Dystopian Megacities, LA Impressions

LA- it’s like a chocolate bar you hate eating but can’t help chomping into. The sun, the beach, the diversity, but also the smog and the cars and the traffic. “You get used to it,” says my friend as we approach lane upon lane of traffic.

I, the budding LA scientist hired by secret corporations in DC, performed a study today. I counted the total number of bicyclists in this sprawling megalopolis. How many? 4 bicycles and cheap ones you wouldn’t mind getting stolen. Gone are the sports bicycles of the San Fran hills. Gone are the bike lanes that keep us safe. Want to get around LA? Better have a car or you will wait for a lifetime for the bus.

“Let’s just throw streets arounds these hills,” said the founding fathers of LA, “let’s just make an oasis in this desert.”

And God gave us LA, and he said it was good enough. Don’t get me wrong. LA is full of sights and sounds. Where else are you going to find a record shop that specializes in punk and ska? Where else are you going to see Mexican burritos with real chorizo in them?

It feels like an American Mexico, with its long strips of concrete shops. It feels like the glamor is really just the dust and the grit of Raymond Chandler’s hills. It is a desert and one that is expensive and struggling to renew itself. Seattle is far more beautiful and bicycle friendly. Yes, it is the capital of entertainment. Yes, it is gritty and weird and cool.

It is a love hate relationship, not too unlike the one people have for NYC, the oasis for the East-coast masses. It is the dystopian future of a people that have refused to change their ways, like Chris Burden’s vision shown below:

1-Metropolis-II-2010-E

Seattle Poem 2: “Salmon Fishing”

The river still runs at night

When the salmon sleep with eyes

Wide open. Their silvers flash

Amid the stones in the stream.

As I wander on the trail, I yearn

To have them in my hands.

I kneel and watch how still

They are in the cool rapids

Before plunging my hands into the depths.

Unsurprisingly, they slip away,

Which makes me wonder if

They were just illusions

I made in the moonlight.

The waters clear and shadows stretch

Where I thought I held

The fish for a moment.

The gloaming digs into me

As if I, too, were just a dream

That someone has tried to reach…

Translation: Golden Age of Spain

The translation of the day, a confusing mess of understanding the self:

Fin de Jorge Manrique

Conmigo solo contiendo
en una fuerte contienda,
y no hallo quien me entienda,
ni yo tampoco me entiendo;
entiendo y sé lo que quiero,
mas no entiendo lo que quiera
quien quiere siempre que muera
sin querer creer que muero.

End, by Jorge Manrique

Against myself I struggle
in a heated battle,
and I fail to find who understands me-
not even I understand myself;
I understand and know what I want
but barely comprehend he
who always wants me dead
without wanting to believe that I die.