The beginning of March is washed away in thunderstorms and flash floods. My brother and his wife visit from San Francisco and the hail comes through the canvas roof of the restaurant, splashing in our coffee and covering us in mist. I take a video of rain rushing down the streets of West Hollywood—rivers of water six or seven inches deep, the gutters too clogged with coffee cups and garbage to accommodate the flood. It starts and stops on a dime. I have to work in Santa Monica that afternoon and when I get there everything is grey but dry as a bone. Hardly a fifteen minute drive but it hasn’t stormed here yet.
So suddenly it’s spring, sort of. The season arrived loudly, announcing itself in strange weather patterns across the country. This morning the sun is out and the ground is spongy and I don’t want to leave my apartment. March, March, I keep saying to myself. The first monosyllabic month we’ve had in half a year. It feels simple and welcome. And I’ve always liked the letter M.
Like we’re supposed to all group together and fall into place and walk somewhere with purpose. Here’s to March—let’s use our feet. Left foot, right foot. Let’s get somewhere good.
self portraits taken in Los Angeles, California.