Today I am in mourning for a woman I never met, a woman I only cling to because she had the words when I did not. When I do not, I still do not.
Here is my memory of Leslie Harpold, who said what I say through tears and unfinished sentences, yet she managed to say it much better. The emphasis, if it's really necessary even, is mine.
"California is so sunny I can't even hide my flaws from myself. Everything here is a reflective surface, even dirt, even fire, even skin.
California is flock of woodpeckers who think I'm a delicious oak, to be devoured quickly with no regard for my plans to saw, sand and varnish myself into a beautiful armoire built for holding a family together.
California is something I'm doing all wrong.
California wakes me up too early in the morning and wants me in bed before midnight. It has no regard for my love of the dark. California says "I have all this sunshine and you will absorb it, no matter what!" California is totally bossy.
California is on to me.
California is about process and I'm the kind of person who'd sleep a night on a bed of nails and then walk barefoot through fire to get to a soft cool pillow I can keep for the rest of my life. California wants the ride to be worthwhile, and keeps repeating "It's the journey, not the destination," when all I can do is point to the red star on my map and say "I'm going here."
California tests me at every turn.
California is so sure I'm leaving soon I feel compelled to stay forever just to prove it wrong. I want to be 100 years old standing in the center of the state capital saying "See motherfucker, I didn't leave! You were wrong!" Just so I can beat California at anything just once. I wish California played Scrabble, I'm good at that.
California wants me to put avocado on everything.
California knows my biggest problem is that I talk too much and is constantly following me around with a voice distorting microphone so I sound like a monster even to myself. California tells me I'm brutish and wants me to shut up once and for all.
California loves to see me cry.
California was supposed to be the smartest impulse move I'd made in a long time, getting me out of a rut, pushing me to be better, but all it does is mock me for the ways I've failed in the past, insisting I'll never amount to anything.
California treats me like I'm desperate, when I'm really only frightened. I wish California could understand just that one thing.
California sits on my chest until I say "Uncle," admit I'm just like everyone else, there's nothing special at all about me and no I do not look nice in these pants and yes, I do have to put lemon juice on my hair four times a year to keep it this blonde, and while I have lost weight I really have nothing to celebrate yet, and also I am actually tired and need a rest.
California won't let me fake anything.
California says "You have so many blessings here, I don't know why you hate me," and as usual, California is right. California pays my bills and puts nice people in my world and this is how I say thank you?
California knows I've always been a total ingrate."
