have you ever visited a psychic?

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I should preface this by saying that I’m a skeptic. I’m pragmatic, tethered to that which is scientific and logical. I grew up an agnostic, became a Christian, and then abandoned my faith because I stopped believing. Now, I’m an atheist who tries to find wonder in the world. And while I’m in awe of this life and know that the world is greater than me, that so much goes unexplained, I’m not quite ready to go back to believing the heaven // hell binary. I should also say that I’m frightened of death, so much so that over the course of the past twenty years I’ve experienced random anxiety attacks, knowing that one day I will cease to exist. One morning I won’t wake and plant both feet on the ground. Eight months ago, I felt subsumed by darkness, and all I wanted was to curl up in a ball on my bathroom floor and fall into permanent sleep. The irony of this state (and my real fear of ever returning to it) is palpable, and I’m grateful for the fact that I’m no longer a resident of this country. I’ve worked hard to return to a place of normalcy–you know, routine anxiety attacks over my fear of dying.

Perhaps I’ve gone full-L.A., or I’m aching for answers that I went to a psychic. Me being me, I researched extensively, scoured and read hundreds of reviews, and finally chose a psychic that didn’t seem like your ubiquitous $5 for a palm reading situation. Even though I prepared my questions in advance of the reading, I was skeptical. I considered this experience hopeful entertainment. However, after an hour-long conversation, after meeting with someone who knew information that couldn’t be found anywhere but my person, I was unnerved. I felt off-kilter. I immediately went into full analysis mode. Some of what she said can certainly be found in the pages of my first book or by reading any of the very personal essays I’ve written here or on Medium. But yet.

There were things she knew about me and my life that only I, or a very select number of people, know. How could she know about a specific song I play that reminds me of my mother? No one knows this. How could she know details about my views on marriage and my previous partners when my romantic attachments are one of the few things I’ll never write about on this or any space? How could she describe, in excruciating detail, the last few days of mother’s life with a certainty that was chilling? How could she know about a specific dream I had, one which I’ve only recounted to one person?

How could she know?

After a half hour of her “reading” me, she invited me to ask her questions, and I felt relatively satisfied with her responses. What gave me comfort was her reminder that everything she told me can be altered through free will. I asked her the question that few people want to ask, one that made her feel uncomfortable. When would I die? How would I die? What would I die in the same matter my mother had (no, you take better care of your body)? After a few moments, I learned that I will face an illness in my early 60s, something akin to cancer, and there will be a moment where I will have to decide if I want to go. This put me on pause because why wouldn’t I? Why would someone, who wakes washed in sweat over the fear of waking to nothingness, choose to die? (Of course conveniently forgetting that most recent period in February) She shook her head and said she didn’t know. She just said that if I choose to go on, I’ll live into my late 70s, early 80s.

Why wouldn’t I choose to go on?

Again, she didn’t know. Will I be alone? No. Will I be married? No. I nodded because while I long for a partner, I’m allergic to the idea of marriage. I love children but I do not want any of my own. But I don’t want to be alone. I want abundance. I want a life well-lived. And she said that the choice will have to do with the fact that have I done everything I set out to do? The choice will center on that need to do or not do more.

I don’t know what to make of this. Part of me laughs it off because seriously? I met with a psychic? How L.A. But another part of me wonders, how could she know with such clarity and specificity? How?

 

Image Credit: Pexels

life lately: pups, smoothies, and lots of work

puppies!

I was once part of a turtle rescue in Prospect Park. It was a Friday and I walked the length of the park when I encountered a large turtle crossing the bike pathway, making its way to the street. Right before the encounter, I saw a man shove another turtle in a bag and I shouted at him as he walked out of the park. All of this was odd–the man in a cloth hat, a random turtle in Brooklyn–and I paused, unsure of what to do. As luck would have it, a woman riding her bike stopped and told me that she’d just a job at an animal reserve, and we stood as she tried calling her boss to find out what we should do with said turtle. For an hour, we guarded the creature amidst catcalls from boys on bikes and strange looks from passersby. Finally, the woman got through to her boss and promised she would foster the turtle for the night until proper arrangements could be made. The woman and I exchanged numbers and she walked, turtle in tow, back to her Coney Island apartment.

