Today i spent the day with my brother, who was probably my first best friend and still knows me better than most people. Here he is, with his tech job and wife and house and best friend, living out in
California. Here i am, with my two pieces of luggage and a carryon,
homeless and
unemployed, sleeping in his living room in California. I've thrown myself into this
headlong and now, now that the plane tickets are all used and my concrete plan has run out, now i'm - what? condemned to freedom? We
stroll through Laguna randomly, repeating patterns, going into galleries and shops that he hasn't been to before, commenting on the divergent forces that make up the town: tourism, art.
Wealth. Well, not so divergent. Just alien in some ways. I am mostly fascinated by the unfamiliar
plants and the
juxtaposition of art and kitsch. It doesn't appear to be ironic.
Irony: a mainstay of my personality. Huh. Its counterpart in my brother's personality, and in most of his friends, is a lovely (intelligent) earnestness. Even their irony is heartfelt, there is nothing ever malignant or bitter about it. The aftertaste is like banana, sweet and substantial. They're like exotic plants to me. It is a good thing to see. I feel like i should handle them gently and i'm glad they like the food i make. But i really ought to move on.