, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

10:49pm 12.7.11

Scene:  The Brewery Artist colony, Lincoln Heights, just outside downtown LA

“I have to go get the bus back now.  It was good seeing you guys.  I’ll talk to you more about the party on Friday.”

“Do you want someone to stand with you?”

“Yeah.  That’d be nice having some company on the corner with a strange man.  It sounds like something my father would totally approve of.”

We packed up our things and walked down the atrium stairs to the bus stop across the street.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?  It’s cold.”

“Just give me a smoke and we’re good.”

I looked in my bag.  All I had were the last smokes left in two boxes of cloves.

“I guess you get lucky.  All I have are the last of my cloves.”

We stood there about ten minutes.  We talked about the suited gent.  We talked about our friends we’d just left.  We talked about politics and yadda yadda yadda yadda.

Ten minutes well spent.

“Where would you be if you weren’t at the Brew?” I asked him.

“I’d probably leave LA then.”

“How’d you end up here?”

“I didn’t know where else to go. I don’t know where else I’d go if I left.  I lack another destination.”

And that’s how I’ve come to realize that it is for many a soul at the Brewery.  There’s something truly capturing about that former Pabst Blue Ribbon brewery that’s creeps up and embeds a home in the hearts of these misfit toys.  It’s the comfort of good friends that will be there standing beside you for a bus at a late hour in the evening.  It’s the comfort knowing that whenever you walk outside your apartment you will most likely run into one, if not multiple people that inspire you.  It’s the warmth of a community that you can spend hours exchanging ideas, collaborating, learning, and evolving with.

This world of artistry is magic in itself.  It is its own island.  And, after you’ve had that kind of experience, it’s hard to go back.  Perhaps, that’s why even though I no longer live here, I still do.

Because no where else will do.