daily life travel

Give the Pacific my love.

What’s it like, being from Los Angeles? It isn’t. You’ve always wanted to go? Of course you have.

Los Angeles exists only as rivers of head-lights and veins of brake-lights. Not a proper city, no center at all, nothing but a sprawl of strip-mall liquor stores and beach-front property twisted around freeway interchanges, highway overpasses, and motorway numerals. LA is movement, jerky traffic. Los Angeles is inhabited by cars driven by an enternally late, under-caffeinated, “Nearly-out-of-gas, lost-the-phone-number, forgot-the-directions, can-I-call-you-back?” simulacrum of a being that has been consumed by his or her vehicle’s need to be in constant motion. Snail-paced motion.

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I’ve uploaded several photo sets to Flickr. Abusively and un-repentantly Photoshopped to salvage them from overexposure and/or blurriness and to renew the saturation that I remembered seeing (feeling, even – Nepal was was this incredibly vibrant tangle of sensory perceptions; you saw the odors and felt the color).

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