This midwinter resurrection takes place in the Valley. Los Angeles, California, where I have been living for two months and a bit. In two days I fly home.
Until last week I lived in the office. Sometimes with colleagues – a rapper, an entrepreneur, a militantly disciplined former serviceman, an occasional photographer…the list goes on.
Then the CEO’s mother moved in. I fled the one bedroom apartment in Central Hollywood, where strange, fragmented, half-broken characters from across the States rolled in and out without much warning. While there, I became so convinced that I, as the only permanent fixture, was starring in a secret reality show I had someone check the place for cameras in my second fortnight. That episode-to-episode article retrospective will roll out in time.
The exotic, chaotic adventures that have punctuated this trip are first-class novel material. For now though, I am escaping the claustrophobic mania that goes with being boxed behind bars from dawn till dusk. Live-work spaces are not the one.