Getting A Grip

in the simulation's shadow

Above my head, the crows are shouting hot takes from one tree to another. We have a heavy crow population in Atwater, sometimes I see more crows than people in a day.

There are certain pockets of LA that are more of a studio backlot than a real place. Where I live, the trees are nondescript and seasonal, palm trees are few and far between. The houses and apartment buildings are small and well kept. The flat streets curve but not too much, maintaining a low-key agenda. The design is very Anywhere, USA. To me this feels novel, because I’m so accustomed to living in neighborhoods with a heavy dose of LA’s singularity. 

I walk my dog every day, so I’ve grown familiar with the jagged cracks in the sidewalks, the yard patrolled by that fierce German Shepard. The overripe lawns next to dusty succulent patches with signs that say Please Curb Your Dog as if the prickly cacti offer a desirable space. 

Who lives in these houses?

If I was a little closer to the brink, I’d surely try to break the façade. I would breeze through the flimsy iron gate, press my weight against the crisp blue door and prepare for the entire structure to collapse. I can’t believe all of these homes are made of concrete, wood, steel. There must be a couple fillers, with painted cardboard garages and plaster trees. I never see anyone come in or out, I can tell you that. Maybe it’s just weird because I grew up in apartment complexes, where your own shoulders shrug with the neighbor’s morning sigh. 

On days when I feel like a character trapped on the set of a network series, I look to the mountains. When I step onto the sidewalk in front of my house, the San Gabriels come into view. I don’t know how to explain the relationship between a human and a mountain in the distance, other than saying it is deeply intimate. We share no words, but many long looks. Sure, sometimes the sun washes out the contrast of the mountain face. It looks suspiciously like a backdrop, something printed in haste to add depth. But wait a few hours: light moves. Soon the mountain will form a new expression. 

It’s important to have a few constants to draw you back into reality. Especially in a town like LA, a stack of simulations bound together by a few strands of meaning. Growing up, my dad worked in a fancy restaurant, serving wild boar risotto to stars, politicians, playwrights, philanthropists. Eli and Edythe Broad were regulars, he saw Gwyneth and Brad kiss before the tabloids caught wind of their perfect 90s romance. On weekends, I would stay awake till 1am, waiting for my dad to come home so I could ask him two questions: who did you wait on and how much money did you make in tips. 

As a result, I learned what the famous people ate and who tipped over 20%. 

At home, the TV was always on, filled with famous people. My mom and I would watch three movies a night. She would slip in and out of drug induced sleep, while I studied every scene, barely blinking. Once a movie was on, I’d let it play, even if I’d seen it four times over. It was like my friends were hanging out. I didn’t want to be rude and ask them to leave early. 

The lines blurred, until I thought the only course of action was to enter the screen myself. Now we can all do this by condensing into the 9:16 aspect ratio. But back then, you had to be selected. I did theatre in high school, had a lot of fun, won some awards. Of course, I thought, next stop Meryl Streep. There wasn’t a rhyme or reason, just LA’s influence—which is nonsensical in the best way. 

In the months after graduating high school, I took two meetings with agents. The first told me I had a great look, but I needed to fix my teeth before they could find me a role. The second let me do a couple monologues and I think he offered to take me on as a client. But the entire interaction was so weird—even standoffish—I left without knowing what had transpired. I woke up the morning after the second meeting feeling like I’d shed a skin, sticky with illusions. My shiny idea of acting was sand blasted, no longer refracting my dream. Navigating the weirdness of agents was just a fraction of the real show business.

All the fun I had in high school theatre was a long ways away. It hit me: I didn’t want to act as a job, I wanted to access that feeling of connection, of vitality, of excitement. The stage was just a single vessel for that experience. Why would I limit myself? 

The last thing I wanted was to set myself up for a life of creative constraints—even under the guise of artistic passion. I couldn’t have someone telling me how to look, when to work, with so little room for mistakes. 

It was a big prize realization to have at 20, especially after telling a number of people that my 10 year plan was “Meryl Streep or Amy Adams”. 

I got a grip. It would be my first of many grips. After so many years of living in the world of TV, I had to find reality. At the time it felt like a niche problem, but now we all live with one foot in the simulation. Many of us are running multiple simulations at any given time. We toggle seamlessly between personalities, occupying the work flow emails, the current events, the travel blogs, the edge lords, the family group chat. The grip slips as we fling between realities.

That’s why I love the mountains. They’re just one big mood. The product of earth’s plates fusing together, the pressure of movement forming ripples in the stone. Some mountain ranges, like the Adirondacks, continue to grow as magma presses from the center of the earth. Like what???? That’s crazy. We just hike on these things and take them at face value. 

More and more, I want to find myself rooted in reality. It’s fun to dabble in the various simulations, but I don’t want to lose the inner workings of my being.

When I need to come back, I remember loneliness and boredom. While not exactly the same, they create a similar internal space. Any simulation will try to fill that gap with a copy of a copy of true fulfillment. The shoddy facsimile will just make the void bigger, leaving you more hungry for substance. 

So sitting with the boredom, with the loneliness, I can confirm my reality. I’m here, a human with emotions that aren’t always exciting. 

I delete the apps that feed my simulations, I sit down at my desk and just stare at the curtains. There are no special patterns on the fabric, just a light beige. The sun brightens the fibers, but makes no images with shadow. 

Then I can think, slowly, for myself. It will happen, but I can’t look for it with a fixed gaze. I must hold space in the periphery. Simulations always present themselves with a forward step. It is front facing, it is obvious.

The self comes in waves. It sweeps under your feet and swells around your hips. You know the feeling, even if you couldn’t tell me one single word. It’s like talking with a mountain in the distance. Intimate and beyond understanding, finally something real.