The Traveling Itch

It's at my sides, it's in my fingers, it's pushing all other thoughts out of mind.....I've got the traveling itch. I miss the beaches of Barcelona, where the red rope structure stands in a pyramid reminding me of the duplicate with a variation on shape that stands erect in my elementary school playground in Portland, Maine. See how small the world is? I traveled across the Atlantic to find a piece of architecture made for climbing and it mirrors what I had in my small home town.

The light and the smells outside are of spring. Even though LA lacks seasons, I feel a change. And it's asking for me to change with it. The only problem is I can't pick up and leave to explore San Francisco or New York City or even, dare I mention Paris, with a negative sign next the amount in my checking account. So sad. ::sigh::

When will I be able to just grab a flight on a whim, even if it's $900? Not until I start booking features. Or national commercials, those would be nice too. I dream of the day when I no longer have any debt. Maybe I could win the megabux. This is a big dreaming day; perhaps because I just finished listening to Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, and I'm half way through Jerry Lewis' Love Story of he and Dean Martin. Didion led this life, well later in life, that was somewhat lavish. Although she was often put up for her journalistic adventures, still she and her husband, had a place in Malibu, a place in New York City, and went back and forth, all over the world they left footprints. I want to be able to do that: track my steps throughout the world.

And I will lay everything down at your feet and follow you throughout the world.

Unspoken Love

I wish I could

Rethinking & Reworking

I'm not satisfied with how this correspondence is working out. It feels contrived and less than interesting. I think all this time I have been afraid of writing what's actually going on with me; and that's why it has become increasingly hard to write every week. I don't think I can keep these characters alive all the time. But perhaps this is the trick of writing: there are hurdles to overcome and discoveries on the other side? I still feel like I am avoiding something deeper by turning to this Los Angeles writer and this searching and underchallenged art curator in London.
It is the experiences around LA and with other theatrical interactions I would like to write about most. The randomness that occurs and the brilliant thoughts that I voice aloud in my car that never make it anywhere in print, but only fly right out the crack in my window.
Oh, I don't know what to make of this place of published content that is so easily leaked out of my fingers. We shall see what becomes of it.

WRITER'S BLOCK

A,

HI BUMBLY. DID YOU GET THE JOB?

I HAVEN'T DONE MUCH WRITING IN THE PAST FEW WEEKS. BUT I'VE SEEN SOME FILMS: KUBRICK'S LOLITA (FOR THE FIRST TIME), THE KING'S SPEECH (SO PLEASED THEY PICKED UP A LOT OF OSCARS. THE FILM WAS ABSOLUTELY FLAWLESS), THE RUNAWAYS (COULDN'T EVEN FINISH IT. EACH SCENE WOULD END AND I'D WONDER WHY. AND I TURNED TO MY FRIEND--NEVER YOU MIND-- AND SAID TO HIM AS I CUPPED MY HANDS, "THESE SCENES ARE NOT SCENES," AND I'D LET MY HANDS OPEN TO POUR OUT THE INSUBSTANTIAL SUBSTANCE THAT WERE THE SCENES OF LEATHER CLAD GIRLS WHO MUMBLE UNCONVINCINGLY), AND WE LOOKED FOR HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON, BUT COULDN'T FIND IT.

EXHAUSTED A. I HAD TO WRITE TO YOU OUT OF GUILT, BUT I CAN'T GET ANY MORE OUT OF ME. I'M JUST GOING TO SIT, DRINK WATER, AND SMELL THE FRESH BOUQUET OF LILIES IN FRONT OF ME.

LOVE YOU,

B