Woodland Hills is colder than I expect, always like this in winter – I forget the smell of it, like the inside of an electric dryer, mixed with concrete and ozone.  I wander around Ralph’s and Rite Aid, buy magazines that I don’t have time to read, sample-sized bottles of conditioner and tanning lotion, nail files, soap, olives, crackers, strawberries.  I try to do homework in the bathtub, turn on the radio, write all afternoon, cross-legged in orange lace panties and pink t-shirt on the big white-blanketed hotel bed with the heat on.  At ten pm I drink cava from a plastic hotel cup.  I’m waiting.  This morning – La Guardia, Milwaukee, LAX.  Tomorrow – shoot, LAX, Atlanta or D.C., home to the documentary film crew who will pick me up at the airport.  Home to study, to read.  Everything scrutinized.  But tonight, I’m waiting.  Tonight I’ll drink cava and kiss until I can’t feel my tongue.IMG_8756

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