Long Lines of a Southern Draw

L.A. was safe, because I already knew people here.

It was a strange place, yet in very different parts of the city; which I still can’t quite think of as a city, but rather an immensely sprawling urban county; I had familiar hearts already beating. Hearts distant in not only space but also time. So safe… so far away from home… and far away from the past three years. (No one saw them all but me.) I’m rather another part of some trans-costal migration. Classic, huh.

The fight or flight reaction was failing me under my birth skies, under the crossing of my Chiron and Saturn. I fought. I truced. I broke. I healed. Startled in the aftermath, even in the afterglow of recovery, startled as a fawn, I skipped off. Here I am, some sort of refugee, a lover and partner in tow. My Venus line runs past here, but whatever. All the same, I’m not in it for no money. Do I need more than love?

L.A. was safe, because there’s so many people here.

And they are, but a handful, strangers.

I can be lost for a while. This time it’s the limbs of people instead of trees. I miss my forests deeper than they even stretched, but I’m comforted in this other sort of insignificance here and now. I certainly haven’t come to “make it”. And I ain’t going to fake it. We began musing about how to leave this place even as we first drove into it.

People, sporadically for months before our departing, constantly during our 5 days of travel, asked again and again, “Well why would you wanna go there?” and “Good luck” you know, with the “oo” in “good” streeetched ooout a little. You know the inflection, usually accompanied by raised eyebrows immediately preceding the only momentary sideways gaze.

So many want the pompous bitch who abandoned her home for Los Angeles to become the classic Hollywood reject, and they already have it, because I didn’t come to be a “star” in the first place. I am only interested in activating the same stardust in my blood, my bones, as is in yours… and yours, too!

What fame is there to be offered to me, a poor painter, here? Not the sort some may seem to believe I seek, it’s plain to see. Not in my field. It can’t be ambition resented; I haven’t ever a sense of competition, essential to capitalism, essential to ambition, essential to the success others don’t want for me, that I don’t even want myself. So some may think,”Well I won’t give her attention, not one half-second click of my energy. She has enough of her own.” Or, “Don’t encourage her.” I can’t be as talentless as others convey, can I? Or is it that ego they can’t stand… the desire to be loved… that they abhor. How dare I only want love. I am not yet disenchanted, but it may seem I am perhaps no longer enchanting.

I guess I might have had unrealized fantasies about stretching out and tuning transcontinental heartstrings to master in the playing thereof, but the wires keep snapping and whipping back into my skin.

I’ve not actively hidden that this outwardly perceived “glamourous” L.A. life, one of flat interviews, empty-handed gallery sharking, and naked-around-the-apartment-with-cats chilling, has been overall and amongst other things, a three-months’-solid sausage fest. I had always resented being considered one of those girls who aren’t “like other girls” and hangs with the guys, perhaps mainly for existential reasons, but also because I had always been blessed with female friends- only spiked with instances of their abandon through no fault of any, really. I’ve always cherished my fellow female companions! But now, though I may be the one who moved so far, I feel like it’s more my girls who’ve moved on, not me. I must give patience, understanding, reverence for the fact that the majority of this handful are mothers- that I am either 2 or 3 hours “behind”. Behind, see. Perhaps 2,000 miles of separation really is ten times more than 200 miles in other places than the Earth’s surface.

The lines I draw- whether on the page, in the sand, across the map- are not to confine or define, but to connect and guide- the usual misunderstood artist’s cliche of the misdirected intent. Without banners and trumpets, my second soul smiling beneath my shoulder, with apprehension and no permission, I’ll push my line as far as she goes, so many faces detailing some huge and obscured self portrait.

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