Downtown dreams and Hollywood nightmares. That’s all I’ve got in my mental reservoir.
When we lived outside of Echo Park, a sturdy but doable stroll to DTLA… I was so inspired by the diverse pocket-sized communities you could filter in and out of within a matter of blocks. The angular concrete and the sleek glass sidings on the high rises reflected the panorama of green hills and jagged slopes beyond. With the setting sun, the contrast between light and shadow on the buildings mimicked the harsh shadows on the mountains beyond. It was a yin yang beauty between urban and wild. It was easy to feel at ease, because it was like being in two extremes at once, and if there’s anything I am it is all or nothing, baby.
But no. A round of bad bets and misinformed calculations dropped us down into the armpit of the 101, Hollywood and Highland, AKA Hollyhell. Piss and shit clogged sidewalks, parking tickets even WITH a permit, ratty apartment managers who seem to think utilities are just for looks, and the noisy static of pretension and YOLO into the wee hours of the morning. No view, no hope, no variety. Living in the belly of a washed-up trust fund baby hag that is so out of touch that she doesn’t even care that her friends are only there for her money.
Living here makes me hate it here. Living here in this traffic infested, tourist congestion, I’m-so-special complexed place makes me wish that I was anywhere else. I want to scratch and peal it all away and cross my fingers that, underneath, there’s something fresh, and the possibility of starting anew. For now, it all remains washed out–blanched in the forgiveless, dry sun, too close to all the lights to see any kind of big picture.