I used to dread the rain when I lived in London. But in a town like L.A. where you rarely get a season change, you kinda embrace the moment. The only problem is, unlike the famously written pavement sign in this photo, neither of us looked right after that day.

Dear Ether,

It rained yesterday in L.A.  The temperature and the wet puddles in the pavement reminded me so much of London.  English gent and I decided to celebrate by taking a walk along Melrose and Robertson (people probably thought we were mad—who celebrates rain, right?).  These famous roads felt like the closest thing to High Streets that we could conjure up.  Melrose was like a pathetic Camden—the punks in L.A. would have been beaten up by the kilt wearing ones in London.  Robertson was a bit like South Molton Street but a bit trendier.  Paparazzi got soaked trying to grab a picture of some celeb leaving The Ivy, their famous head blocked by a big black brolly.  We loved the sound of water rushing into the gutters and cars splashing the sidewalks.  It was a laugh to see the girls who were so L.A. wearing flip-flops and skirts shimmying about screaming in the rain unprepared for this seasonal change. 

English gent and I found a small café run by a Frenchman who embraced us smoking (he complained that he had no one to enjoy a good fag with in this city) and we ordered lattes and pastries and watched the world go by.  We were on a small side street and we played a game with ourselves that we were actually IN London.  We planned the rest of our day.  We were going to go to the National Portrait Gallery (I needed some new postcards to add to the fridge in the flat) and then off to the South Bank for a stroll leading us to the Tate where English gent would buy an overpriced art magazine.  If we had time, and the shops weren’t shut, I begged him if we could go to Liberty.  I wanted to see their bag collection for fall.  Finally, we’d watch the lights go on in Carnaby Street and stroll as shopkeepers shut their metal gates locking them until tomorrow’s punters made them come alive again.  Tired from our day, we’d grab the Number 54 bus and take it all the way to Golders Green where we’d grab food at the amazing kosher wrap restaurant where we’d dine with Orthodox Jews and Arabs and chew to the beat of Hebrew rap.  Finally, smoking an after dinner cigarette and sipping espressos, we’d head back towards Hampstead to our little flat and crash—me putting up my postcards and gent reading his overpriced art mag. 

After we played our imaginary game, I looked at English gent.  He was smoking his cigarette very slowly and staring at nothing. “What’s on your mind?” I asked.  He slowly turned to look at me and I saw his eyes were glassy.  “I’m so homesick.  I miss our routine.  I miss the hustle and bustle.  I really miss MY culture.  But really, I miss us.  This place has destroyed us.”  My throat closed and I began to cry.  I grabbed his hand—the same hand I held 8 years ago—when it was 19 and stained with nicotine from rollies and being a poor student—and I told him that I loved him so much.  That nothing could take away OUR London.  He stared at me and said, “It’s too late.  Look at what’s happened.  Look at what we are now.” The whole time he was gripping my hand it was so tight that his knuckles went white and my skin went red.  I knew that things HAD changed forever–even if we moved back to the UK.  

Ethers.  I had nothing to say.  He held on to my hand for dear life for a good minute and let it go.  We paid the bill.  Then, we got into my car and our London disappeared.  The concrete jungle that is L.A. reared its ugly head again and we sat in silence in traffic both our hearts aching knowing that in the past we were each other’s remedy, not sickness.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

I never gently fall to sleep. I try and set my mind to conjure happy memories. I reckon this is what I might look like whilst I dream. Hair tousled, lips slightly opened. I see myself slightly grainy. I am between two universes--one where I wish I could remain and one where my body lies. Some would say it would be hell to live in a memory. But what happens if your present is far more painful? Would YOU sleep, perchance to dream?

Dear Ethers, 

Have you ever had that empty feeling in your chest?  You know it.  The one where you breathe in and there feels like a huge hole and then a slight shiver of anxiety and pain.  This is exactly what I’ve been experiencing lately.  And I’ve looked at my last posts and realized that they have been so negative and I’m scared that they’re depressing you.  This is what always happens to me.  I make friends because I seem effusive and happy.  But as time roles on and life happens, I start to reveal myself and people get turned off by the real me.  The me that is a depressive.  A glass half-empty girl.  The scared, nail-biting to cover her face for protection, sleep all day, cry at night, girl who might look good on the outside but is crumbling on the inside.  See, I’ve never written a journal—especially a public one.  So, I don’t know what’s going to happen.  Will you all go away?  Or, in some sad, miserable way, does this bring you closer to me because either misery loves company or you feel sorry for me?   

Every night before I go to bed, I close my eyes and I try to conjure happy moments to try and calm myself.  I dream about things like the first time I met English gent and bought him a giant topiary (about 5 feet tall) I schlepped home from Columbia Road Market (on the tube) to surprise him.  He still gave me butterflies then.  I visualize me buttoning up my dad’s white shirt under his tux before he went to the Emmy’s.  He swore he wouldn’t win but I bought him a “No Fear” brand shirt that said “If you can’t win don’t play” that he wore underneath his fancy button down.  And all I hear is the booming sound when they announced his name while my brother and I were sitting in the audience that evening.  He let me carry the statue all night.  I dream of when I was a ballerina and got a lead part.  We were poor but my mom saved every penny and bought me the expensive pink tulle dress that I needed to perform and I swore to myself that I would dance my heart out that night and prove to her it was worth every cent. I still have that little pink dress in my closet—I never stored it because it reminded me to be humble.  I remember not wanting to read the last pages of “Gone With The Wind” because I didn’t want to lose Scarlett.  And that I left that damned book with 3 pages in it for a year before I had the heart to finish it.  And when I did, boy did I cry.  

Life is full of memories.  We all have them don’t we?  But that’s my point.  We are all so complicated.  Everyone has a story.  And we all love to hear the good ones.  But it’s when they turn ugly—we flee.  So when I lay in bed at night, I imagine being that girl with all the good stories to tell.  I dream of being only in the good moments and cutting away all of the ugly patches in my life.   Yes, I do take anti-anxiety medication to help lull me away.  To take away the ache.  How very sad.  I’m a broken machine that needs pills to fix it.  You know, I know so many people who are so happy with their lives.  And they never wanted for much.  They are in normal jobs, making normal money married to an everyday Joe.  Why couldn’t I want that?  Why did I have to want the world?  Why did I have to be a dreamer? What comes with dreams are risks, pain and loss.  

Ethers.  I want to run.  Bolt. Hide. Fade away.  Because then nothing new could hurt me and I could just cut away the shit and close my eyes everyday and I wouldn’t have to live in my dreams.  I relate to Scarlett when she said to Rhett “Where shall I go, what shall I do?” Because I don’t have anywhere to go AND I don’t know what to do.  And we all know what he answers….the famous line, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”  And then he walks in the fog.  But do you remember what she says?  “I’ll think of it all tomorrow….after all, tomorrow is another day.”  Yes, tomorrow IS another day…………but the nightmare is a perpetual tomorrow, AND tomorrow AND tomorrow…and the the fear of nobody left TO genuinely give a damn.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365