I followed up with the woman on the bike and she sent me photos of the turtle at the reserve. Safe. Seemingly happy.

I love animals, irrationally so. My pop and I used to joke that we preferred animals over people because animals don’t know artifice–they’re primal in their wants and honest about their affection. I’ve always had a pet, cats mostly, and I regarded every one of them as part of my family. Long-time readers know how devasted I was when I lost my Sophie in 2013. Even though she paw-swatted, hissed and had her way with my carbs, I adored her. At the time, I couldn’t fathom having another pet, and then I met Felix, my sweet boy, and I often joke that he’s a dog in a catsuit. Lately, I’ve been thinking about getting him a companion. The shelter, from where I adopted Felix, warned me not to get another cat because Felix experienced early trauma in a multi-cat household and became an alpha feline. I couldn’t imagine Felix hurting anyone (he doesn’t even hiss!) until a dog entered our home (long story), frantic, and Felix made sounds I never conceived he could make. Recently, I’ve been talking to local shelters and animal behaviorists, and it is possible to introduce a new pet, but the integration would have to be mindful, slow and it’ll require a great deal of my time. I’m saving $ for a money to a small home where I could have a little yard so that Felix would roll around in the grass (#goals, etc), and I’ve been thinking about adopting a young dog.

So when my friend Alexis text’d me with a photo of a puppy pile and a message that she was fostering 7 pups and one mom until Sunday, I replied back, inviting myself over. Alexis is this incredible human, and she’s been working with Social Tees NYC, an animal rescue, to foster dogs–even from Los Angeles! If you’re one of my unlucky followers on Instagram or Snapchat (I’m @felsull!), I spammed you with an endless stream of puppy videos, because when you’re with cuteness for three hours you tend to cuddle with one hand and snap photos with the other.  I actually fell for the mother, a pup with fox ears and a mean little strut, and I told Alexis that I would be interested in adopting her when she’s ready to be weened from her pups in three months time. And even if I don’t get this pup, at least I’ll have time to research how to acclimate Felix with a new friend without him going on rein of terror. (Any thoughts/advice are welcome)

I’m still baffled that these pups were in a kill shelter. They’re so sweet and beautiful and if you don’t fall in love after feeling their small hearts beat in your hand, you’re the worst kind of animal.

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I arrived in California, fit and healthy, and over the course of seven months, all of my hard work from the past year went asunder. I ate baguettes slathered in butter. I ordered personal pizzas on the regular. Cheese became my primary food group. A bottle of wine a day was par for the course. And then I went into therapy, got on meds, regained my sanity, got off the sauce, re-entered the world, scored two amazing projects, and decided to get my health back on track. After enduring a skin blitzkrieg (raised burning hives, anyone?) and a skin reaction that followed as a result of the medication to alleviate the hives, I made some rapid changes in my diet and life. I nixed gluten and dairy from my life (although I do have small amounts of cheese a week), I resumed blitzing my morning protein smoothie, replaced all my household cleaning products and skin products with ingredients I could read. Greens resumed their role as the headliner rather than the backup dancer on my plate, and I’ve returned to my meditation and exercise practices. Again, this is not about being skinny or depriving myself of food, this is about making it to 90 (isn’t this woman INCREDIBLE?) and still be spunky and aware, and have the ability to punch people in the face if I needed to. So I’m returning to healthy eats and I’ll be sharing recipes on this space.

