Like a Feather

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“It’s just like heaven being here with you
You’re like an angel, too good to be true
But after all, I love you, I do
Angel Baby, my Angel Baby,”

It’s a miracle to walk through the magic of a city that’s endlessly going, but it’s also a cold feeling, as the lights go on with or without us, honoring a destiny that always appears to be out of our hands. I think of all the buildings standing in The City tonight, for example, which for so long have played the role of a home or a workplace for so many people coming and going.

One cycle after the other, the buildings favor no person or people in particular, but serve everyone the same; that is, until enough time passes and the occupants of the day fade from the picture.

Of course, it’s not just the buildings which carry on business beyond us, but every car, bus-line, and freeway that we come to take for granted as well. How interesting it is, then; at nearly any given moment, there are people just like us who take our place on the road after we part from it.

And from this I can’t help but wonder if we’re not the ones being used by the materials we’ve made, or by the materials which others have made and left behind. This is a particularly challenging concern for me when I think about the way I get home sometimes after a long day: almost automatically scurrying to my computer screen in desperate search of some –or any– source of life other than my own.

Sometimes I get mad at myself for relying on so many lights so heavily; I think that it’s like I’m enslaved to the constant distraction they provide, or even jealous of their ability to generate a kind of road map for my thoughts to follow that’s somehow more concrete than any I can come up with on my own.  Why do I need such a road map, anyway, when I came and grew into the world just fine without one? And was it not at some point that I was just living, rather than planning to live as I do nowadays?

At some point after adolescence, simply living for the sake of it came to an end, and a search to live for meaning began. Not long afterward, the search became a desperate need for people, and a constant longing to be a part of their mass and their noise and their chaos at the same time of wanting to get away from them.

And yet, when I think about how fortunate I am to reflect on any light in the first place, and how light is there to be extended in any form that I choose, I realize that I’m actually in an endless backdrop of light to live through; the same one that extends through The City so boundlessly, uncontrollably, and miraculously.

At the end of the day, however, The City is just an imagination, or a sequence of illusions based on a certain position in its relentless geography; as much as I might want to be a part of The City’s picture all at once, I can only be a part of it to a limited extent, and for a limited time.

This spawns a Los Angeles that isn’t completely real all the time, but which is filled everywhere with some kind of reality that is in fact, concrete and to be appreciated by someone.

JIMBO TIMES is that appreciation, boundlessly, uncontrollably, and miraculously, except that I forget it sometimes when I walk through the coldness.

But when I remember how the lights live through me as much as I live through them, and how the lights have guided me for so long –and still do– I am at home again, and every building is mine, and all of the road is there for the taking.

More importantly, The City as I see it is there to be shared with the others out there, who like yours truly are also just trying to get through it as best as they can.

As always, with more soon,

J.T.

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