04.28.08
I moved to Los Angeles and realized that the culture shock had set in when I stopped feeling any emotions outside extreme anger and extreme sadness. When things like brake fluid, dismantled me. Paper cuts, parking lots, fifty dollars, can't explain it. Played a couple shows upon arrival here, only to realize my head was somewhere else, that there's a grace period—and needs to be—to remember how to be up, lay off the bourbon, practice. These are not small things. It's been a few weeks since, so I suppose I should start looking for places to play again, and I will. Watch, in six months I'll be on my feet again, and maybe I'll even drink the kool-aid and start introducing myself as Bekah, a writer, but right now working in Development.

Isobell is just finishing up our first album, Map Room, putting together the final mixes and burning. I saw the Map Room only once and from the outside, driving through Portland with Hannah in January. It's on the ocean, about a mile and a half from the Old Port, an industrial box with a door cut out, block letters, paint chips. I never went in. We spent most of our time in Ron's studio, another warehouse in another part of town that had no heat. There were strange things everywhere, a sewing dummy, torn fur pelts, planks of wood and a case of empty PBR cans. The back room looked like the woodworking shop out of Attica. Chris, Hannah, Ron and I spent a lot of time fucking around with hammers and mouth noise. I'm listening to the final mixes now and the process will soon be done, put to bed with a hush and a smile and a sentiment, something like I miss you and I'll see you soon, or that necklace you gave me, yeah, I wear it every day. Maybe something curt and easy—it ain't no good anymore, say hi to Harold, how's Izzy? It's so sunny out here, and New England is so gray this time of year. It's only a matter of time before we all, all of us, you and me, end up in the same place, shivering and blinking, humming something sweet.

Hope this finds you well, very well.