Want this yum recipe? Get it here.

blueberry smoothie
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there’s beauty in the attempt (and honesty)

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I have a friend coming over for brunch today and I’m pulling out all the stops: homemade blueberry waffles topped with fresh compote, maple bacon, fruit salad and brewed coffee. It’s been a while since I’ve had someone over–possibly because my home is my refuge, and I couldn’t imagine anyone in it because I viewed the slightest intrusion as a pillage on my sanctuary. Although I’ve been in California only a brief time (five months), it feels like home because it’s not yet blemished by all the history. Even though I moved apartments in the Brooklyn brownstone I once lived, I felt haunted by Sophie’s passing (among other things), and I could feel the weight of having grown up in Brooklyn and seeing it changed. And while the city has been remodeled to the point where it’s barely recognizable, I still have the memory of it. I still remember being a teenager, riding the subway, my feet on the seats.

In Los Angeles, there are no subways, and the streets are clean and expansive. People drive and I walk, and sometimes I’ll walk the eight miles from Beverly Hills to Santa Monica simply to feel space.

Last week, WordPress emailed my end-of-year report, which is kind of like an annual report for your blog, and I normally try not to look at these things, to concern myself with the business of numbers because numbers have a way of doing things to you, altering what and how your create. And it’s no surprise that this space had demonstrably more traffic when I was happy, and people seemed to fall out of the frame when I got sad. And then this put me to thinking about social media and how it can be brutally suffocating with everyone demanding that you be positive, happy and in a constant state of growth and repair. People want to read about your dark times only in the past tense, only when you’ve made it out to the other side and you are gleaming and dressing your wounds. There is so much talk, so much desire for that which is real and authentic, yet we see time and time again how people are rewarded for their artful representation of a coveted life. People want their darkness in manageable doses (that one book everyone reads/movie everyone sees) because possibly they have so much (or little) going on in their lives that they don’t want the burden of someone else’s grief. Rather, they reach out to light so religiously they don’t realize when they’ve been burned and blinded by it.

When I was a teenager, I kept losing PTA-sponsored writing contests because people always died in my stories. Parents can’t reward something that disturbing, a teacher once confided to me. Later, when I was at Columbia, a teacher asked me in my first year why people in my stories died and I was confused and said because that’s what happens. My father once told me that I hold on to darkness too hard. In response, I said no, it was more like I didn’t like letting it go. There’s a difference, even though at the time I didn’t know what that difference was.

 

I’m going to ignore what’s popular and inherently desired because I think that our work allows us to weed out that which does not serve us. I’m in this kind of purgatory where I’m not as low as I was a few months ago, but I’m not out of the woods yet and I feel this tension between the need to get better and the ache of giving up. Being in Los Angeles has given me so many things already–a new book, space, and the want of rebuilding a tribe when the old one didn’t serve me well. It’s hard, really fucking hard, to see the constant stream of posts that speak to how everyone’s life is so! fucking! awesome! when my life is anything but, but their life isn’t my life and there’s no joy in comparing myself to others and what they chose to edit and project out into the world, so all I can do is keep attempting, keep doing, keep working, and keep being my most honest self–even if it’s not as attractive as the world would want it to be.

I woke this morning and thought: well, at least it’s no longer 2015.

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finally…doughnuts + some happy bits

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For the first time in three months, I had a week where I didn’t want to lie down on the bathroom floor and count the tiles. I consider this progress. I took a few new business calls, cleaned my apartment, submitted a draft manuscript of my new story collection to my agent, I contemplated getting a tree but settled on a string of lights for my patio, read three books, and resumed spending time with old friends + planning new friend dates. Yesterday I went spinning with an old friend and former coworker, and after class, she pulled a doughnut out of her bag and confessed that she got into Santa Monica early just to pick up a Sidecar Doughnut and did I want to stop by for firsts and seconds?

Obviously, we went. And we went hard.

