Robert Downey Junior continually gets arrested. I sat down Monday morning and turned on my local news to see his face plastered across my screen. He had the bug-eyed, sweaty-skinned mugshot of a speed demon and the headlines announced that he was back in town for court after being caught with drugs in Merv Griffin's ritzy Givenchy Hotel down the street.
We all are gasping from choking on our addictions and reaching out to humanity. He wants his speed and I want to get laid.
Last night I sat at a fancy dinner honoring a youth organization and the guy next to me spoke about programs he was currently leading, developed to gather wayward kids and plop them back onto paths brimming with hope.
We are all New Age. We are all religious. We are all heathens in slick costumes coming back to steal more strawberries from the next door neighbor's field.
At 4:46 PM a few Saturdays ago I decided that I needed to get a life. I got off my damn computer and called all of my friends.
I miss my friend Lulu. She spends her days teaching yoga for free at a meditative arts center in Los Angeles. Lulu wrote an essay on the moon that blew the roof off my head spinning off into realms of desire that float between the sexual and the spiritual and mean nothing of either. She wrote the essay for a contest and is hoping that she will be able to sit in the rocks of Joshua Tree with a goddess woman author and chant around a fire, reclaim her power and roots.
My friend Stephanie is currently in Burma where she gains inspiration for her wooden box collage pieces.
This morning I had two hours to kill before an assignment meeting with one of my editors. I spent it in my friend Gene's messy bedroom in his mom's home listening to a million and one MP3s on his new HP computer. Adam Sandler, Bill Clinton on acid, South Park vignettes, Monty Python blips and farts.
I often spend all day talking to my literary confidante in Slovenia. Every night he takes his umbrella, walks to the trafika to buy cigarettes and tokens and rides to the television station where he works all night. His nights are my mornings and his rain is unbeknownst to me over here in sunny California. But geography aside, he does say he misses the states. There is little to do over there besides watch soccer, chain smoke and read form the bundles of books he orders monthly from the orgasmic US.
Days go up and down in California between defeat and hope. Oranges rot in Anaheim and cars wrap themselves around trees on drunken Easter Sundays in the desert. Fear, spontaneity, apathy and potential pepper the fault lines, threatening to quake.
Kimberly Nichols is a freelance writer splitting residence between the Southern California Desert where the air is clear and the mountains are magical and Boston for her much needed fix of urbanity. She is a featured freelancer for the local alternative weekly, The Desert Post Weekly. She is also a society columnist for The Desert Sun newspaper. Her non-fiction specialties are women's issues, psychology, philosophy, sex, and art, book, culture and music reviews. Her fiction and poetry has appeared in Feminista, Alternative Arts and Literature and 3am Magazine: check out Dirty Minded: Four Chambers and Integration. She also works as a publicist for various bands and artists. In her spare time, Kimberly can be found in the yoga studio, on the dance floor, at the beach or in Greek and Indian restaurants. She is currently at work on a book of poetry and a series of fine art collage entitled Girls of the Hundred Proof Bordello Define Desire.