driving to valencia this afternoon, flying through the san gabriels at eighty-five miles per hour, i saw a little black sports car on the opposite side of the freeway drift, ever so effortlessly, into the mountainside. the car slammed into the rocks then bounced back into the road; luckily, the other drivers swerved to miss it. the impact of the car against the mountain was such the windows and tires blew out, at the exact same moment. the driver died instantly.  no screeching tires, no swerving, apparent loss of control. the car looked so peaceful as it soared straight into the mountain.

later, another crash, on the 5, headed towards los angeles. a minor fender bender but still. my heart lurched as i drove by. usually i would be simply annoyed by the traffic delays. today i said a little prayer. many little prayers.

moody for days. the usual sadness. i don’t fight it. i watch lots of netflix. cupcake grease smeared across the bedsheets.

last night i had dinner with my friend  P who is majoring in philosophy at ucla, writing his thesis on zizek. “already? he’s big enough for a thesis?” i asked. “he’s the elvis of cultural theory.” a phrase i never understood—how can an intellectual be a “rock star.” a rock star is a rock star. a popular writer is a popular writer; ain’t never gonna be cool. however, I wouldn’t be surprised if z shared some of elvis’ sexual proclivities.

P was originally from new york, and as such, took great pride in his taste in restaurants on both coasts.  last night we dined at a little french bistro. i could not read the menu so i let P order. was willing choke down whatever, including a crisp bottle of sauvingon blanc. he ordered seafood. very delicate seafood which i ate in very small bites. its been months since we first hung out, yet i still cannot figure his angle—that is, why he invites me to dinner at all. our nights almost always end up in a fight. and too much alcohol. last night was one such glowing experience. as we switched to pinot grigio, he said of  a friend’s new poetry collection, which features short epiphanic poems, “its as if she licks a tree and has an epiphany.” i wondered—at first with horror then delight — if had i fallen prey to the same writerly crime of finding meaning in everything and nothing in my clit book. but there are worse things than a pussy epiphany. few things sweeter.

day of rain. m’s LA mix washing over me. driving in my big blue car -- as if staring out a glass marble. lee hazlewood’s drugged out vocals woke up sunday morning my mind all in a haze. intense cigarette cravings. the world, unrecognizable in the utterly unfamiliar drizzle. i imagine the sewer rats washed out to sea, triumphantly riding a crest of polluted rain-water. this morning the concrete was so fragrant with the dawn showers i actually bent to sniff it, there on my knees,  ignoring the fat clumps of lavender and various herbs that filled my neighbor’s window box.