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I may be this thing, 

you call human

I am composed of flesh

but my thoughts are deceiving:


It’s raining outside. This is Los Angeles, an arid angel haven. White wings have cleared the clouds for decades, bleaching the grass a dusty brown of spaghetti westerns. 

Three cheers to the gentle soul, a shamanic incarnation brave enough to dance, gesticulate in ritual, who bestowed the palms with full fronds. 

Rain in LA is a macro and micro dichotomy:

When it rains, the macro picture of Los Angeles looks beautiful—green, lush, clean. 

When it rains in Los Angeles, the micro picture looks downtrodden—dirty, murky, clogged. 

This compared to the dry season:

When it suns, the micro picture of Los Angeles looks beautiful—structured, tangible, gregarious. 

When it suns in Los Angeles, the macro picture looks downtrodden—overwhelmed, unplanned, tense.

There is an inverted quality to this city, in the wet and dry opposites of weather. Big and small, there are subjective reasons to stay and flee. I loath the sunshine sometimes, feeling the burden of DOING something because of the weather: why can’t I just stay inside? And I pine for the rain during every week and month and year. Once it pours, however, the apartment is just as comfortable, for other reasons like viewing a flick AND for avoiding the plethora of arrogant rubber melters. 

The day after the rain clears, I will say, is the best day for a hike.