A funny thing happens when I get back to LA.
Don’t get me wrong, I love New York. I’m hooked on New York. I still feel like a New Yorker ten years after I left that crazy city. I have an emotional response when I get off the 6 train at Astor Place. New York is home, but LA can be divine.
Yes, dating sucks in LA. For that matter, people can suck in LA. But remove the people, and you have a pretty great place.
There is something magical about feeling the sun on the skin — in February. Being able to throw on a dress and sandals and not needing a coat. Going for dog walks and not fighting for space on the sidewalk (sure, there often isn’t a sidewalk, but at least they exist in my neighborhood). Going for dog walks and being surrounded by green — grass, trees, hills, flowers — in February.
LA is very nursing home, this is true, but convalescing can be nice. After a week in NYC, LA feels therapeutic. It’s quiet, it’s warm, it’s healing. It’s an excellent place to be a writer. It’s hard to stay home in NYC. It’s hard to focus on the worlds in your head when the world outside is so demanding and stimulating and hectic. In LA, I can be home and not hear a sound (even with the door and windows open).
Sure, it can feel like purgatory as I sit tethered to my desk, but it’s a good purgatory. It’s a productive purgatory. I’m producing content, and by producing content, I’m downloading it out of my brain and into organized words and sentences on my computer, which also feels therapeutic. There are so many words in there, and NYC just adds more, so after a while my brain starts to feel like a clusterfuck. The discharge is essential.
As is the comfort of home. Let’s hear it for quiet, sunny dog walks, and the joys of routine.
I may get bored in a week, but for now it feels good.