Thoughts on Los Angeles

Los Angeles is not a city, but a glorified collection of suburbs brimmed at the surface with overstuffed human life. Each suburb feels distinct in one’s memory. The landscape equates to an amalgamation of places that look like any place else. Traveling through Los Angeles reflects maneuvering an infringed labyrinth of patented places. You’ll get lost only because each neighborhood appears transplanted from one’s memory. You’ve seen it. You’ve driven in it. Perhaps you’ve lived in it. The familiarity muddles the mind, leaving the traveler perplexed in a present reality stitched with passed memories. The seams don’t stitch seamlessly. It feels like a hodgepodge quilt displaying the variance in the American condition. No seam bonds the patches. They live alone, gentrified from within, sporting an elitist passion. Inhabitants bounce along the patches. The reckless of the city’s quilt hinders self-association with a tangible greater. Inhabitants murk along in dizzied oblivion. Inconsistency inhibits inhabitants from achieving melded attachment to a holistic body. Instead, their sense of belonging is forced to hail from the self. Their deep concern of the self retards the human capacity to seek beyond what’s known; what’s present. They favor the surface: agreeable banter; quaffed exteriors; attachment to numerable objects; appreciation for beauty in it’s simplest form. Poor Angelenos have been too long incapacitated by the tactless architecture of their imprisonment to long for a deeper stimulation. Driving; sunshine; beach; traffic; coffee; alcohol; exercise; makeup; sex; party; meditation; quiet; drugs; television; nature; entertainment. Each word takes the definition of it’s most surface meaning. Do we pity them? Or do we envy them? To live a life of reckless, able self absorption without blame challenges classic hedonism. They are victims of their residence. Their intellect was murdered while their minds floated in the cloudy comfort of a prolonged exhale.