Do other people get as confused over the implicit values of their memories?... maybe it's because I've moved around so much, and am so dissatisfied.
When something reminds me of certain angles of life in LA: the Santa Monica bus as it passes that big, difficult-to-negotiate intersection near Rodeo Drive; the cheesiness of Santa Monica Boulevard in places – I wonder whether my desire to live there instead of here actually makes any sense, whether it is rooted in anything that actually exists. The extraordinary bleakness of such moments, the sense of suspended but pointless time....
A brief clip on television, that moves across sunny streets and intersections that are so innately, so casually, so perfectly LA.
And San Francisco: aren't my memories, when they are good ones, highly selective, based only on leisure moments?
Even Australia, though I may not have been there for long, I imagined myself so deeply there: and even a food program that shows a corner restaurant, of a kind I recognize from Sydney, pulls me into a space, a place, a set of smells and possibilities: a whole life that didn't happen, that nevertheless aches.
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