playing in san diego
As a fervent contrarian who has always “loved winter” and “hated beaches”, San Diego has arrived like a shock to my system. I shared a glass of wine with the elderly woman who sat next to me on the JetBlue flight, where I was randomly selected for a row 4 seat. Ann explained that it's important to inhale when you step out of the airport, because here the air actually feels good going down.
The Californian aesthetic is leisurely, and the vocal fry is the enlightened form of communication. I’m learning that the Californian accent does not signal simpleness. Instead, the drawl shows someone operating on a higher plane, removed from the expectations of modern dialect and conversation. I match the tone of the cashier at the vintage store and we might as well be best friends.
California allows us to prioritize Kanye. We sit in the sun and listen to him profess through IGTV, then analyze each word as our skin turns pink. He is our Shakespeare and our Joker, and he propels us to think. In philosophizing Kanye, we giggle about wars and are silenced by the homeless encampments that line the downtown streets.
Everyone in a retirement town is excited to get in a joke, no one is in a rush. I listen in at the coffee shop to the posse of geriatrics, one woman screeching a line the best writer could only conceive of in their dreams: “she’s the one with the PHD, You’re the one with the diagnosis!” While driving down the city streets at 60mph, a lone man sits on a bench on a deserted stretch and waves at the sparse passing cars. I catch his eye and wave back, and both of our euphoria is instantaneous. I must have been his first connection of the day, and he mine. Ann points out her favorite beaches and where she smoked weed in high school.
While strolling in the gardens, we are approached by a faceless figure. A distinguishable voice asks if we might be interviewed for a youtube project. I place the voice, and release a sigh of relief when she reveals the prompt is not her typical “call your crush” but rather a question: what is an interaction with a stranger that you recall? Starstruck and shakingly, I explain when I was catcalled on Broadway by a man who called me “a young Katharine Hepburn.” She asks more questions. I want to be an actress, she wants to direct. We exchange phone numbers.
In California, we play and then crawl into bed, exhausted like children after a long day. No number of beachside naps could prohibit a good night’s sleep.
I do not recall my life in images or stillness, not in isolated incidents. As I have been called out for many times, I live my life as a movie and remember it as such, with a soundtrack and all. It makes little sense to document it in any other way then, doesn’t it? I’m turning the blog off password protection because I’m not embarrassed to share any longer.
https://youtu.be/gzc60xN2FMM
