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My stories

California Diary 11

L.A: 18th August 7.37am Mark Rothko gets me every time. It's only colour. So Paula and me go to the Museum of Contemporary Art. It's downtown and I have been there before. Saw a great David Hockney show a few years ago.

California Diary 10

L.A: 17th August 9.02am I would like to die in a diner please. With Patsy Cline playing in the background, and a half eaten piece of pie in front of me. That would be a good way to go I think. After my Santa Barbara breakdown. I am now returned to the city of angels. I slept the whole way back on the train. The rolling motions of the Ocean Pacific railway a good sedative that has me curled up on a window seat.
Cherry

California Diary 9

Santa Barbara: 16th August 12.25pm Basildon Bonds. Even here by the Pacific Ocean. I have stayed in hostels before. Done my time all over Australia in1999/2000 with Jane. So the moment I walked through the door here I knew the score, the rules, or the lack of them. The mess and laziness.

California Diary 8

On a train from L.A to Santa Barbara: 15th August 9.24am Sometimes a great ocean can make the world of difference. I have to get away for a couple of days on my own. I need to see waves and smell salt. The desire to have a solo adventure has been rising in me since Sunday. So I'm on a train as I write this heading for Santa Barbara. I love the romance of trains and this one is just right. It's a Double-Decker, full of old aged pensioners who appear to be on a kind of beano. They are laughing, chattering and sucking on boiled sweets. Outside there is a mist that phases the mountains that surround the city of Los Angeles. Occasionally, the train exerts its whistle and it makes my heart soar. Maybe everything will turn sepia in a minute and Marilyn Monroe may walk through the carriage, brandishing a guitar like the scene from 'Some Like It Hot'. Knowing my luck it will be Tony Curtis trying to sell me some of his terrible art.

California Diary 7

L.A 13th August 10.12am ' Crystal Meth is rampant here in Hollywood. Cocaine is dead.' Michael tells me this as we are driving towards the fleshpots of West Hollywood for a tour of duty that won't even have me leaving the car. I just want to look a little, a kind of affirmation that I have achieved something right over the last year. I have to keep myself at a huge arms length from a world that I only know too well.

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