As you know, my love for the doughnut knows no bounds. I remember spending one day on a self-designed doughnut crawl across Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens, and was so cracked out on sugar I was catatonic. And although I can’t go crazy with the gluten (see last year’s plague of burning hives + the steroids that made me hallucinate and vomit into garbage pails in the middle of the night, but I digress), I’ve allowed myself one strong gluten situation a week. It’s usually bread as I’m not into pasta as much as I used to be, and I’m now of the philosophy that if I’m going to hoover a bowl of fettuccine, it better be fresh, homemade, and weep-into-my-bowl good. Yesterday, I savored a cinnamon cake doughnut and made no qualms about accepting free, hot samples, and you need to know that these are the best doughnuts I’ve had in my LIFE. So much so that I’m writing a whole ode to a doughnut joint that has two locations in California.

Real truth.

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I love these doughnuts because they’re yeasty so you’re not getting a heavy cake batter bomb, rather you’re enjoying a light, airy pastry that has a bit of a crunch, but it’s feather-light. The toppings are pretty extraordinary, and the time that my friend and I stopped by in the morning, we saw a guy frying up a huge pan of bacon for one of the doughnut toppings. BLESS. All ingredients are local or organic, and the flavors are thoughtful, ingenious and creative. I tried the huckleberry (with berries straight from Seattle), butter/salt, apple fritter (that tasted like a croissant with an apple caramel glaze!) and a Hawaiian blend that oozed cream.

Tears. If you ever find yourself in Los Angeles, run, don’t walk, to Sidecar. I’m giving you gospel here.

[Cough. Insert segue.]

Tonight I was texting my friend Joanna about our cats and how I tend to abhor home decor books. I used to be into the Shabby Chic aesthetic until I realized I loathe pink and don’t have an interest in frills or antiquing, and most books tend to be poorly written and offer homes/solutions that are unrealistic for my taste and budget. Home decor books occupy a space on my shelf that is barely touched or referenced, and I have a hard time getting rid of my collection because I spent so much damn money on it.

Not so with Anne Sage’s Sage Living. Anne + I have a friend in common, and we’ve traded emails on occasion, but I was really taken with her recent interview–so much so that I paused my home decor book fatwa and ordered her book. Although I couldn’t relate to having the financial support of a family or a spouse (I’ve pretty much been self-sufficient from birth), I do know what it feels like to have your life uprooted and upended and having your art be the thing that pulls you through that dark country. I admired her candor and her willingness to own her privilege, and how she was able to reshape a dark time to create something that would yield joy and a sense of home for others. In her book, she enters rooms across the country and offers a nice cross-section of styles + aesthetics. The owners are not interior designers but people who have made their spaces in a reflection of the lives they desire for themselves. The stories, balanced with Sage’s practical advice, gives the book a warmth and depth that is missing from most home books I’ve encountered. It’s empowered me to revisit my space and re-affirm that it’s my creative sanctuary. It’s re-affirmed my desire for owning nothing extraneous, to only possess only that which is necessary and adored.

On an unrelated note, I snapped this picture next to one of the nine succulents I still own. I’ve been known to kill cacti so the fact that these plants, as well as my floor plant, are still alive is a testament to SOMETHING that’s changed in my life. And sometimes one needs those small reassurances (I’m no longer a cacti killer!) to keep going.

 

 

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the ones you least expect: on friendship + the challenges geography brings

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Over text the other day one of my closest friends tells me there was a time when I pushed her away and she took the hint and stayed away. I tell her I don’t recall this, although much of the years I spent working at an agency were a blur of anxiety and boundaries crossed. If you would’ve asked five years ago if this friend (Amber) would be one of my closest I would’ve dismissed you. Not because she wasn’t kind, smart or fun to be around–my friend is all these things–but because I never expected it. You have an idea of who’s going to be in your life and you’re often surprised. The first, for most, comes when you graduate high school and you realize most of your childhood ties you aren’t so binding. Then college, and the first few years of your adult life, and then marriage, children, geography–all of these things shift the ground beneath your feet and you find that you have to hold on to the grasp to stop yourself from slipping.

