Koreatown

11 Oct

 

Writing this at a little table outside Ralph’s Market, facing Western Ave., the grey-green Wiltern Theatre to my right, traffic flowing past, and a solitary trumpet player performing a block away, probably for dimes and nickels.

My neighborhood is a mix of Mexicans and Koreans, in a northern section of Koreatown. Here and there are echoes of Raymond Chandler’s LA, especially when the sun washes over the Moorish curves of pre-war buildings.

I’ve always described myself as beset by duality.  I’m missing Ann and Devon and the total absence of family life is tough. I’m used to some kind of teeter-totter action.

I was getting worried, wondering if I was going to have to resort to living in a cut-rate motel – the kind over-encouraged actors, big dream screenwriters and crack whores live in.

Then I found a place in Koreatown listed on Craig’s List, a sublet from a Jamaican girl. Once I handed the money order over to her, I had something like $40 bucks to my name.

I have my own four walls around me – at least for the next three months.

My apartment is functional, but very dark. It looks onto an alley and a brick wall. Before I got out here, one of my criteria for choosing an apartment was it had to have light. Instead I panicked – rightfully so – and chose the first crib I could get. Thank God LA is filled with light. A dark apartment in New York would be tough, but I can walk outside and luxuriate in the sun. But it’s lonely.

I spent the last decade going from a driveway to a parking lot. Now I have to become an overnight expert in parallel parking.

(2005)

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