“I came to Los Angeles from Philadelphia, where I had lived for five years, attending art school. Philadelphia is known as the City of Brotherly Love, but when I was there, it was a hellhole. There wasn’t a lot of love in that city. I arrived in L.A. at night, so it wasn’t until the next morning, when I stepped out of a small apartment on San Vicente Boulevard, that I saw this light. And it thrilled my soul. I feel lucky to live with that light.
I love Los Angeles. I know a lot of people go there and they just see a huge sprawl of sameness. But when you're there for a while, you realize that each section has it's own mood. The Golden Age of cinema is still alive there, and the smell of jasmine at night, and the beautiful weather...and the light is inspiring and energizing. Even with smog there's something about that light that's not harsh, but bright and smooth. It fills me with the feeling that all possibilities are available. I don't know why. It's different from the light in other places. The light in Philadelphia, even in the summer, is not nearly as bright.
It was the light that brought everybody to LA to make films in the early days. It's still a beautiful place."
I was listening to the audio book version of "Catching The Big Fish" by David Lynch when I found myself tearing up at this passage, on the bus no less. I guess this could be partially attributed to the fact that I was having a rotten Oregon winter day, but I believe it also happens to be beautifully expressed and true.
I used to sit in the orange tree in my backyard and stare up at the blinking red and amber lights of the Mt. Wilson observatory atop the inky mountains that loomed over us. The sky was a dull plum color that glowed from within from the smog and distant lights of downtown. I felt very alone-but-not-alone and thought it was impossible that I could be the only one that saw the things I did. How people can function in that light I still don't understand.
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