I am from Los Angeles. I was a child there. I left and came back several times.
And when I finally left for good, L.A. invaded my dreams.
I would be walking, up and down Colorado, or Pico Boulevard, or more frequently, inland. I would be stranded around Century City, trying to figure out which way the ocean was. I would look to the horizon, and I would start walking again.
These dreams went on for years. Rarely, I’d make it to the coast. And then, I’d start walking north up the beach, towards Malibu. I would walk and walk. And eventually I would grow tired and walk back, or else I would wake up. Sometimes I’d wind up down by Marina del Rey. This went on for ages. And I was usually carrying all this baggage around, unsuccessfully trying to keep it from getting lost.
Once, though, I was somewhere around Century City, and I walked up a hill to this place with a beautiful, old wooden gate. I knocked, and someone let me into a walled garden.
There were tables and umbrellas, and there were people offering me bread. There they all were, invisible, on a hill in the middle of Century City.
We hung out. We ate bread. They showed me their library. The Internet was in their library.
They were not all women. Their sex was not of import.
But they all had the eyes. Dream people eyes.
They don’t visit me all that often. But I know them when they do. They had visited me prior to this dream.
The message they send is always the same. It’s not quite speakable. But it’s always about expansion. Their presence in my dreams makes a space around me, a kind of illumination. It stays with me for days.
That is how editing this blog feels for me. I have been thanked, and now I thank you in turn. Thank you for changing my life. Thank you for directing my dreams. Thank you for being that place. Thank you for breaking bread with me. Thank you for opening the gate, when I found you, and knocked.
Thought of a song for this post, so a post-publication edit below: