CURIOUS how the mode of transport that laid the tracks for LA’s arrival became almost instanly eradicated from the city’s conscious. The Southern Pacific and Santa Fe railways of the late 19th century brought the masses to the Holy Land, and all for the low price of $1. I like that, the idea of walking to the rail station with 4 quarters, maybe seeing a McDonald’s, pondering on whether to order a dollar burger or small fries and ultimately deciding on a trip to California. Obviously inflation plays a role in this dream, but c’mon, a buck is a buck. Adhering to the mirage quality that birthed and raised Los Angeles to its fantasy factory status, the railways planted a seed and quickly withered from the expanding streets run ragged by automobiles.
It’s a golden land, the Golden State, holy according to some latitudes, green by longitude. Opportunity exploded in the fertile basin, the ready-made canvas landscape beckoning a pilgrimage to paradise from notables in all vocations. An expatriate town if there ever was, LA has and continues to attract misfits, hopefuls, has-beens, will-becomes, never-had-a-chance’s, and the terminally-chillers. Writing about a town constantly evolving brought a creationist aspect to the author’s role in promoting the myth and aura of an oasis lifestyle. Drawing on memories of homesteads prior along with visions of grandeur allowed the collective imagination to know no limits, flowing into the architecture, art, and aesthetic of the land.
Maybe this is the apocalyptic land of lore. We run into the ocean, pants down, as hillsides quake into pieces and canyonscapes blaze in glory, all the while denying our existence in the face of losing another day to Death and begrudging another wrinkle to Gravity. Gladly, I submit to the femme fatale nature as the ongoing boosters hark a miracle that may or may not exist.
--Weston Finfer
photo: beverly hills hotel
credit: chase stone
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