The distinctive seatbelt ding of FlightTrackPro informed me your plane left the ground the very second the little green light of my hotel room door clicked open - our cosmic timing again tied together, albeit crossing opposing thresholds into very different & very distant, spaces. You hadn’t responded to my text, not because you didn’t have the time, but because you continually want to remain aloof & show that you are indifferent to me.
That is, if Scott’s mother refused to relinquish subliminal control over my days, my choices and my womb. The irony to me has always been that had she just let go a little - I would have given her the best of what she desired & more... If only she had let it be my choice to make.
“So what was Hobart like?” he asked me once we settled into our balance on the trapezes, headed straight out to Mother Pacific in the exact opposite direction of the above mentioned sail.
“It changed who I am,” I replied, and then it was quiet, other than the wind.
When people discuss the Nor-Cal/SoCal Feud, my defense remains that San Fran is a segregated city where cultures choose to remain in the locales of their own comfort zones whereas in LA, we tend to pierce one another’s social circles daily - crashing into plans & other’s ways of doing things relentlessly.
I was a teenager when I started going out in the city & every chance I got, I'd suggest we wander by The Standard on Sunset Blvd to catch a glimpse of The Box Girl on display for the night.