Due to being a bit under the weather, I’ve been spending a lot of time at home lately, which feels like a strange distinction to make in the soup of the past two (? three? five hundred?) years, where “time at home” is more punishment than respite.
The nice thing about being a shut-in in Los Angeles is you’re not really missing out on anything, except of course “nature” and “the weather.” But this time of year venturing outside past noon feels like (in the words of the immortal bard) you might as well be walking on the sun. You and all of nature are melting in the unbearable heat, so those seductions don’t hold their usual sway.
The interesting thing about not leaving my house here is I feel no guilt about avoiding outings that felt mostly invented. Today (and yesterday) I chose not to venture into this town’s bustling cultural centers (CVS, the grocery store, coffee shops), and guess what? I didn’t miss out on any fun snippets of conversation, exciting outfits, or moments of actual significance, because those rarely occur here. I simply avoided surrounding myself with people who are just like me, wearing the same baggy clothes and avoiding writing the same boring screenplays.
Does that mean being home is pleasurable? Unclear. My creative output has dwindled and my laundry has piled. It’s a bit like rattling around with all of Scrooge’s ghosts at once, assaulting you with visions of what you have or haven’t done, what you’re doing or not doing, what you will or won’t do. Except they’re as lazy as you are, and there are no midnight adventures to forgotten corners of your memory. We all just kind of sit and stew together, everyone feeding off of each other’s defeated energy. It’s what I imagine multi-player gaming is like.
On the bright side, my inability to do much has released me from the churning, burning disappointment of never doing enough. I’m a bit like Bartleby. Am I happy? Who’s to say. But I don’t really care, which makes it impossible to be sad!
I’m hoping my next missive will contain an account of some exciting adventure, but right now it’s mostly absorbing the sound of garbage trucks and helicopters and the steady whoosh of traffic on the 101 from my upstairs window. Occasionally a loud parrot flock or an enthusiastic neighbor joins the din, but I don’t feel particularly compelled by any of these noises to rouse myself into action. Instead, I burrow a little further down, taking solace in the cat, and watch the light filter through the curtains as it slowly drains from the sky.
I know this whole thing reads a little “mental health emergency” but, I promise, when I’m having a real mental health emergency the first thing I try and do is hide it. Plus, if I lived somewhere like Paris, this time would be devastating. Think of all the uneaten croissants! The unvisited museums! The unseen dresses!
Fortunately, I’m in LA. There’s nothing to do here. So I’ll be perfectly fine.
Ah Langan! Ah humanity!
I think “under the weather” isn’t a bad place to be vis-vis the weather when it’s as you describe -- anywhere but out there IN it.
PS Clearly your creative juices are flowing, despite the self-diagnosed lethargy....