I’m alternatively sick of you and desperately wanting you. California’s less a place than a state of mind, the idea that blowing up in every direction will somehow make sense, that somehow we won’t run out of water, run out of money, run out of space or hit someone or something else and hurt it terribly.
And then the explosions create counter-explosions, chain-reactions of anger and ambition and pride and emotion and assertion against this cloud that stifles after the heat and light and pain subside.
Seriously, we’re all just one big fucking explosion in slow motion from the minute they found gold. Gold Rush, Hollywood, La Causa, the Blowouts, the Riots, the Recall – we’re just one gigantic goddamn blowup after another, and now we’re out of money and space and time to blow up and all we have now is resentment and disillusionment, which are basically nitro for the human soul.
I need some time away from the explosion, need to get out from under this mushroom cloud. I need to live somewhere a little less sprawling and crazy. Just for a little while; somewhere where the red winds don’t light fires in hearts and on homes, somewhere oleander does sent little girls into foster hell, somewhere where brown skin isn’t normal, somewhere not home, not you.
We’re going on a break, Maria, Nuestra Senora Reina de Los Angeles, you, me, and all your friends. I love you, but I need to see what else is out there beyond the mushroom cloud.