The Speciation of Me: In Matters of Indulgences and Abbreviated Lives.


Every word I type washes into oblivions of syllables. And here am I, alone in an apartment above a small Korean market place owned by Mr. Kim and his wife. I oftentimes hear them arguing in the late hours, and wonder if one of them would be kind enough to end the fight … or shoot themselves … so I might have a single, solid, blissful night's sleep. But they won't; they never shut up long enough to give me peace.

Peace: the word itself a foreign idea to me, sounding no more familiar than the language Ann Kim screams at her husband.

Regrettably, I can hear their voices vibrating through the floorboards, so I sit at my typewriter – circa vintage 1986 – and stare into a space of swirling smoke rising from my cigarette.

American Spirits: the brand of the late night crowds, meandering out of dive bars as they close at 2 A.M. My brand of people as well as smokes; I wrote about this kind of thing in my old life. Nowadays, I find myself an insomniac - thanks mainly to my neighbors, but also to the scattered thoughts flittering and littering my mind - and a wordless blob formerly known as a writer.

God. I fucking hate LA. This town is a joke; full of has-beens and wannabes, who always know so and so from "The Industry." Usually that certain so and so is a distant cousin of a friend's great aunt who lives on Fairfax and worked at an ad agency in the early 70s. Very cliché and irrelevant to say the least.

The truth which finds me in the heart of the infinite drama which is this insane city is jolting. A once promising career as an environmental columnist for a mid-sized publication out of Denver, has led me to this wallowing world of willowing palm trees and pinched, overdone noses from highly paid doctors of beautification. When my life was forced to uproot from the pleasant loft I owned, looking over the sprawling prairie and bowing before the majestic Rocky Mountains, I dug my toes into that red clayish dirt like a grove of aspens and fought until my skin was raw. Transferring to Los Angeles was never on the list of things I wanted to do. Ever.