|l'ecole des femmes sailor blouse // topshop skirt // old asos sandals|
Sterling snapped a few pictures of me as we made our way down to the liquor store at the bottom of our hill for water and beer. Riding the edge between Echo Park and Chinatown, Victor Heights is a neighborhood in limbo, embodying both the glamorous mythology and the shit reality that gives Los Angeles its perfectly attenuated magic—it's the attenuation that makes our magic real. Cracked and sun-bleached surfaces support thrown-out mattresses spray painted with maudlin one-liners; elderly Chinese couples seated on distinctly un-outdoor furniture, having claimed the slim strip of greenish-brown crab grass between the street and the sidewalk as an ad hoc chess parlor; honeysuckle and dog shit in equal abundance, Lyft drivers that coo at our glittering view of downtown as their pink-mustachioed cars crest the dirty hill. The boom of fireworks alerting us to the end of a triumphant Dodger home game. Maybe there's a toilet in the middle of the street. Kids play with dirty Nerf balls in front of abandoned construction sites for expensive lofts that will one day displace them. One of them puts hands in the air and says "you have big boobs!" and I tell him to watch his goddamn mouth. Wild peacocks perch on sagging telephone wires and make their terrifying call, a florid whine that sounds like crying children, or fighting cats.
There are crying children and fighting cats, too.