It's days like today that make me forget that there is anything of any interest, anywhere outside of LA. November 14th, 82 degrees, not a cloud in the sky. It's part of the reason LA is not a "dressy" town--partly, it's because it just doesn't feel right. It's like being at the beach--but with no sand. This is what I've been thinking about lately--the truly unique things about Los Angeles. This gilded desert town--where you can't buy happiness--but no matter who you are, everyone's allowed a piece of the luscious, saturated splendor that is the City of Angels. Ha. Angels, my ass.

Today, I understand what it means when people describe a place as "vulgar." This place is almost too much--too much beauty, colors that are too bright, and the blinding sunshine on top of it all that brings everyone out of hiding--until they learn not to come out 'till nightfall. It's the way the pollution layer settles in front of the setting Western sun, just in time to produce some of the most unique sunsets on the planet. It's the only city I've been to, so far, that successfully manages to turn bright orange into deep blue--skillfully, sultrily, with a signature all its own. Those specific colors intensely remind me of my childhood--full of unnaturally mild summer nights when the temperature of the air matched the exact temperature of one's blood, turning the air into something to touch, hold in your hands and release...if only for a few moments.

To this day, when the breeze brushes my cheek in that certain way, I stop and take it in--breathe deeply knowing that my breath, the trees, and sky are one. When there is no distinction between the air and my skin, the world is full of magic...