I dream in L.A.

Can you have survivor’s guilt if you no longer live there?

What right do I have to mourn somewhere I chose to leave?

A place I probably complained about more than I ever celebrated it?

The traffic, the grind, the heat…

But, oh, how I loved my pockets of peace...

One of my happy places was on our deck with our dogs overlooking the San Fernando Valley. We lost this house to the ‘94 Northridge Quake shortly after this was taken.

Friendships that have withstood the tests of time: losses, DUIs, betrayals, divorces, babies, mental illnesses, a pandemic, and now, this…

Those expansive beaches where you feel like the only person in a city of millions.

How neighborhoods that swarmed with people and honking cars during the day could suddenly become silent at night, other than the rustling of trees.

My tiny apartments that transformed into grand sanctuaries, when contrasted against the daily headaches of traffic and parking.

The many, many wood floors that caught my sweat and tears like a mother’s bosom. Yoga studios that became the Universe’s tissue box.

My dog walks and coffee routes where I met baristas who quickly became friends, and eventually family.

It always amazed me that you could drive the same street for miles and pass through entire worlds. From the sea to Dodger Stadium in a single shot.

What right do I have to feel so unsettled when the skies around me are clear and blue?

Many people dream in their native language. I dream in L.A.

I’m often in my last family home on 14th and Georgina with its poor lighting and odd lay-out. Where my mum’s upstairs bedroom became her hospital room. It was the last place we ever had a conversation.

Her ashes now mix with the ashes of so many lives off PCH.

Oh, PCH.

Are the dolphins still jumping? I’ve never needed to know anything more.

That expanse from the California Incline to Malibu was more healing than any therapist’s office. I would come down from the Bay just to drive it.

After we lost our first baby I needed PCH. I needed to go to the dolphins.

Like so many, I heal the moment my tires hit the asphalt or my feet touch the soft sand.

Almost 30 years ago. My mum’s bakery Sweet Dreams LA was a few blocks from this bus stop and that gal to my left is still on of my very best friends.

Everything started and everything ended for me in L.A.

The first time I fell in love.

The last time someone broke my heart.

The first time I experienced death.

The last time I faced such loss.

The first friends I ever had.

The longest friends I’ve ever had.

The loss is incomprehensible. The damage irreparable.

Those closest to me tell me it’s a “war zone,” “a ghost town,” and “business as usual” all at the same time. How can that be?

My home.

How can it be that there are so many people trying to survive and revive, and yet I sit up here in Northern California comfortable and safe?

The images of decimation filter my vision everywhere I turn.

I see our Marin neighborhood turned to dust. I smell whole live’s burning. The winds flare up or a siren goes off and I am ready to flee. Ready to fight. Ready to do something.

But I am here. I am safe.

I left.

I left…

So, I will gather the clothes and the essentials. I will open my home and send all my money.

I will get on a fucking plane. I will drive my car down tonight.

I am ready to help.

I NEED to help.

But instead, I’m here.

I’m here.

I’m here, safe with my family, tending to bedtime and scraped knees.

The guilt for not being able to do something… for choosing this safe place to live my life…for abandoning my L.A….will be my own self-created inferno.