There was a time in my life (late 20s/early 30s) when I wasn’t a particularly kind person. I have a stockpile of reasons for this, none of which are particularly interesting, and cost me years and dollars in therapy to resolve. I remember the feeling of having dozens of numbers in your phone book but no one I could really call. So over the past decade I’ve resolved to be present, to listen–to be a better friend, the kind of friend I want to have. And this is not to say that this resolve comes unblemished because I’m human, fallible, blah, blah, blah, but when I left New York this year I felt as if I had a foundation. I collected a motley lot of strange, wonderful, brilliant people and we would endure the challenges that geography brings. We wouldn’t have the kind of passive friendships that only require a quick scroll and a read. Oh, I know how she’s doing; she posted that photo on Facebook! I don’t need to make an effort, do the work. No, I thought. We wouldn’t be this until we were this, and there’s that.

When I first moved to Los Angeles I met an east coast transplant who’s lived here for two years, but only until recently she felt comfortable calling L.A. an adopted home. I remember that first week when I was jubilant, high off the weather, physical space (no more crowded subways! no one booking one-way tickets to my sternum, etc), and vernacular, and my new friend shook her head and told me that I was in for a big awakening. After the new car smell wears off, you’ll start to see the people who are unencumbered by distance. And I’ll tell you, she said, it’s never who you think it’ll be.

It took me four months to realize she was right.

I’m seeing a psychiatrist, and while I won’t talk about the specific goings-on of my offline life, I will say that I’m working on dealing with loss. It only occurred to me that I suffered a lot of losses this year–most were good and necessary, others were surprising and heartbreaking–and I was too busy, too focused on my move out west, to deal with them. I would just consider the loss at the time, say, oh, this thing is happening, and move on. And then I moved here and things got quiet, really quiet, and the losses stockpiled and smothered. Individually, they could have been managed, but collectively they were the equivalent of an emotional monsoon. Think of it as if you’re running the longest marathon you can imagine and you only feel a portion of the pain while you’re in the thick of it, but after, the days after, whoa, you are bedridden.

Through all of this, it’s been interesting to see who’s remained on the sidelines, demonstrably silent, while others emerge, become omnipresent. And like my friend warned, it wasn’t who I expected. My friend Amber and I text nearly every day and Facetime a few times a week. Yesterday I asked her if supermarkets in New York had aisles of wine–I couldn’t remember–because every market in L.A. offers a sommelier on-demand. We talk about our days, but mostly I know she wants to check in, to see how I am, because she cares and she can take the dark bits with the good. My friend Liz, whom I’ve known for half my life, is an incredible mother, brilliant lawyer and devoted wife, but she still makes an effort to call me on her drive home, and now that she has an iPhone (finally!), we can iMessage with ease. When I was in college I never anticipated that Liz and I would be as close as are for as long as we have. We’ve endured distance, marriage, children, my multiple addictions and emotional instability and frenetic careers–but we still fall into that comfort we had when we were 19 and wearing flannels and bad baseball caps. Sometimes I miss how we were then–how we’d walk around campus in the dark and ride the train into the city, feverish over the night’s possibility, or studying for finals in our pajamas while watching 90210. But it’s also wonderful to witness how we’ve grown as women. In so many ways Liz and I are completely antithetical, but our friendship works and I never expected it would, but I’m grateful it has. Same with Amber. We were always friendly, always enjoying our banter, but it wasn’t until we took an interesting holiday together did we become close.

The past year I’ve seen cracks in the fault and efforts at repair. I’ve seen those whom I thought were essential in my life drift or disappear altogether. At the same time, I’ve seen new friends enter the frame, and although I’m trying to reconcile the losses, I can’t help but feel privileged for the slow and mounting gains.

