(In editing stages, as are all posts here at City of Angels 2)
I’m working so hard. No one is forcing me. I wasn’t hired to do City of Angels. It’s a kind of penance. Penal correction of myself, karma. I haven't been a Catholic since I was thirteen and I still feel a need to punish myself.
Because over the years, I really did a lot of bad stuff, a lot, I was a sexual predator. No one thought of me as a rapist, because I was a female and kept myself looking hot so I could do the rapes in the first place, but when you look back at it, I forced guys to have sex with me. In today's world it might be called rape.
Sure, the sexual compulsion can mostly be explained by a priest diddling me when I was five and leaving me there horny to go into the world, which is basically what happened. I went into the world seeking more and more, starting with first grade.
It's my Karma.
The ten or so extra hours a day I work on City of Angels, it’s karma. Because even though there were innate compulsions that drove me to climb into men's cars, I must have known inside what I was doing was wrong. There was like a switch that would get turned on and I’d start going so fast, I didn't have time to see the damage I was doing, the wrong I was doing.
But I was doing a lot of wrong.
And the person I hurt most was myself, and my daughter, because she's having to grow up in the residue.
I think the work I do at City of Angels proves what I could have been professionally. If I hadn't been fucking everyone on staff every job I got, I’d probably be Editor in Chief of something like the New York Times, or at least the Podunk Town Gazette.
Well at least I have a legacy, of sorts, I have City of Angels, stored for eternity, electronically at Blogspot. I think it will last forever there. I probably should have printed it out a few times, especially the graphics.
Hope the Moslems or aliens from space don't attack with an electromagnetic beam and wipe out everything on the internet.
Maybe I better print out a copy of City of Angels…
In my life, I did some really bad stuff, even while in the middle of being a flower child and spreading peace and love. I guess “shocking” is a better word for it, and those incidents are always going to be in my head. And really when you get down to it, they're all sexual.
So I have this karma.
I can’t see what I see and not write it down to tell people. It would be internal negligence.
This morning I read an article on Alter Net about FAST a technology they're developing to sense when people are agitated and nervous at airports, kind of a pre-crime stopping technology that America is developing thanks to the Homeland Security Act.
Philip K Dick could see the future. How did he know in the 1950s that Minority Report and his other stories were going to come true. He must have had a brain where you see things and you have to write it down.
Having a brain like that makes you into a kind of mad person. I’ve heard Philip K Dick was almost impossible to be around, people could not stand to be in the same room with him, he was so -- BIG. And agitated and- I know that feeling.
When you see things other people can’t see, it makes it impossible to hold a civil conversation. I'm a lot like Philip K Dick, people can’t stand to be around me either. I'm just too angry, too much going on, it fills the room and people nearby back away.
The more time I spend in this room by myself writing, the more that force field around me grows. Also the more time I spend in this room by myself writing, the more I see.
So it’s a tradeoff.
People have never been nice to me anyway, I've always force fielded people away, so why let it bother me. This other thing that is growing, as I just accept and be, is more valuable than any friendship or romance I’ve ever experienced, because well I’ve never experienced those things, but if I had, it would never be as forceful and dominating as this force field.
I keep having this feeling that I'll be back with my friends after I'm dead, like they were never here on Earth to begin with...
Too much Philip K Dick
For now I know it’s a kind of acceptance that makes this continue to go forward.
As I pour my coffee at 3 AM when the timer is set for four, and then the words print out from my brain through my fingers onto the monitor, and I haven’t even myself yet seen what the words are saying, I have to marvel, it’s all a mystery.
In my dourest moods I cry out, “I need a vacation, why am I working these long hours, where is the recreation in all this, when does it stop?!!?” Then before I know what I'm doing, I'm at the laptop going after another lead, my hands so tired after 12 hours I can barely keep them afloat over the computer keys, but I have to copy and paste one more item, combine it with this thing I copy and pasted two months ago -
And YES. A new story.
This is my vacation, this is my recreation, this is what I’d be doing, even if I was on some Fiji type island sitting in a pool of clear water surrounded by colorful fish and men hired to … amuse me, I’d have a laptop nearby and be following up, tracking down phone numbers, finding addresses, writing emails, looking for new leads.
It’s an engine that's running inside me. Only way I could ignore it would be to drink alcohol to oblivion or fill up on narcotics. Even then, I’d still be trying to keep up with the engine, I'd just be wobbling a lot more than I am now.
So, sleep is something I did a few years ago and I’ll do it again sometime in the future. Recreation? Hey, the 1970s were one long party that for me overflowed all the way to the nineties.
Heck, I still have a party going on in my head, look at my Favorites on YouTube.
Marvin Gaye, Grace Jones.
So as I continue this 20 hour a day work that is necessary in order for this whole thing to continue, I will for fun keep the party in my head, and occasionally stop to give the human body I'm in for now while I'm on Earth some exercise. Take more walks. They may be covered with grime, but we do have sidewalks on Sunset Boulevard.
A couple times in the last year I’ve thought, why are you doing City of Angels, no one is paying you except an occasional PayPal high five, no one hired you, mainstream media does not give you any credibility, because you don't represent anybody, you're just this person who sees stuff and has to write it down and tell the world. You could be a con artist, a church infiltrator (hah), or a madwoman who just has a persuasive way with words.
There’s no guarantee a media producer is ever going to find City of Angels 3 to 5 (so far) and agree with me that this blog (not here at 2, this is something else) would easily segue into a video production once a week, posted here, produced videos of the stories at City of Angels 5. With advertising we could make a fortune, or at least break even.
I have no idea what the outcome of all this will be.
I just know that in 2006 I knew maybe three people. In 2009 I have less than three people in my face-to-face life. Really there’s only my daughter now. In this entire city, no in the entire region of Southern California, the only person I talk to is my daughter.
But I do have people I talk to on the phone around the country, a couple overseas. It’s frustrating, because I SO NEED a hug, and my daughter is the ice princess.
But phone conversations are better than what I had in 2005, which was nobody at all.
This happened to me once before. I was so extremely isolated when Lizzie was first born, in a state of postpartum psychosis, I picked us up and moved us from Hollywood to the northern tip of the state, a town called Arcata. I got a job on the local paper writing a column for Los Angeles Expatriates in Arcata, and within weeks I was getting all this hate mail, because local people in Arcata hate the people moving there from L.A.
So there I was with my picture in the weekly paper over my opinion column, communicating with hundreds of people in the community, and I did not know a soul, and no one knew who I was.
I was communicating with masses without having anyone in my personal life.
I didn't like the experience.
Now it’s happening to me again. I'm communicating with masses while the only conversation I have in person is, “When are you going to do the laundry.”
Lizzie is, as she grows up, beginning to realize I'm a person, not her own personal burden, but a human with a life outside her confines. I do have that one person in my life, my daughter, even though she’s not into hugs. Well, when you get down to it, I don't like hugs either.
Not from strangers.
Gotta get to work.