018

I may be this thing, 

you call human

I am composed of flesh

but my thoughts are deceiving:

The “dead of winter” phrase doesn’t hold water in LA. It should be called the “alive of winter.”

The winter is our wet season. We have rain more than any other time, and they are joyful and chaotic events. 

The summer is the dead, dry season. Endless months of swelling heat, warping wooden doors and heating your apartment walls, your car interior and your local fedex all to the point, equally, of not wanting to get in. 

The “dead of summer” is still a phrase, but it doesn’t have to do with the plant life, and that is my focus. This climate is perfect for those non-snowbirds. Those who stay in LA after the rest of the transplants decide to visit family are the lucky ones with less crowded hiking trials and GREEN GRASS. NATURAL GREEN GRASS. Not the “i pay too much in water bills for a lawn I don’t even use” green grass. This is naturally dormant, intoxicating, lousy, saturated green that sprung up like the loose dildos of the prairie to greet the loyal wildlife who maintained their edge. 

The dead of winter is teaming with life. 

Nothing is what is seems.