I’m visiting my mom in LA. We’re having a wonderful time, watching old movies and eating popcorn and talking our heads off. We watched Gilda a few days ago, and The Cincinnati Kid with Steve McQueen last night. FANTASTIC movie. I haven’t seen a McQueen movie I didn’t love. My Uncle Barry came over last night, and mom and he taught me how to play Canasta.
But I miss home. I miss Matthew. I miss Wendy. I miss Chunk and Dev. I miss weaving.
Funny how I miss home more now, when I’m visiting my mom. When I was living in San Francisco, I missed Matthew, but I dreaded going back to that environment.
God, I don’t miss those neighbors. I’m still in a state of grace after our move. Almost every night I fall asleep in a daze of gratitude that nobody is going to crash or bang or yell or thunder up the stairs. Instead, we might hear some kildeer, and if we’re lucky, our hoot owl.
And then, I’ll wake up when I choose to, not when somebody else decides to thunder downstairs in high-heeled boots and slam the door and yell at her friends on the sidewalk at seven am on a Saturday. I’ll have coffee, kiss my boyfriend, and look for a job.
And eventually, I’ll wander back out to the studio.
And work away.