"Everyone has their own thing...

... that they yell into a well."

Los Angeles is my well. This vast expanse of mystery and danger, complete with stone, moss and supposed water beyond where the eye can see - this is the void into which I am yelling. It's clammy and deep, but it's depth lends the impression of endless potential. Every inch of it is another layer of history, each brick a palimpsest. I am profoundly affected by this place, my adopted home, in a myriad of ways, but as of late, I have been reluctantly reexamining them to make sure I am still the person I intended to be.

What's going on with me? It's a question that has been asked of all of us in these years following graduation, and we all make up answers that seem as though they'll suffice. What was ever going on? I mean, we were the heard that was funneled through the school system, trotting through our respective channels and then out to the pasture of our choosing. So I guess the question is, how's the pasture? Well... well? Fine? Patient with me, finally. These last three years have stretched the fabric of my character, and I am still too deep in the throes of this transition to genuinely examine how I have held up. There have been financial woes, personal tragedies, and bodily changes. There have been familial spats and humbling workplace experiences. However, along the way, I have flirted with both nostalgia and optimism, as well as despair and wreckless stupidity. I've tried to keep my focus on the greater end, rather than the details of the means, and I think it's because I am too afraid that if I peek at the means they'll be far more mean than I remember myself being.

25 feels like a strange victory lap of sorts. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I am happy with my body, my skin, my financial situation, my relationship, my family, and even my job (when it allows me the luxury of enjoying it). I had spent the last 25 years waiting for this moment, when I was perfectly content with the ambiance of my being, but all the while, there was a quality I never second guessed in myself. I never doubted my own intelligence. I was always terrified that one day I would wake up and this treasured gift of lucidity would be gone, and that fear drove me to keep the cogs grinding rapidly day in and day out. I might not be the prettiest or the thinnest or the quickest or the most fashionable or, for fuck's sake, the coolest, but I'd be goddamned if I wasn't the smartest! Said pride in one's own characteristic is, admittedly, fabricated braggadocio. I know it now as well as I knew it then. However, I was so good at believing it that it made me into this fearless smartass, which is an alright person to be if you are, indeed, fearless and smart. But what happens on the breakdown?

Latin was quite the bitch to learn. Chemistry, algebra, national politics, and my beloved biology were no cake walks in their own right. I knew how hard I worked for each of those A's that I earned, and wore them as red courage badges. When I graduated, it was as though I had been honorably discharged from the ranks of my fellow academic crusaders. Medals may have adorned my crisp uniform, but uniforms aren't required in civilian life, and I thusly stowed it away with not only the badges but the behavior that it compelled. My existence in the workforce has been a profoundly educational experience, but in a different manner and for a different cause. There are no medals awarded, but monetary compensation - a compensation that demands deference and a sense of urgency. After having dedicated what I considered to be my finest instrument (my mind) to a cause dear to my heart for so long, employing it for workplace purposes makes me feel like a mercenary.

It is with a heavy heart that I admit that mercenary thinking is half-hearted.

IT'S TIME TO YELL INTO THIS WELL. Los Angeles, I'm calling on you. I've thrown out, "Two hoots, a hello, and a fuck a'' y'all", but now I am pleading. Give me something to do with this tool, with the part of me that has historically been my favorite. As any woman brought up with the trademark American low self-esteem knows, when you find something that you like about yourself, you cling to it as your weapon, your lifeline in a sea of misogyny and doubt. I miss the sharpness of my bayonet... or perhaps I've dulled in intentionally to give myself the chance to enjoy other aspects of my self. Either way, I'm ready for the discipline again, and with that, I turn again to Mr. Callahan, who realized long before I did, "You know, I had to yell just to get my voice back. "