Lost Home - 2017

Lost Home


6AM. Driving home down Alvarado or maybe we’re on Sunset. The lines and streets all start blurring together before the light really comes up to illuminate all our fears. 

Another night. Another all-nighter. 

Lately, all these nights feel like the same night. And all the drugs and all the drinks, they keep letting us down. 

“LA doesn’t look the same,” you say.

LA never looked the same. It never looked the way we dreamt it would, nothing ever does. 

I want to ask you if you remember driving out here and how that felt, back when we ran away like strange pilgrims, escaping the Midwest, and all that gray and guilt and suburban morality. How many years ago was that? We lose count of things after a while. Years and months and hours become long desperate cries on dark streets. And we forget why we ever came, why we ever left home at all.

I park the car in East Hollywood, outside that wrecked house we’ve keep trying to call home, and neither of us want to go in. It's a bad feeling not knowing where home is and an even worse feeling not wanting to actually find it. The neighborhood's empty, or at least it feels empty. Time gave up on our street long ago. I can’t even remember what it looked like when we first moved in, or what we were thinking, but I remember it meant something. It meant something to be in LA, to be away, to be far from everything we ever knew. “What’s real and what isn’t has mattered for a long time,” you tell me. I agree, and we both agree that what’s real and what isn’t will never matter again. 

Now, it's too early to be morning, too late to be night, and I can feel a deluge of strange moments washing over me. It's almost too much sometimes. Too much feeling. Too much void. Too much night.

And we're still too high. Too lost and desperate. Still afraid for the night to end, because once we're in bed and alone and our ears are ringing with the leftover bits of night noise, then it's over, and we never want anything to be over ever again. In this burnt sienna light everything feels apocalyptic and senseless. All that really makes sense right now is the acceptance that nothing in LA ever makes sense, and probably never will. It makes sense to write songs and to tell stories about the way it feels to be drunk and high and out of work and unsure and scared, but still somehow so full of hope and life and whatever else keeps us going. It makes sense to look at LA and to feel all of it in every way, to drive around all night and remember that this city was once a place before it was a city. It was a strange paradise, a wild landscape, a somewhere, and it was full of promise.