^ To Paul: Life For Rent | Dido
I first met Paul a few years ago, some months after I moved here to southern California to help Mom take care of Dad (who died a month after I arrived). I was hoping to start a few new friendships. Los Angeles in general was never truly compatible with me but I was determined at the time to defy that.
L.A. had strikes against me. I don't drive and don't own a car and no plans to (you can't ever fault me, then, for polluting the planet that way), and here everything is spread so far apart in a sprawl that those of us who don't motor around are screwed out of a social life. L.A. tends to be largely non-intellectual so there's little hope there of such stimulation, few people want to talk about ideas and issues. Maybe too much of a mild sunny climate tends to numb them.
Paul isn't an L.A. native, though. He's originally from Texas. It's a different state of mind there. I've never been to Texas, but I heard it's friendly and earthy in a way that southern California could never be. Paul brought some of that friendliness and earthiness with him and shared it with me either through email or the very scant but enriching times we hung out together over dinner or coffees. We didn't talk about literature or Socrates or Rothko. But I loved his sharing with me his life experiences and talking about his kids. I mean, when I'm not talking about art and ideas I share experiences and stories myself. I did that a lot with my friends Nikki and Johnny in Chicago, and with Kristin and Joey in San Francisco. That's what matters, too, and even more so.
In fact, Paul was good for me that way, distracting me from the shallowness of these parts. I myself grew up in Chicago, I'd like to think I possess some of that groundedness Midwesterners are known for combined with streetsmarts from living as a kid on the urban thresholds of gang turfs and ethnic neighbourhoods and taking the bus to museums downtown.
I hated that I couldn't cultivate friendships here. Paul at the time lived in Long Beach and I live in South Pasadena. That's what, a 10,000 mile distance? It was aggravating, the inability to be spontaneous. Hey, meet you at cafe in an hour? No. Let's have a drink at that bar down the street? No. Come over and watch this movie with me? No.
And so, sadly, I wasn't able to develop a real bond with Paul that I was hoping for, like I had with my friends in Chicago or San Francisco, though those bonds were years in the making. It made me hate more the way L.A. was set up. I quietly cursed the fact that this town was made for pollution emitting cars, not human beings.
Then I received that email from Paul thanking everyone for their support. He just had a triple bypass surgery and is in recovery, surrounded by his friends and family. Never had I suddenly felt so insular and far removed as when I read it. Like when a disaster visits a town and everyone pitches in to help victims out and by the time there's relief and even a celebration it's only perchance I hear about it, because I live on the outskirts of that town. I felt useless.
I'm very happy that Paul is doing well now, I just wish I'd been there to cheer him on. Guess I'm not much of an angel like that, like his friends who get to see him more often are. He's totally into angels, you see. But I'm deeply happy for him. I know how it feels to hinge like that emotionally and physically, been there myself in my own way.
He'll be fine, he's resilient like that.
I did promise him dinner out next month, after I return from spending the holidays with my family in Chicago. Perhaps our next meeting will trigger me to be so defiant once again.
Fuck you L.A., I want to see my friend Paul and you will not stop me ever again.
If my life is for rent,
And I don't learn to buy,
Well, I deserve nothing more than I get
'Cause nothing I have is truly mine.
L.A. had strikes against me. I don't drive and don't own a car and no plans to (you can't ever fault me, then, for polluting the planet that way), and here everything is spread so far apart in a sprawl that those of us who don't motor around are screwed out of a social life. L.A. tends to be largely non-intellectual so there's little hope there of such stimulation, few people want to talk about ideas and issues. Maybe too much of a mild sunny climate tends to numb them.
Paul isn't an L.A. native, though. He's originally from Texas. It's a different state of mind there. I've never been to Texas, but I heard it's friendly and earthy in a way that southern California could never be. Paul brought some of that friendliness and earthiness with him and shared it with me either through email or the very scant but enriching times we hung out together over dinner or coffees. We didn't talk about literature or Socrates or Rothko. But I loved his sharing with me his life experiences and talking about his kids. I mean, when I'm not talking about art and ideas I share experiences and stories myself. I did that a lot with my friends Nikki and Johnny in Chicago, and with Kristin and Joey in San Francisco. That's what matters, too, and even more so.
In fact, Paul was good for me that way, distracting me from the shallowness of these parts. I myself grew up in Chicago, I'd like to think I possess some of that groundedness Midwesterners are known for combined with streetsmarts from living as a kid on the urban thresholds of gang turfs and ethnic neighbourhoods and taking the bus to museums downtown.
I hated that I couldn't cultivate friendships here. Paul at the time lived in Long Beach and I live in South Pasadena. That's what, a 10,000 mile distance? It was aggravating, the inability to be spontaneous. Hey, meet you at cafe in an hour? No. Let's have a drink at that bar down the street? No. Come over and watch this movie with me? No.
And so, sadly, I wasn't able to develop a real bond with Paul that I was hoping for, like I had with my friends in Chicago or San Francisco, though those bonds were years in the making. It made me hate more the way L.A. was set up. I quietly cursed the fact that this town was made for pollution emitting cars, not human beings.
While my heart is a shield,
And I won't let it down,
While I am so afraid to fail,
So I won't even try,
Well, how can I say I'm alive?
Then I received that email from Paul thanking everyone for their support. He just had a triple bypass surgery and is in recovery, surrounded by his friends and family. Never had I suddenly felt so insular and far removed as when I read it. Like when a disaster visits a town and everyone pitches in to help victims out and by the time there's relief and even a celebration it's only perchance I hear about it, because I live on the outskirts of that town. I felt useless.
I'm very happy that Paul is doing well now, I just wish I'd been there to cheer him on. Guess I'm not much of an angel like that, like his friends who get to see him more often are. He's totally into angels, you see. But I'm deeply happy for him. I know how it feels to hinge like that emotionally and physically, been there myself in my own way.
He'll be fine, he's resilient like that.
I did promise him dinner out next month, after I return from spending the holidays with my family in Chicago. Perhaps our next meeting will trigger me to be so defiant once again.
Fuck you L.A., I want to see my friend Paul and you will not stop me ever again.
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