Los Angeles is 72 suburbs in search of a city. –Dorothy Parker
I don’t know how to say this except to come out and say it; I don’t love L.A anymore. And also, I still really love L.A. I don’t love the density, the traffic, the pollution, the concrete, the sprawl. In fact, I hate those things. I don’t love the industry anymore so that holds no sway over me. But here are the things that trip me up. L.A. is a cool place to live. There’s a lot going on here. A lot of museums, a lot of events, a lot of music, theatre, cool people. There is an exciting energy here, even if I don’t really feel like I’m a part of it. I don’t even necessarily want to be a part of it, but I like being around it. I think it might be cool that Zelda will be able to say she’s from L.A. But why should I care about that? It’s such a superficial thing. Is it because I felt uncool telling people that I was from Sacramento? I didn’t though; I always felt pride. But the people on whom I bestowed that information met me with apathy at best, pity at worst. I never thought Sacramento was a place to be pitied, not at all. I love it with all my heart. But still, it was there. People who were from L.A., they were cool. They were interesting. They made people lean in upon introduction.
But who cares about all of that? I should care more about building up my daughter’s character than her reputation. But still, it’s there. Roiling around.
Los Angeles gives one the feeling of the future more strongly than any city I know of. A bad future, too, like something out of Fritz Lang’s feeble imagination. –Henry Miller
And would I be sad to no longer be a person who lives in L.A.? There are opportunities here. The music scene is one of many that I’ll highlight. I’m going to five amazing concerts this fall and it’s because I’m in L.A. No way that Dawes, Flaming Lips, the Killers, Arctic Monkeys, and Polyphia would all tour in the same region within three months of each other anywhere else but New York or L.A. It’s amazing. And music is a huge priority in my life right now. I would miss that. If I moved up north, I’d be driving to San Francisco a lot, and surely I’d still miss a lot of good music.
I feel called to the mountains. I always do. I’m meant to live with one arm reaching around a tree and the other reaching toward the sea. The most perfect place for me to be is Santa Cruz because it offers both, right up against each other. But Santa Cruz is as expensive as L.A, if not more.
“Every man should pull a boat over a mountain once in his life.” - Werner Herzog
Which leads me to the house debate. For the first time in our lives, we could consider buying a house. So what does that mean living in one of the most expensive cities in the country? It means we could buy a crappy condo in somewhere like Lomita for a mortgage that we could technically afford but would be twice what we’re paying now in rent. We’d lose our amazing ocean view, our amazing neighborhood, access to trails, access to the beach. In return, we’d get an investment, I guess.
That’s one option.
For about the same amount of money, we could keep our apartment that we love and buy a tiny cabin in the San Bernardino mountains. The price of that mortgage plus our current rent would still be less than the mortgage for a house in L.A. proper. (Which is so insane.) We could rent out the house, have some income that way, and still get something of an investment albeit one that will likely appreciate more slowly and will dwell in hazardous fire country.
But I’d get my mountain house.
“The mountains are calling, and I must go.” - John Muir
But do I even like the San Bernardinos enough to buy a house there? They are somewhat poor placeholders for my beloved Sierra Nevadas or coastal redwoods. And they’re pretty dense with houses. You go up to the mountains in Big Bear and in some places it’s like you’re in the Hollywood Hills, the houses are so close together. Would I even get the solitude I so desire?
Do we say fuck it and buy a house in Nevada City like I’ve always dreamed? Mendocino maybe? We could afford the purchase now but what would we do for jobs when we got there? The reason we could afford a house there is because we make L.A. salaries (very low on the spectrum L.A. salaries but still). Would I make enough working up there to support owning a home? Would taking such a big leap be the push I need to devote some time to writing and sell a book? Would I miss L.A.? Would I miss my job? Miss my friends? Miss the Hollywood Bowl?
And I love my job. The work we’re doing is important. For my administrative career, it doesn’t get better than this.
I am in a weird place. Some might call it a crisis of the midlife, or so I’ve been told. Some people buy sports cars, I want a cabin.
This I know to be true. We have found ourselves perched on the outer fringes of a city about which I feel ambivalent, to put it mildly. I love San Pedro. I love the ocean. I love the peninsula on which I live. It’s like a little piece of paradise that some giant is holding out over the ocean from a stinky pile of dirty cement. But I have to drive into the cement three days a week, and it’s getting to me. I love things about this place, but are they enough? Isn’t life too short to not place yourself exactly where you’re happiest? Or am I being ridiculously idealistic? Such privilege I have to even consider such things. Is this a case of, if you can’t be with the land you love, love the land you’re with?
I think I’d get itchy anywhere. It’s just what I do. I’ve said this before and I’ll never stop, my enduring love and twitterpation for Brad is nothing short of a miracle because I am an unfortunately fickle person. If I stay in one place too long, I don’t feel settled. I feel stuck. My marriage is a true exception to that. Maybe I should try and learn from my marriage. I think the reason I don’t feel a seven-year-itch with Brad is because I’m endlessly curious about him. There’s always something new to learn about each other, because we are always vulnerable with each other and vulnerability is like a cabinet of curiosities. Full of new and fascinating surprises. Sometimes the surprises are scary. Sometimes they’re tender. They are always interesting. Maybe I need to act this way with my city. Open myself up to it a little more. Stay curious. I know one thing is for certain, no one wants to hear me complain. If you’re reading this, sorry for the gripes. I know that no one likes a whiner.
I don’t know what our next move is. I’ll keep meditating on it, praying about it, writing about it. Something will present itself. Until then, it’s home to the peninsula. Our refuge. We don’t own anything there, but we are happy.