Color Theory

If cities have a color Los Angeles is orange. If you’ve ever used the “Los Angeles” filter on Instagram you know what I mean. It’s honestly too much, orange on orange gives end times. Orange is better when it’s encountered as it should be—standing alone, shocking, accusatory. Ugly but oddly satisfying… you kind of have to let it slap you. Then caress you.

If LA were a sound it would be the white noise of the freeway. The voice of Bradley Nowell crooning on the radio. If LA were a flavor, it would be a Cactus Cooler. 

It’s the feeling of an empty 7-11 parking lot at night hanging out with two cars full of teenagers. Someone’s doing ollies on a skateboard. It’s the feeling of deep bass in a low car that stinks of weed going to a party you shouldn’t be going to.

Being in a new city is a little bit like taking a new lover. You’ve seen pictures but they’re always different in real life. You couldn’t have imagined their smell. The corners that at first were so unfamiliar, mysterious, slowly become places you linger, recall in your dreams. You don’t totally know where it’s going or if it’s forever. But you’re willing to be seduced.

Returning to a place that is adjacent to where you are from is like taking back an old lover. Is he going to be different this time? He definitely has changed. You’re nervous, it’s both familiar and foreign. You remember why you left. You remember why you stayed. You remember why you thought of him when you were with other people and you remember the moment where you realized you didn’t need him anymore. Maybe you never knew him at all? You feel his hand on your lower back and you pretend you don’t, an innocent look on your face bearing through the tension and desire until you’re getting fingerfucked in daylight, eyes closed to the brightness, mouth parted open.

If it’s possible to be held by a city, I don’t think Los Angeles ever held me.

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