I moved from Wichita, Kansas to Winston-Salem, North Carolina. From North Carolina to Houston. From Houston to Phoenix. From Phoenix to Portland, Oregon. From Portland to New York. From New York to San Francisco. From San Francisco to Boise, Idaho. From Boise to Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina. From North Carolina to Austin. And today I live in Los Angeles.

This is the way I like it.

I flew up and up and up, past the no trespassing signs and landed on a ranch in the San Gabriels, on the green part of the map, where there’s a bird’s eye view of every single thing. There’s a donkey up here and a llama and a horse, 5 goats and some chickens and I heard coyotes screaming bloody-murder last night, right outside my door. Cobra and I run down and up the twisting road and across the terror bridge every morning and he has never known joy like this. The swimming pool is empty and was just painted sky blue except for one perfect square around the steps that’s still the chipped history of the old pool. A new, kind neighbor pops out from behind an old school bus every day and I don’t know exactly who belongs here and who is visiting. I don’t know if I am visiting. Art work is indistinguishable from nature. A bee stung me on the cheek.

I only come down from the mountain when I want to and that’s so far what I can count on one hand. Much of the first week I was asleep, repaying an accrued debt from a very long span of time. I have such a history in LA and everywhere I go brings up a memory that makes me smile.

I’ve connected with 4 beautiful friends so far. One friend is moving away and his going away hotel-themed-costume-party was a college course in the movie industry. I ask every person I meet to explain their entire career to me. I try Kratom Tea before I go and all night I feel bright and thankful. I still don’t understand why it takes 14 people to write a TV show.

One friend gave me his requisite Excel spreadsheet of everything there is to do here that is part of the Zeitgeist and took me to Dim Sum and cactus shopping. He pointed out the sea cucumbers in a tank when we first walked in as did every white person who entered after him. I secretly wanted to point too. They are gross and look like monster dicks.

One friend is here temporarily because her mother just passed away and I am thankful to be here in presence, even if consolation is impossible. Always impossible. It’s still a gift to be with people you love in their pain.

One friend gave me an astounding course in composing for film and I am proud to know such talented people.

The planet is a gorgeous onion that you can open up and up and up and discover infinity. Sometimes I feel desperate to eat it all before my chance is up.