But can’t or think “can’t” until a proper, legible reckoning. Journals are in sanskrit and disappearing ink hence typed and posted, a real commitment to such has been made. And this likely only because New York and I have made up.
After years of grudging 3 month stands or month long stands or stands as long as work would dictate and would dictate often thanks to New York’s salacious tax break incentives, this current almost former 5 month stint has patched us up. I had written it off, New York, Brooklyn, all the boroughs, not so much because of any particular LCD Soundsystem-esque gripe–although i.e. “the Bowery" is merely a shadow of the already well-on-its-way -o-being-gentrified-but-relative-squalor of its circa 9/11 self when I was living there. Is it partly because New York and I are like oil and oil? I am a self-contained clusterfuck overpopulated by too many personalities, too much noise, and at a near constant Red level terror alert. But the antipathy that became more deeply fermented with each subsequent stint was in no small part due to the fact that I had finally come to terms with what was a fairly deed seated ambivalence about my Angeleno roots. I had and have come to be at near total peace (inasmuch as this a relative thing) with my roots and my home in Los Angeles and furthermore have waxed extensively about its virtues as source of inspiration–one, however, that lurks beneath the surface and required a certain amount of archeological-like exploration. But once dug deep you would find the BukowskiFante/Chandler/West "charm” of the place. There is something ghostly and wistful and eternally nostalgic in a way that it is almost heartbreaking and is surely illustrated by those purple nightfalls which silhouette the hills and the trees and their leaves and the sea and those Antonioni Santa Ana winds that caress the night. Plus, I often thought, this place, L.A., forces you to dig deep down into one’s self in a way that New York often simply does not require–with so much inspiration at nearly each and every doorstep–from Morningside to the east village to Staten Island. Staten Island? Yes, Staten Island.
But something changed this time. Perhaps all this digging deep in Los Angeles has lead to a more solipsistic existence. My “art”/“work” for which I rarely am paid or paid little–the two movies I made, this meta documentary thing, the two records–have by their detractors been accused of naval gazing–which in and of itself is not a bad thing if others are as enamored of your naval as you are. But beyond this minor revelation I simply connected with this city this time, albeit largely Brooklyn–largely the shamelessly now slick DUMBO (and the outlying neighborhoods) where we’ve been living . And no doubt this has more than a little to do with the arguably unhealthy extent to which I have re-embraced my love of film taking. Also even at our worst –like a shitty ex-lover–New York and I have always had a very fruitful song making relationship.
Whatever the reason and whichever the truth this is to say thank you New York and I’m sorry for all the trash talking these past many years. Still, you suck in the winter and I miss my car.