to begin: i am a girl living in a suburb not far from los angeles. in the few burgeoning weeks of this year california has its retribution for a few years of drought; pouring rain, coming down in buckets, enough to make newscasts for ages about near-drownings in the l.a. basin and trailer homes succumbing to the natural disaster of rain. at 5 pm the people rush to their houses and breathe stale air, grumble about the weather, stretch their salaries for pennies on the dollar, look for happiness. or don't. they pull no punches, save no face, wear drab clothes and smile toothless smiles at one another. i am luckier, and by the grace of good reason, i don't forget it. i can afford miles davis on vinyl (mint condition) and i don't have to worry about running out of toothpaste or getting out the buckets when the rain's come. i sit, two in the morning, and think of something profound. but this isn't a story about how nothing comes. this is the result of my honesty to myself, as a way to wash off the residue from last year's dirty laundry. in other words, i'm trying to change. this story is a letter to myself. if this is you, reading this now, little miss, be honest. don't forget yourself, and don't forget where you are. you've gotta sleep sometime, and the city's wet streets aren't calling you anymore.



to continue: i can hear the rain outside striking down the passersby in shielded cars, windshield wipers flapping furiously to prevent the obstruction of vision. i lie in my bed, aware of the continuous frenzy of transit, people coming and going. the doorbell rings. it's alex and ethan, lacking umbrellas, cigarettes in respective mouths, wrapped only in thin coats to prevent themselves from this particular january night. i let them in. they change socks and roll up their jeans, spend the night on my couch watching reruns of i dream of jeannie while the rain comes pouring down. i get a call from my wonderboy, asking if it's raining as hard over here because he's got half a mind to come over. when he gets here my mother comes home, greets everyone, smiles, and with tired eyes apologizes and thanks them for staying over, but she's gotta get to rest. she's got work early in the morning.



"we all do," alex says. "this rain's keeping us together, though."



wonderboy gets here and we lie on my bed, slender limbs feeling warmer. i suddenly feel like letting myself be lost, or in love, or in idealization. i can imagine it now, hearing going to california lightly on the stereo on a day when the sun's warm but doesn't burn, the sky's clear but doesn't blind, driving down an empty highway 'till the sky goes black. switching drivers every thousand or so miles. smiling toothy smiles to one another, the city behind us. i dream about writing about this, creating some romantic opus dazzing with originality and, most importantly, truth. but i can't let that happen. it's too easy to fall into that trap. he'll tell me he wants to get out of the city and we'll drive somewhere a few hours away but then feel the call of the world around us. we'll see people silently yelling at one another in the hubs of their cars at the intersections we pass and won't be able to help feeling like something's wrong. we'll tell ourselves we've done everything right, but it's just come out wrong. and i'll write about it, tell myself it wasn't right and the city's just calling to me. i've gotta be near that atmosphere, i'll tell myself, because in-between each small and empty space is evidence of life, some struggle that i don't quite know the details of. even when the rain threatens to wash us clean, this coast is never clear.



"we should get outta the city," he says, smiling. "it'd be good for us."



to finish: i am young and i believe in days when i don't have to wake up from my nightmares and in days when all my attempts at living no longer come out as stale air floating over the horizon, unnaturally coloring the dusk-ridden clouds. even when california feels the depth of the sky when it's crying, i believe that people in transit are a measure of our passion. the people i love are tied to the city, roots in concrete, hands holding one another in the ground. then when i grow up i want to be happy, but i can't escape the slender fingers coming from the sidewalk firmly rooted to my heart. when the rain stops i'll spend springs in the park, summers in the sand, and i'll dream of something beautiful and i'll make sure i've got someone to share it with. i will say: "when i was younger, i believed in truth; in color and shape and malleability. i knew the world and i knew what i loved and i made the best of it. the beginning of the year washed me clean, and now i'm still here, pushing my passion, the future ever closer than before."