Devil Monkey Boy

I have a friend who lives as far away as you can and still be on the mainland and on American soil. Or close enough as makes no difference. She has been there for eight years. Eight difficult years. She came with inspiration, hope, and passion. Seeking same.

Recently she had a moment. You humans in the audience will know what I mean when I say "moment," or you will if you really think about it. I mean one of those moments that change our outlook completely, those moments that give us a swift, spiritual kick to the head. Those moments that either affirm or challenge our current course. In this moment, L.A. became its better angels. It became a place of wonder again. It became a place filled with dreamers. But most importantly, it became a place she belonged.

I could have shed a tear right then, as I read her words. I could have, but I'm a manly, masculine, male-type, stoic sort of man-man, man. I'll admit my lip quivered a bit, and a big geyser of happy welled up from somewhere near my sternum. Okay, fine. If that makes me a big softy, so be it. But I'm a sucker for a good story.

And that's what L.A. is, it's a good story. In her own words, "It's a place for dreamers...and those who dare...and people who will put everything else on hold to tell a story."

She's out there telling a story and living one too. It's just the sort of thing that gives me inspiration, hope, and passion. I live in Bizarro L.A. I live in its mirror image. Mirror images are not opposites, despite what lazy writers may say. Mirrors show ourselves reflectedly strangely.

I am ten months into my life here. Three hundred odd days. Some good, some weird, some filled with hope or passion or inspiration or some combination thereof. I've had moments that affirm and moments that deny. I'm not so much waiting for that Moment, as living vigorously on my way to it.

When that moment comes, I hope to hear it say, in a strong, clear voice, "Yes."

I don't yet know the question.

But I will.