Books, Books, and More Books

I've finished throwing out all those pretty cards, enough to have felled a few dozen trees, I'm sure. They are now stuffed, quite unceremoniously, into large shopping bags, which I seem to have in abundance since I collect those as well, and have realized that all of my books will go into storage for this first year in New York. YIKES! Not 'yikes' like I can't live without them, which is partly true, but more 'yikes' like what if I repurchase the same books that I have because I don't know what I have? So, I've come up with the ingenious idea of cataloging all my books, alphabetically by author, and broken up into categories: fiction (by periods), nonfiction, poetry (by periods) and all of my critical theory books. Great idea, right? But you can see how this will quickly turn into something very ugly as I obsess about whether to categorize Raymond Carver as Modern or Postmodern.

I will digress from my purging since I've realized that I need to write about Los Angeles, and less about how much crap I have to sort through before I can leave LA. Last night I attended an interesting cocktail party for women in business--yes, I'm not in business, per se--in downtown LA. Yes, people do go downtown, or at least I do. I'm always amazed I get invited to these types of events since my career is so fractured unlike most of my friends who seem to have such structured days.

I drove the three or so miles to the restaurant, avoiding all freeways, of course, and was quickly stuck in traffic, which snaked down Sunset Boulevard. It's when my car is running, but not moving, when walking would have been quicker, if walking were an acceptable mode of transportation instead of some strange socio-economic statement, that I start my "oh I hate this city," mutterings. Needless to say, there were many expletive filled moments in the car, especially after my navigation device kept insisting on putting me on a freeway, and therefore I got lost since I had to ignore the strange automated voice telling me to turn left when turning left would mean my hands clutching the steering wheel in terror as cars whizzed past me on those five-lane monstrosities called a--FREEWAY. By the time I arrived, I was frazzled and badly in need of a drink.

As I was leaving, waiting for the valet, I gazed up at the two structures reaching skyward. One building was emblazoned with the name of a well-known law firm, the other nameless. I turned around and saw the freeways behind, cars still doing that jerky--race ahead and then stop movement, which is the normal driving pattern on an LA freeway. The heat from earlier in the day had dissipated, the evening turning cool, just the perfect weather for this desert landscape. At that moment, I experienced a sense of loss for all that I was leaving behind. Despite all of my kvetching, this strange landscape has been the place where I became an adult, or so I like to think although most might not agree. And it is here, in this horizontal landscape that meets the Pacific that I met my husband. And since I've vowed to not write about him, but in the most oblique references, I will just say that all those years here were worth it since this is where my heart healed and became fuller than I could have ever imagined.