The other night I took a walk around my neighborhood just as the sun blinked into dusk and the stars took their invisible place in the city sky. I was in LA for just two days after a month of being away. I rode Boyfriend’s coattails for month, following his work travels in the name of self isolation. It was a DIY writing camp. I wandered around my temporary lodgings with a laptop in hand, perching on the terrace, the pool deck, the patio, the fire escape. I waded into corridors of my memories, allowing myself to feel the past for extended periods.
I know this specific intention gave wind to my sails, grounding my daily routine within an unpredictable trajectory. I didn’t feel especially homesick—even when I was laying down diatomaceous earth (salt for bugs) in New York, or in Miami where I had to wait ten minutes for an elevator ride to the 26th floor. When I got a cold in London, I was more focused on rest than I was the lack of familiar comforts. The only time I felt homesick in Marseille was the day after the Oscars, when I saw a photo of Steven Spielberg documenting his In-N-Out burger with his iPhone. He’s just like me for real. Spielberg went to both restaurants I worked at in LA—once I carried a giant platter of nachos to his Land Rover as part of a medium size catering order.
This unplanned writing mission would have been impossible for a past version of myself—even The Me of three years ago. Our big family trips took the shape of monthly treks from West LA to West Covina. We’d pack up the tin can Buick with peanut butter sandwiches and blankets and books and CDs. We made the journey so my mother could stock up on opioid prescriptions from a self-proclaimed Pain Management Specialist. We did this every month for at least seven years, stopping at the Forever 21 in the Plaza West Covina to get cheap leggings and spaghetti strap camis. Even before I was born, my parents claimed cars as their main mode of transportation. They crisscrossed the country playing their indie rock music, sleeping in their convertible for months on end. Planes were mythological creatures. My mother and I observed their oblong bodies from the bedroom window. Aviation remained abstract: shapes forming lines in the sky, somehow carrying thousands of souls to my city.
My first bout of homesickness came when I was 11. We travelled by plane (huge) to Chicago, gathering with my dad’s big family to celebrate my Grandparents 50th anniversary. The entire experience felt just like a movie. You have cousins, they have names, we go to a restaurant where they serve slices of cake on plates. The adults stand with champagne flutes, offering up mysterious memories about camping and dogs. Needless to say, it was amazing. Until the whirlwind slowed and I found myself standing in parking lot outside of a dance hall where my cousin’s band was playing. The room bubbled with my cousin’s friends and some family members. It was objectively a good time. I had no idea who these smiling people were. The laughter, the beer, the neon signs, the moderate swaying of hips and shuffling of feet. It felt just like a movie. Somehow, this scene broke me.
I got myself out of that dance hall, taking on the character of Girl Who Steps Out to Get Some Air. I wandered aimlessly, breathing as one does, but the parking lot air had nothing for me. I was still surrounded by the unfamiliar— dozens of declarative license plates: ILLINOIS LAND OF LINCOLN. I wanted to face the water, just to feel its presence—something I could always do with the Pacific Ocean. But the more I thought about it, I realized the lake in Chicago faced East, which pointed me away from California, LA, the blue waves of the Pacific. In my memory, this parking lot has a huge crater in the center. I walk to the edge, where the asphalt breaks into graham cracker bits. I pitch my gaze into the nothingness below. I can see every single mile that separates me from the Pacific. I look West and reject Lake Michigan’s placid lapping waters. Homesick. My dad finds me in the parking lot. He asks what’s wrong and I say the truth the ocean is so far away. To orient myself in this new land, I would need to reject my home. At least that’s how I saw it—Us vs. Them. All I had was LA and I staked everything on it.
It was a terrible to think I might be something that was not Us. Whatever that meant: an LA girlie, someone who swims in salt water, who knows how to brace against the Santa Ana winds, who grabs a jar of pasta sauce while Don Cheadle wanders the same aisle in Whole Foods. I worked these fragments together, stitching them into something large but two dimensional. No wonder my entire identity started to crumble after two days of Midwest merriment. Of course, I was 11. We all learn some version of Us vs. Them. An easy way to decide what you are is by determining what you are not.
We are so the same, it’s more than we can handle. Any identity formed solely in reaction to Them grows stale faster than a bag of take-out tortilla chips. The more I get out of Dodge (LA to be exact), the more I am sure of this. To understand our truest limitless connection, we would have to face infinity. And our simple little brains can’t do that, no matter how many cans of Celsius we drink or Lions Manes we swallow.
Fear really is the mind killer—no I haven’t seen Dune but I read the book. Fear kills the small part that might surrender to our unbridled oneness. The rest of the mind is narrowly set on defining and disconnecting. That part, Fear happily inflames.
Yesterday I turned 31. An intention I hold for this year is to remember all are one. I wrote myself this little reminder to keep in a locket around my neck. The more I see myself in others, the more I love every place I go.
And that’s not a very good movie, because who wants to watch a main character dissolve the boundaries of perception? Okay, maybe it would be cool. Okay, maybe it’s all still a movie—