topanga

Name anything don’t think. “pears. pairs. Paris.” 

Bummed out because of one too many coronas and a drive through the canyon prior. We witnessed jazz guitar with stand up bass and ate great meatless food, no sex, no fish and chips, then the bilingual conversations began on both sides, cards where exchanged and people talked of their over privileged studio dogs like they were living relatives or friends, they may as well be from the same mother, earth she is called… Then I walk upstairs flipping the light on then off, to push the A/C in need of a new filter on, we wake up clogged and stuffy, sleepy beer drunk femininity, tie your hair back and fix your cleavage, the same bathroom for every restaurant and it makes no sense for there to be multiple, it is exactly correct to have only one, we pissed in it all day long, drank win in the car and listened to each others thoughts as well as Parenthetical Girls… it was cheap organic red wine from the local market. We were in Topanga Canyon. Rich artists and musicians. Gypsies and drug addicts. 

Oh that’s just Madame Elliot. Talking about hammocks and native americans. The black out photographs and random connections made. The dogs and the jazz. The fuzz and the flab. We all are human. French speakers introducing Spanish lovers. Musicians speaking Korean to American boys. We were a tolerant and multi faceted resort. 

 

It was all incense and iced coffee from there. Word games and then trespassing. Driving randomly while my bass might be replaced. It doesn’t matter. I’m confident that I am able to move on with open arms. 

 

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