So I found my old journal and have be relishing in its pages and remembering the things that made me write in it. I think Ill share one of those entries here. I like it. I dont even remember writing it but I like it.
August 6th 2009,
I just walked about five miles from the Long Beach airport to Atlantic Ave. and the 405. Now Im in the ghetto, a real ghetto, like my ghettos south of Atlanta, waiting for Hayley to pick me up. I walked barefoot and have blisters now. I walked up through Signal Hill and past all the massive rusty oil machines churning and pumping up that black gold from the earth. I saw industrial ships and tankers in the harbor, docking and shipping out into the Pacific against the sun as it turned yellow to orange to red.
Where I sit there is the hot thick smell of baked flour tortillas and beans. Girls are passing on their way home from somewhere, shopping bags draped from their fists clenched, nails done, heels on.
The endless sound of traffic, a constant flow trudging by just by me and off in the distance forever. As I sit, back resting up against an abandoned car rental shop, a pathetic industrial driven breeze creeps around me, flares my nostrils and chills the skin that sticks to my shirt.
My bags are heavy. Ill sit and wait until Hayley comes for me.
"Yeah but youre going to do what you want to do. No matter what I ask of you. And you say youve got the high hand, I have my doubts. I come from Chino where the asphalt sprouts." - TMG
- Kurt Russell Anderson