I love the saying “play it as it lays”, and I’m trying to be present for all the change. I’m trying to accept that geography plays a powerful role in who’s in your life and who isn’t, and this isn’t about anger, it’s frankly about reality. And although it’s challenging for me to make new friends I’m trying. And that’s all I can do for now–the work.

seeded banana bread

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I’ve been called a cacti-killer because of the year I bought ten succulents and watched them all slowly wither and die. You can’t kill a cactus I was told, and in 2002 I rose to the challenge. Up until this year I was convinced that if something didn’t alert me to its existence I’d probably neglect it and ultimately be responsible for its demise. When I moved to Los Angeles my friend Jennifer drove me to Marina Del Ray and we cruised a nursery. I slept-walked my way through the greenery as my friend piled plants into my arms.

Two months later, my plants are still living, and I can’t begin to describe how this fascinates me.

Saturday, I spent an hour on the 10 with a cab driver who grew up in South Central and now lives in Inglewood. His family’s from New York and we talked about the differences between New York and Los Angeles, and all I could think of (beyond the obvious) was landscape. I haven’t yet succumbed to the car culture because I love navigating a new terrain–I can’t imagine not walking. This weekend I spent a day in the San Gabriel Valley and yesterday I trekked to Westwood, and I’m starting to see how every city had its own landscape and vernacular. While New York has devolved into one whitewashed shopping mall, there are places here that still feel unoccupied. Trust me, I’m not being overly romantic because one could see the unsettling gentrification (and the disparate income/class/race juxtapositions) in DTLA among other areas, but I’m enamored with the landscape, the streets that seem to change from city to city (it’s so incredible how far Santa Monica Blvd, Pico, Olympic, etc runs). And maybe that’s why I’m producing at such a staggering rate–I’m forced awake. I’m forced to experience, to see.

Granted I’ve only been here for three months and it’ll take me years to fully appreciate where I live, but I feel so at home in California. While there are things I miss about New York (my friends and my pop, the subways in the early morning, the shores of Oyster Bay, and bagels I can’t quite find anywhere else), I’m happy that I live in a place that forces me to be present. I no longer sleep through my waking days. I’m no longer killing plants. I wake, and before I work I sometimes bake bread.

INGREDIENTS: Recipe from The Year of Cozy, modified based on what I had on hand + how I like my quick loaves
1 1/2 cups gluten-free flour
2 tbsp sunflower seeds
3 tbsp millet seeds
3/4 tsp salt
1/3 cup melted coconut oil
1/4 cup light brown sugar
1/4 cup organic cane sugar
1 large egg (I ran out of eggs, so I made a flax egg: 1 tbsp flax meal in 3 tbsp water for 5 minutes)
1 1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract
3 ripe, yet firm bananas, mashed
1 tsp baking soda

DIRECTIONS
Pre-heat the oven to 350F. Grease and flour an 8.5×4.5 inch loaf pan. Set aside.

In a medium bowl, mix the flour, salt, and seeds. In a large bowl, mix the melted coconut oil and sugars until thickened and combined. Add the egg (or flax egg), vanilla and mashed bananas until completely combined. Mix in the baking soda.

Add the flour and seed mixture to the wet mixture, and fold until completely combined. Make sure you scrape the bottom of the bottom and the center as you’ll often find pockets of flour that haven’t been incorporated.

Add the mixture to the pan and bake for 45-50 minutes until a knife comes out clean in the center and the top has browned. Cool for 10 minutes on a rack before turning out the bread to cool completely.

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dispatches from los angeles #1*

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I joked the other day that life is so good I’m forgetting to photograph it.

I drafted this post early today, and I’m returning to it after having spent the day with an incredible writer and new friend. We were supposed to meet at Joan’s on 3rd, but we didn’t realize that two existed so we ended up at different locations. After a series of hilarious email exchanges, we finally met up and I realized I’d found a kindred spirit. We both grew up in New York (me in Brooklyn, she in the Bronx) and migrated west. We’re writers who are passionate advocates for marginalized/WOC voices. Most of my close friends growing up were Puerto Rican and being with her, and talking about the New York we knew as teenagers (Unique–did you get a spray-painted jacket? YES!, Antique Boutique, Co-op City, 3rd Avenue in the Bronx), felt like home. I rarely feel an instant connection with someone, and I think of this as a gift–what happens when you open all the doors bolted shut and let people in.

