There's a condition in Los Angeles that affects one in one person who chooses to inhabit the disjointed Mecca. To use the title of a movie, which is only appropriate in this instance, I would call it Melancholia. Coincidentally, this condition contains faces not unlike the daze one associates with the film's star Kirsten Dunst. For many, it is escaped by drugs, parties and general fuckery. For the brooding, Bronte-type, however, festering is our pastime of choice. You fester, hope and occasionally dream. The dreaming takes on a feeling of fruitlessness after a time, and at that point you replace it with the lazy qualities settling so close to a beach inspires.
Ignoring it becomes easier with time, as you allow the 9-to-5 to become your livelihood and orgasm chasing to be your recreational activity. Melancholia hits all of us at one point or another. It cannot be avoided.
I write of it today with the admirable goal that I might set out to find a cure. I've decided to reverse my fortunes and look for the inspiration in the everyday. In between my shameless social media indulgences and Netflix binges, there might be a thought worth taking down. If I commit to diligence -- to take the five minutes it has taken to put together these few paragraphs -- maybe, just maybe, I'll strike upon a passage worthwhile, a thought with meaning, an obsession that takes me to new creative frontiers.
Melancholia, after all, can be experienced in all corners of this nation, but to submit to wasting the feeling in a place where opportunity to rise above is possible -- that would be the true tragedy.
This is step one of an aimless, but inspired, journey. Join me.