty. It’s what people want us for.
“We must brave our incompletion.” She wrote this down. It’s from an essay that I read to her. We were on the beach. It feels about right.
I’m driving up to the mountains. It’s always when I do my best thinking. On the road. In silence. My memory knows these streets. I’m not paying attention to the lights or signs. I’m thinking, writing in my head, how I want to sound like someone else.
I want a different voice.
I want to be raw. Stripped down. Like light when you’re just the right distance away. That it feels pure.
I’m trying to reconcile myself. It feels senseless to just write into the void.
I’m embarrassed. Self aware to a point of pain. And still, too delicate with myself. I don’t know what I’m protecting at this point.
I’m on EclecticEnergies.com. I need answers. I forget to ask a question before throwing the coins. I wonder if it’ll fuck up the results. Maybe it’s sabotage. Maybe it’s that I want to remain confused. Unanswered. I have two questions in mind. Should I fly alone? Which is more logical than it sounds. And what do I do about sex. I miss sex.
The iChing says Reduction to Stepping.
Cute. It’s telling me to go slow. Nothing in my life is slow right now. For the first time in a while. Oh god. Somehow it knows that I’ve asked two questions.
The hexagram is changing. Like okay, there’s a transition. It tells me that putting myself in danger won’t cause harm. There is progress. I hope.
I don’t want to listen to it. Not if it’s about flying. But, it doesn’t really answer my question about sex.
So I take the chakra test. The results tell me what I already know. But, I like when it’s accurate. Maybe I’m forcing the answers. Or maybe the online test really works. The digital mystics can at least give me data. Cryptic.
My root, sacral, navel, and heart chakra are all blocked. My throat, third eye, and crown are open. Like my voice is all I have. Until I surrender.
It makes sense. That’s all I’m focused on right now. And I guess it isn’t enough.
I like essays. Sometimes it feels like the only thing that I know how to write. And even that I’m not sure of. But, they’re long enough for me to disappear into confession. My naked body is all over the internet. I’m more afraid of people reading this than seeing me. Exposed.
It’s such a paradox of this time. The desensitization of skin.
Apparently, we have less sex. I don’t know if it matters. Personally, I think so. I’ve realized lately that we’re all just archangels. The first messengers of this time. This era. This world.
All I have to write about is urgent. And holy.
The rules of the machine are encoded in your very being. Breaking the rules, requires the inevitable breaking of you. The weakness of the machine is that you believe the information that you receive. Risking ourselves to find meaning.
Anything that’s past feels less important. Less real.
A girl I know once told me that spirits seem to speak through me. I hope it’s true. That in some way, I am an archangel. Like the others I admire.