February in Retrospect

It's over halfway through March and I'm only just getting around to this month in retrospect for February.  I guess that's to be expected... I no longer live in Los Angeles.  Fuck, I no longer live in California.

In February, I got rid of the vast majority of my things, packed my Honda CR-V to the brim, and drove 400 miles to Tempe, Arizona.  My new home.

Last month, when I wrote that everything was about to change, I'm not sure I understood what I was writing.  Sure, I knew that things were about to change.  I knew there were logistics that would be different.  I'd moved before.  I knew Arizona would be hotter than California.  I knew I'd be further away from my home and my family.  I knew I'd lose quick access to all the food and entertainment I'd grown accustomed to in LA.  I knew things would change.

But I hadn't really thought about how I'd change.  Or not change, as the case may be.

The vast majority of February was unremarkable.  I'd interviewed for a job in Tempe the last week of January and by the following week, I knew they were interested in hiring me.  I spent the early weeks of the month in a holding pattern--trying to detach myself from my life in LA, but not trying to detach too much in the event I got the job.  It's hard to wean yourself off of a city when you're not sure you're going to be gone.  And then all at once, it happened.

I got the call.  I quit my job.  I started calling and texting people.  I started donating things.  I started packing.

Before the month was up, I'd moved in with Michael and his roommate Ryan.  In Tempe.  In the desert.  Four hundred miles away from the life I'd loved so much in LA.

There is still so much of me that feels like I live in LA and am just a visitor here.  Just a passer-by in the lives of the people here.  Just someone who wandered in and will wander out in the near future.  Even though I know that's not true.  I have a job here.  I have a driver's license here.  All my things no longer have my California address.  I am here.

But a portion of my heart feels caught sitting at the edge of pavement and sand in Los Angeles.  And I don't know how long this longing will last.  I don't know if it ever goes away.