Sometimes I like to think about grit.
Now that it’s December, the days fade into their purple blackness and by the time I leave work, if I’m lucky, I can see the hesitant tinge of pink echoing off the clouds before the sun fully sets.
I walk a different direction these days, my parking lot having moved to a closer two blocks. I have less time to think and more time to imagine half-thought out ideas. It’s good short story writing weather.
So I wander past the parking garages and up the snaking street. Past the U-Haul depot with trucks with strange images like the Snakes of Saskatchewan and a multi-colored air balloon.
But it is all dark. Including the building that used to read GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS. There’s a City Notice out front. Change of ownership.
“That area used to be full of street walkers. It was scary where the metro was.”
My mother’s voice occasionally nags as I walk and I think of Baltimore. Oakland even. Bus stops. In the mornings, the Central American day laborers nod hello. I might spill some coffee.
But it’s night. The car lights haunting Los Angeles. Sunset is really beautiful here. Everything is ablaze.
And I walk, steady on true grit.