I meant to sit down and write this last week while I was in Los Angeles, but the words wouldn't really settle down in any coherent pattern. They're still sort of fighting this sort of black and white version of events.
I flew to Los Angeles last week. Life had been wearing me down (not any worse or better than usual, I just needed a holiday). Landing in LAX just makes me feel weird, because there's always some random photographer waiting for a celebrity to land, and he's always looking over your face as you walk through baggage claim and to whatever car is picking you up. One time I got a town car service and the photographer asked me if I was a foreign actress. I wish I had lied.
My dad has a house in LA, or else I couldn't REALLY afford to stay up in the hills and wake up each morning looking out over other million dollar houses. His house is too big for just me, so I'm always inviting friends up, but it's still too big. And I only use certain rooms like the kitchen and my bathroom and my bedroom and the smoking room and the media room...okay, yeah, maybe I wander the halls like a ghost. It's so weird and quiet after the housekeeper is gone and I'm left to my own devices. I feel a bit like mad old Miss Havisham, only I'm twenty-three and no one has quite yet stood me up at the altar. My father's house is big and rambling, but hardly falling apart. I wonder, when he dies, what I'll do with it.
They say A man's home is his castle as if you rule your domain. In Topanga Canyon, you are ruled by the surf and the sky so very close to the sea. In LA, you are ruled by your zip code, your area code and the car you drive. I faked my life in LA, faked it well enough to trick the natives; not that anyone is a native of LA. Everyone is running from something out there, and at 23, I hid with my 'cool' friends in my father's amazing house. When I go there now, my cool friends are back home but I still wonder as I wander, out under the sky.