neighborhood – Page 4 – J.T. the L.A. Storyteller

Even though sometimes it’s one of the toughest things to walk past the gates and out to a neighborhood whose streets I’ve fallen on so many times.

As I put on my sneakers and open the door, I can’t help but question the arrangement of everything at home: that is, if I’m okay with leaving everything as it is, if for whatever reason I don’t get to make it back in time.

When I think about it for longer than a moment, I can’t help but want to hold onto my home and forget about the rest of the world, resolving that staying in could surely be the better choice in a world with no guarantee for my safety out there.

But then I think to myself that I can’t see things this way when everything and everyone is outside, when my mother and brother and all of my friends and loved ones are taking the risks past the grand unknowns that come with living in cities like ours.

It’s just that sometimes being at home is so familiar. Sometimes being at home alone is even more familiar than being in the company of friends or family.

But maybe it’s just the vastness of a self broken up into a million scattered seconds, at one moment telling me to get out there, then telling me to just stick to what I know since things are probably safer that way.

Somewhere through it all, the former gets a step ahead of the latter, and before I know what’s happening:

I find myself outside again, walking through the neighborhood I’ve known and not known for so long.

As I look out towards the familiar streets, I remark at how long it’s been, even if it was only just the other day since I crossed one intersection or another. But every time I see the streets again, they’re filled with new life; with new people, new possibilities, new dreams.

Unable to control the emotions this uproots in me, I can’t help but dream with the avenues and boulevards: of capturing all their life and loss and gorgeousness and making them shine bright enough to give them a place among the stars in a city which can always use more of them.

I see, then, how I do have to keep walking through the neighborhood. Even if I am to fall through its streets again, I can get back up knowing the streets and I share a common gravity, that we were made for each other, and that we rise and fall to complete one another. Home is not just what is within, then, it’s not even just what’s familiar; instead, it’s what is all around, and I value each of my surroundings. It is all home.

J.T.

On the road; on the way to Phoenix, Arizona!

And we just left Blythe, California, where I devoured a massive chicken quesadilla for $6.

At first, I didn’t think I’d be able to finish the little monster, as I’d just downed three of mom’s trusty sandwiches, but getting and gobbling the massive quesadilla was about making a statement; it was a declaration to the road that I’m ready for whatever it has to offer me, as I won’t fail to finish anything it needs of me to get me on my way.

Plus, I wanted to silence my stomach for the night once and for all. As I took the last bite of the saucy chicken wrap under the scorching sunlight in Blythe, I knew I’d done just that.

Now, I’m in the homestretch of the first step into the trip, as I leave our beloved California for the deserts of Arizona.

And here, a curious idea comes to mind. It’s 6:00 pm, and back in L.A., the InsideOUT Writers circle is in full swing. I can see it now, with people splotched all over the main room, filling the air with laughter and conversation, while others sit silently waiting patiently for the noise to die down. And I can see facilitators for the evening also playing it cool, waiting for their cue, while inside they’re just as eager as the next person to create an amazing discussion out of all the thoughts racing through their minds.

As the chatter continues, I can see the conversations looking too animated for anyone to slow down. But they won’t need to be slowed down. In a moment, the staff will just completely cut the convos off, announcing it’s time to roll.

From there, those standing will bolt to their seats, each of them playing a small but equal part in the formation of another massive writing circle for the evening.

Once they settle in, they’ll look around for a moment or two, before they find themselves captivated by the sight in front of them, as the facilitators introduce themselves, kicking off another magical evening together.

It’ll be a great evening of expression, community, and the profound effects thereof.

And yet, as fantastic as it’s going to be, I won’t miss it at all this evening.

I thought I would. I suspected that it’d be bad! But instead, it’s more than okay that I’m missing out tonight.

I’m on the road this evening, and the road is absolutely beautiful. It’s a gift from the Gods filled with marvels at every other second I glance out the window, each sight and sound reminding me that I’m right where I belong.

And here, it dawns on me that being on the road and being in the middle of a writing circle are actually not two mutually exclusive things. Although it might seem that way, I’m right beside my people in ‘East Hollywood’, and they’re all right beside me. I see that we’re beside one another no matter how much the illusions of the road would have me believe otherwise.

Together, all of us inhaling and exhaling, resisting and surrendering, and finally finding ourselves in everything outside of us.

Finding ourselves inside and out, through the neighborhood, and beyond.