Pitching For Love

I spent Saturday at the LACMA. My favorite part was sitting on the grass listening to a afro-latin band while people danced under a sunny sky. Sunday, I went to the Getty for lunch with N for a pretty place to sit while it rained in Los Angeles. It was a nice escape to sit in the hills contemplating Degas and art. N and I talked about writing, video blogging and then dug into the girl talk.

Hearing "I love yous" in succession after returning from my trip has been more unsettling than being jet-lagged and I wondered why it is so difficult to believe in a town where "dreams come true."

"Buy my CD!"

"Read my script!"

"Go to my show!"

"Come see my art!!"

And I had to conclude that perhaps a lifestyle of pitching and selling one's ideas perhaps to a point of mental and emotional prostitution has a domino effect on the Los Angeles plane of love.

Being excited to make a new friend, I feel thrown onto an invisible clock and I become a project that must yield dividends as soon as possible. A fledging relationship is interpreted with predictions bringing up estimations like a movie about to be released.

"I think we'll open at 14 million this weekend."

"I think we'll have a great time this weekend. Some wine, a show..." yada yada yada

What is real passion for life when there is no directness and vulnerability?

It was a friend's litany of lovespeak and sentimentalizing of simple shared events RIGHT after prospecting my roommate that made me wonder if maybe Hollywood has altered him. In a world where people juggle projects as they pursue others, quality of life seems to find a new dimension. My friend's "I love you" had lost value and I was saddened that he was a machine of words. I suppose I needn't care because I had only platonic feelings toward him but I found it disturbing that he could improvise so well. His insincerity was a serious mind game that I couldn't let pass. This somewhat good person was getting sucked into the matrix. I spoke with him in hopes to get him off the grid. He's heavily plugged in for he is wreaking mini havocs in his journey to pitch.

by The Swirly Girl.

And so TIME is my ally and not my enemy as it is to others in this neurotic town. Do I want love? Of course. It's the most important thing to me that I listen for in the spaces of silence where pretense takes to the bench.

Until then, I will face getting berated by girlfriends who'll watch me let "that good one get away." I'll deal with the frustrations of pitchers who'll use finesse, guilt and then anger to place me into their cages. And I'll have to have faith that indeed truth exists and that love is patient.

JNET