This day is the day before. Los Angeles is overcast with fog and marine layer. The Hollywood Hills barely in silhouette. I read quietly in the morning, drinking my coffee. Finish an emotional story, feeling very emotional. I think of you. You, on the other side of the continent, three hours farther into the sun. And also here with me, in my heart, my thoughts, our dreams.
I can feel my fear creeping in. It wants to pull me back, to make me think logical, to apply the anti-decisions that led to past mistakes. I force my fear to remember the glorious moments that defined my life, when I stepped off into the abyss in spite of my fear - using that fear as energy to further propel me. My return to California. My return to Los Angeles. The house on future street and various other "crazy" things.
This feels more important though, more powerful, more ... impactful and tender than all previous. A line etched in the sand, that I have spent my whole life in order to stand in front of. As Danger Ranger says of a different situation from which I have borrowed this analogy, after you cross over, everything will be different. Just like one can not imagine how Burning Man will change their life, I can not imagine our lives beyond tomorrow's moment. And unusually, I don't care.
Writing this now, I chuckle at the location. It should be no surprise to me. La Dona winks. It's one of the most magical, iconic places in my own LA mythology. Scorned by travelers, LAX is the place I left on decades of adventures, and returned to my most beloved queen, welcomed into her labyrinthine pastel tiled corridors, the exhaust filled air, the smell of adventure, the smell of home. It is there, tomorrow, I welcome you. We step across that line together, and away we go.
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