Sunday, November 28, 2010

Thinking of something to write this morning.

I should be totally free to write about anything just as I go about my day feeling free to go anywhere or to do anything. I like this ideas of being alone and knowing that the creative process comes forth when one is truly alone to think and feel without judgment from the outside world that I can write whatever I please without worry that it might not sell someday. Doesn't matter because if I worry about money I am letting something beside myself dictate where these thoughts should go and who they should be received by. What do I really love and what do I really want to write about. Granted I don't always want to write about self reflection but rather infuse bits of myself into writing about something larger than myself. The long walks that I take really do help as I am exposed to much bigger than my bubble, this tiny room. Like seeing the small mexican boy climb down the steps from his gray adobe like house to the street, leading the rest of his family to a shopping cart below filled with what seemed to be decaying fabric. He was totally unaware that I looked at him with pity. He latched the dirty H&M bag he was carrying to the cart and looked behind him to his sister who was running to catch up. I remember thinking loudly in my head but of course not saying anything aloud, FUCK. I felt sadness it was true sadness but also a little bit of manufactured sadness like I knew Anglo Saxon society would want me to be sad for this boy and run home to my new imac and type in google volunteer organizations in the city so I could save this poor mexican boy from pushing around a shopping cart on one of the dirtiest streets in LA. However, do I really want to save him from that and what does it even mean to push around a shopping cart. Maybe the family doesn't have a car and the shopping cart is an efficient way to transport their items. I also noticed the family was all women except for the little boy and even then my mind went to, where is the father? The father must be absent from the family but he could be at work. However, it seems obvious that stereotypes are so prevalent because they were found to be true on more than one occasion. Something has kept the societal averages hanging around or more truthfully maybe I am just an asshole to even as much. There are so many interesting parts of my 8 miles walk through Highland Park, Mt. Washington and Cypress Park. The great feature of this 8 mile walk is that there is one prominent hill that I must walk up and then glide down and as always in Southern California, it seems the further up the hill I walk the nicer the homes are and the whiter everyone becomes. This must be their version of white flight. The gangstas at the bottom of the hill won't bother to make the effort to come up because of the concentration of neighborhood watches and ADT alarms. I have to admit that since I have moved here I have longed to live on the top of the hill and I always ask myself what those people must do for a living to get where they are. Most often I assume its the entertainment industry but not everything in California makes its money on a Fox studio lot. Anyway, the walk starts from my house which sits on Ave 42, a dead end. The avenue picks up again in Mt. Washington but on the other side of the light rail track that runs by my house. I go north on Figueroa and continue north past the park and the mural there. I think they just finished it last week. It's basically a visual breakdown of the neighborhood, features plant life and local characters like the guys that walk up and down the street selling fruit and some kind of sweetened candy. Not really sure what it is. Actually with offense to myself but describing this walk in painstaking detail just seems like an exercise in boredom because I really don't care about that part of the walk. I know that area too well now and I just ignore it as I pass by. Probably the most interesting park of the walk is through Mt. Washington and that is only because if I remember to look behind me as I go up the hillside I can see the 134 freeway in the mountainside and the beauty of eagle rock.
I need live plants in my room. My mother used to keep a lot of plants. I am sure she misses that now that she lives with my aunt and then soon my grandfather. I wonder if I am being creative or if I am just writing as if I would talk to someone. Maybe I need a break to get inspired. I want writing to be my job but I am going to have to get more creative than this if I expect anyone to ever pick up something of mine. This is a dear diary if anything. Ok, I'm out I think I might try to write a poem. You know actually think instead of just talk to this typewriter like a fool.

-And so I took a break.

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