October 1,
already? September was Italy, but
now I feel as if that was a time warp, a kind of irridescent soap bubble in
which I drifted far from ordinary time.
When I left here it was summer; when I got back it was fall. Somehow it feels as if I missed the
turn the year made here, and will continue oddly out of synch indefinitely.
Being in Los
Angeles over the weekend was also a kind of time warp—back to a different age,
a fairy-tale time and place. The
palm trees do that, the eternal summer weather, my memories of unreal spring
breaks and Thanksgivings there during college. It was also magical watching the fountains and fairy lights
outside the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, where we went for the opera (and timeless
Placido Domingo) on Saturday night, being where all of Hollywood used to come
in stretch limos and pumpkin coaches for the annual Academy Awards.
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