Monday, November 7, 2011

Chapter 21: A Cause for Vexation

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I've been in Los Angeles for exactly 3 months. Normally, moving is a relatively easy transition for me--regardless of where I move to, but I notice there are some kinks this time, and it's a bit unsettling. 


People are always interesting to me, but the niceness of West Coast people makes me uncomfortable. Most likely, it's tied to having lived in NYC; every morning begins with a ritual: You have to suit up into your mental armor, so that the outside world cannot get under your skin--and I'm not talking about the smell of the city, but rather the constant invasion of one's personal space, outbursts of emotion by strangers, or witnessing any number of violent, perverse, or bizarre acts by the 8 million + people that inhabit the city. On a daily basis, these inhabitants demonstrate the best and worst of human nature; opportunism rules, along with a healthy level of disdain for fellow residents...although punctuated, at times, by rare moments of empathy. 


I used to think that the ability to shut down from the outside world was a valuable thing. It makes a person develop fortitude--making them almost impervious, but also resilient. It was a comfort to me, having decided long ago that repression and compartmentalizing where something to put in the "Pro" column. But my inclinations don't seem to serve me well in Southern California. 


Los Angeles is a very large city--spread out in many directions--but the majority of the people I meet are convinced they are living in a small town. That can be the only explanation as to why they insist on greeting me on the street as if we are old friends. My instinct is to be suspicious, and to recall many sound bytes from public service announcements detailing 'Stranger Danger.' Are they trying to sell me something? Convert me? Ask for money? Ask for sex? Sell me a ferret? Show me their junk, so I can point them to the nearest building corner (so they can pee on it)? Ask me directions to the Empire State Building? Ask me if I've seen any dismembered fingers on this block? Mug me? Hit me with a brick? I don't know...they could want absolutely anything. I don't like it. 


And the nights are so disturbingly quiet; if my neighborhood was a scene in a horror film, that scene would perfectly foreshadow the brutal murder of a single woman. The street I happen to live on offers ineffectual street lamps that allow for plenty of dark pockets--perfect for raping. It's a good thing that my shower doors are currently very difficult to open, so for now, I won't be surprised by a knife-wielding psychopath while I'm in the shower. And I definitely need to keep my eye on the leathery, 90,000 year old male skin-suit that jogs up my street imparting incomprehensible affirmations on a daily basis--that guy is much stronger than he looks. 


These observations make me sound paranoid, I know, but I used to love to fall asleep to the sounds of sirens and traffic...and it isn't hard to guess the motives of Manhattanites...so it is an adjustment period, but it isn't all bad. Some days I wake up entirely pleased that I can't smell urine, and I haven't gotten even a little tired of the open space and the warm days. 


I think I'll stay here for awhile.

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