First Walk

Today nothing quite felt real. 

I changed my outfit 12 times before I felt ready to go out. I didn’t intend to see anyone, but I have a horrible case of the what ifs, all of the time. I knew I just needed to get myself moving, even if I was not red carpet ready. 

Hollywood tourist attractions are usually walks like the Avenue of the Stars, or a good view of our namesake sign, so I was intrigued by the “Vine Stairs” that google maps kept flagging for me. (The google monster knows I need to walk, and probably also knows when I am depressed.) 

When I lived in San Francisco, I used to love to climb up the stairs in my neighborhood and watch the sunset. There was something particularly sacred and serene about this activity. There was hardly anyone there, but when there was, it was like we were all in agreement to let the moment be honored silently and individually, despite the fact we were all experiencing something so magical together. 

I needed to find that walk for me here. Or maybe, I just wanted to get out of my house: to get out of my skin. So, I tried something new, and I set out on my new walk. 

A few blocks in, I walked up to a massive apartment building. Honestly, it looks like a castle. I have only ever seen it from my car, and I have never been so close. It is almost daunting. Whenever I see a building like this, I can only think about how expensive it must be to live there. (For this, capitalism has really ruined my brain). But there I was, at its base, looking up at it like a castle. I quickly walked away. I don't think I am meant to confront Class that closely. 

It seemed like the only way to arrive at my summit was to walk up the hill, and something about that made me feel brave. Still with each step, I wondered why the fuck I was doing this. What a strange phenomenon: continuing on with my walk as I considered how, actually, I did not HAVE to walk, and yet I do. I walk, even though I feel massively uncomfortable, and I want to complain about how fucking hot it is, how I feel covered in a second skin of sweat, and how my shorts keep riding up my thighs (which I am sure is just as ugly as it is uncomfortable). I just keep walking. Maybe I just needed to defeat myself to get up the hill. I don't know what is the truer version of me: the one that pushes through the challenge, or the one that goes home. 

I found that I must have chosen a walk that was remarkably inclined, which makes sense since, you know, stairs. But I hadn’t thought of it like that. 

I began to log everything I saw. For no reason at all, I considered myself a journalist, doing research as a flaneur, taking photographs of people’s stained glass windows and the loveliest flowers in their yard. As I began to examine the foliage, I laughed to find that the most prominent item on the vine was a bag of pretzels. Empty, of course, or else I may have been tempted. In hindsight, I should have thrown them in a trash can. But I left them there. I wonder what that says about me.

When I finally located the street to turn on, I was troubled. Huge signage claimed “not a through street” in bold letters. I looked at it, and realized I was tilting my head and squinting. I wondered if anyone in their house was peeking out their window, watching my confusion. Did it read as confusion, or wonder? Would they think I was evil? That I am part of some huge scheme to rob their neighborhood, sending someone to look at all their stained glass and pretty doors, photograph it, and keep on walking, with their baseball cap and huge headphones? 

Suddenly, it dawned on me how incredibly unlikely it was anyone happened to be looking. So, who was I even performing for? 

But back to the sign: I felt like I could find my way through. Besides, I was already on the street. And, isn’t the only way out, notoriously, through? 

I suddenly, painfully, felt a deep grief that no one was here to see these new steps with me. Wouldn’t they feel just as magical as San Francisco? Maybe the silent community of my sunset steps was more valuable than I realized. What was I going to do, with no audience, or no scene partner? How would I explain this later, and to who? Why did I want to explain it later, at all? 

The steps were beginning to come into view now. It was some magic, the way the trees hung down, making it hard to see the whole staircase. There it was. And I laughed. I laughed in my belly, I laughed and desperately called for air. The staircase is nearly nothing: it is only about 16 steps, with nothing to see at the bottom or top. And that's all it is. And all it has to be. 

So, it’s clear now to me how I will explain this later. It will be just like this, and to you: 

I don’t know what makes me walk, or why my destination always requires me to walk uphill. I don’t know what makes me write, and I don’t know why I have to feel seen. But I do know, it feels so lovely to be on a walk, holding onto an idea.