No. You can’t. You can’t go home again.
They usually tear down your home to make way for a strip mall or a dry cleaners. But even if they didn’t, even if your house was still there, you’d still have to fight that up-hill battle against nostalgia. You’re always going to be a sixteen year old punk, a little eccentric, but loved all the same.
And that’s the important thing anyway, right? Loved all the same.
So I’m sitting here in Los Angeles. A Soul Coughing song about L.A. has been in rattling around in my head since I got here two days ago. It’s appropriate and all, but it’s still Los Angeles. And I’m a little hung over from Thanksgiving so things seem a little weird. Heavy comes to mind.
And I’ve done it again. I’ve gotten half-way into an entry when I realize that what I really want to say I really shouldn’t say here where just anyone can read it. What I really need to do is write in my journal, so I’ll sign off for now.
More, as always, later.