I know I’ve said this, ad nauseum, but it’s REALLY hard for me to meet new people. I’m shy and the idea of reaching out and making plans with strangers gives me crippling anxiety. I tend to talk a lot to fill the empty spaces, and half the time I wonder if I come across as a lunatic. When people are shocked over the fact that I’m shy, I’m an introvert, I want to shake my head and say, no, no, you really do not understand. However, I’ve been forcing myself to do it, and this week my friend Alexis and I ventured to downtown L.A. for two events targeting women and freelancers, hosted by Maker City Los Angeles and Spark Los Angeles. I’ve also joined a host of private Facebook groups targeting women writers, freelancers and entrepreneurs, and have been setting up friend dates like it’s the end of days. It’s interesting how these perfunctory get-to-know yous are a bit like dating–everyone’s been wonderful but you sort of know when there’s a spark, when you lose track of time and get excited about making plans again. Selfishly, meeting new people also allows me to check out these chow spots. I’m a regular at Huckleberry, and the chorizo eggs at Cora’s Coffee Shop are next level.

If you’ve been around these parts for a while, you might have noticed that I’ve got a taste for the macabre, and I’ve been immersing myself in the darker aspects of L.A.’s history. From snapping up books on L.A.’s profane origins (and the torture and murder of Indians) to discovering the secrets of haunted houses perched on hills to booking Blood + Dumplings and Helter Skelter tours–I feel overwhelmed, in a good way. I’m setting my third book in a touched home in Los Feliz (I keep calling it The Shining in L.A.), and I’ve started the arduous research process. It’s funny–I never thought to learn about the place in which I grew up, I suppose I took it for granted, but all I want to do now is understand the city where the word “tourist” found its origins. While it’s true that the history of Los Angeles is really the story about water (I’m reading accounts of irrigation scandals and floods, forest fires, and droughts from the late 1800s to the 1940s, and the scenes playing out could’ve taken place today), it’s also the story about dreamers and people in search for an idyll, for something other.

Although I love living in 75 & Sunny (my nickname for L.A.), I find myself looking at the calendar and waiting for the rain, the crisp evenings I’ve known in New York. It’s so weird to say this but I miss rain. I miss the dark clouds and the sky opening up, and me at home, curled up on the couch with the cat, watching it pour. Now we look out and it’s…75 & Sunny. Everyone tells me that it’ll get cooler, and I’m oddly giddy about going to Lit Crawl in Seattle this month, simply to feel a bit of chill.

At lunch today I tell Lilliam that I’m anxious; there’s so much to see. I have to constantly remind myself that I know New York because I’ve lived there for the whole of my life, and it’ll take me years to feel even a fragment of comfort here, the feeling that I know this place and is vernacular and vocabulary. I have to allow myself time.

Speaking of which, something else has been gnawing at me. The constant refrain of “I’m so busy.” I hear and read this every day. I get emails from friends talking about how they’re slammed, drowning, killed. I’m greeted daily with these violent images and people who brag about thousands of emails in their inbox with a pride that is the antithesis of humility. I’ve been through busy and go through times that are hectic still, but if we are the privileged, we choose busy and how we react to it (always with the chaos vs. the calm). We choose how to frame our days, the people with whom to spend time. Being here has made me acutely aware of how fast I speak, how treat a sentence as if it’s a marathon I’m desperate to finish, and how I need to slow the fuck down. I’m not curing cancer. My writing isn’t changing the world and saving lives.

It’s going to be okay. The world won’t end if I slow down.

*I’m thinking of making this a semi-regular series where I share cool spots, books, and other experiences specific to Los Angeles. If you think there are places I should be visiting, let me know. I’m excited to navigate my new home!