That Cali Life

My patients actually are The Californians. They bring me avocados. And self-treat surgical ailments with inhaled herbs and acupuncture. And don't want to cross the 405. Even the natureopaths want plastic surgery. And they all distrust my youth.

I don't know how blondes do it.  I cannot open my eyes past a slit in any level of sunlight. If it's possible to sunburn your corneas, I've done it. The entire West would have been closed to me before the advent of polarized lenses. The hat game isn't just sarcastic.

Becoming a Californian means back to having no reserve. Hot in the sun. Shivering in the shade. Either way it's 70 degrees. Backup totes stocked with emergency sweaters, spare flats for spontaneous urban hikes, and that once-in-a-blue-moon-I'm-actually-feeling-saucy-enough bright red lip gloss.

my local obnoxious juicery

My water comes with an artisanal eyedropper of a mysterious green elixir [to aid in digestion] and my organic hot towel is consciously biodegrading before my eyes with the activated charcoal it was served in.

I now know what a fresh juice cleanse tastes like when it is no longer fresh nor cleansing.

I suddenly love the smell of sandalwood and palo santo, despite no previous experience as a canyon woman.

My hair continues to bleach itself into a natural balayage.

We can daytrip two hours to a farming valley, to visit the top of a geographic mound [somewhere between hill and mountain-sized] to lightly ring a meditation gong and release our inner demons [and tepid disappointments]. But mostly to swirl wine around and pretend we understand the flavors of a stepped-upon slice of pizza [the notes of this particular local Sangiovese were: oregano, rosemary, tomato plant and wet earth]. And get that glorious sunset shot.

Oranges plucked [i.e. stolen] from the tree [by adamdr] taste the sweetest.

I frequently lose myself on random drives through the urban jungle, GPS silenced. Straggled up a disused fire road in Griffith Park. Soaked up the harsh elements on an exposed rock in the center of the tired Los Angeles River. Spied on the most artfully manicured *dream* backyard amongst abandoned lots, untamed cacti and barbed wire fences. The co-mingle of the breathtaking and the desolate. All of L.A. is game of "Homeless or Hipster"; I am no exception. Wore the same pair of black leggings all weekend. Binge dressing.

The quotes I read about Los Angeles reference the vapidness, the loneliness, the grittiness. It is mostly omitted from my photo-feed, but I'm not oblivious to it. The sleaze of the Sunset Strip. The smell of the wide open asphalt and it's predecessor the tarpits. The aggressive panhandlers of Hollywood Blvd. The uneasy feeling when someone with untreated mental illness walks directly toward you, berating you as "the white BITCH" with escalating volume. And you know you are the white bitch in someone else's neighborhood. There are many places I have done a drive-by but not felt comfortable traipsing through by myself. I don't watch the news, but I've poured over the semi-fictional horror stories of murder and vice enough to know I don't want to be found gutted and mutilated because I was seeking the perfect adventure selfie.

It's been 9 months.