Write Time

I often worry that if I stop blogging, I'll simply forget how to write. The longer I go not blogging, the more anxious I become about the thought of opening up a blank post and letting words, however silly or significant, transform themselves from jumbled html to coherent prose. I can only imagine the kind of anxiety professional writers must feel, which is why I don't think I could ever write for a living. I think the pressure to churn out creativity on command would ruin it for me. 

Since my last post on August 25th, I haven't attempted to draft anything new. However, there's been countless times I've gone off on mental tangents—usually while driving or cleaning my apartment— and thought "I should really blog about this." Yet, life continues to plug along at what feels like a weird combination of slow motion and hyper-speed, and other things have taken precedent. So, I've lost track of these ideas and left the words suspended in some of kind of limbo between pen and paper. (Or in this case...hand and keyboard?)

After uploading this shot from a weekend trip in Cambria, it took me a solid hour to work up the courage to even start typing. Instead, I lost myself in a daydream (that should really just be...a dream, since it's past 11pm on a Sunday)...staring into the sea of lavender and listening to my latest obsession on Spotify. In hopes of being somewhat-human on Monday morning, I tried to convince myself that 11:38pm on a Sunday night was not an ideal time to start a blog post. But, my irrational fear of forgetting how to write won. So...here we are. 

Now that I've probably lost 95% of the people that started this post, I don't know what to tell the loyal 5% still reading my jumbled Sunday night thoughts. I'm desperately trying to come up with something climactic to say after spending 3 wordy paragraphs writing about writing.

And it's turning into one of those moments. Kind of like the moment you first land a job. You're SO excited you finally have a job, until you realize...OH shit, I actually have to work now. 40 (or 60) hour weeks, 6 am wake-up calls, and 11pm bedtimes even when a tangential blog post is calling your name.

Backyard

Let me preface this post by saying...I'm not entirely exaggerating when I refer to this as my new backyard. It's a 10 minute drive from my apartment and a reasonably timed hike for the rare occasion I wear my yoga pants to actually like, exercise. 

On a Sunday night whim, a couple friends and I ventured up to the Griffith Observatory to take in the view and the last few hours of the weekend. It was one of those aimless summer evenings. Our night at Griffith felt like summer the same way that drinking too much Pinot Grigio on the staircase of my un-air conditioned college apartment felt like summer. Moments like this embody that intangible characteristic of the season...but have become too few and far between lately.

Next to us at the top of the observatory was a young couple admiring the view. One of them was visiting from Paris for the week, so my friends and I subconsciously stepped up our LA-game, reciting the names of streets like a scene right out of The Californians. There was even a heated debate about whether or not the bright light running down the center of the city is in fact Western Avenue—jury/Google Maps is still out if anyone would like to lend some geographic expertise. 

And as we loudly pointed and squealed when we recognized a landmark, the dreamy French boyfriend (note: not just an archetype used for the dramatization of this blog post) stood in awe at our extensive, probably misguided, knowledge of Los Angeles.

It was a weird moment. Because, atop a big hill filled with buses of tourists...I felt unusually at home. Somehow, even after moving to the opposite side of town, I'm still in love with this dysfunctional city.

And yeah, it doesn't hurt that I have a telescope in my backyard.

Juncture

I have a love/hate relationship with summer. The past three have brought about lots of changes—falling somewhere in between forgettable and somewhat earth shattering. And this summer appears to be no different. 

I've been MIA from this blog yet again...but if I look back at my pattern of summer postings, I always seem to drop off somewhere in June and find my way back by fall.  Right now, my hiatus is from a combination of things. I'm working the hardest I ever have, wearing many hats and trying to learn as much as I possibly can while I'm still early on in my career. I rarely talk about my job on this blog because I like to keep this world separate, but this summer has been an important time for me at work. 

I'm also putting down roots in LA for the foreseeable future. This spring brought about the first of many quarter(ish) life crises, where each week felt like my life was about to take a complete 180. It was a constant game of stop and go. And it was, to put it simply, exhausting. Even though I couldn't plan past the next week, I didn't live a second in the moment. I wasted 6 months waiting for my life to start. I almost dropped everything to aimlessly travel the world (really). And while that's definitely still a part of the plan, it may need to wait a couple more years.

After all the stop and go, I've finally reached a juncture—the beginning of a new chapter. I'm moving...again. This time, into my own little studio on the Eastside. I'm incredibly excited and nervous at the same time. It's cute, tiny, old and has appliances from the 1950s which may or may not be up to code. It's the first time I'll be living alone and as scary as it might be, it feels like the right time to step out of my comfort zone. 

I spent most of my formative years (and who are we kidding, I'm still in my formative years...but bear with that statement for the purpose of this post) as a we—not a me. While everyone was living a normal, wonderfully reckless college existence...I was meticulously mapping out my Five-Year Plan which involved marriage, kids, and a life so drastically different from where I see those five years now, that the only thing left to do is to chuckle uncomfortably and move on.  But, even as admittedly hard and lonely and frustrating as being just me can be sometimes...this all feels right.

I'm excited to have a place that is truly my own.

So here's to a summer of good change.

...it would appear that the Weird Rut of 2015 (as it's officially named) had a purpose after all.