All notes written by Angella d'Avignon | Notes on Looking

Late Superbloom

“…and I turned around in that house which was like a shallow garden and all my fears collapsed upon me like a landslide of flowers and I ran screaming at the top of my lungs outside and down the stairs.” – Richard Brautigan 1. At some point I realized most of southern California is the same: the same outdoor strip malls, same plants, same sunlight driving in sideways in the early evening. April is just as boring in Long Beach (where I live) as it is in San Diego (where I used to live). I have lived here, alone, in a room downtown for eight months; my hair has grown four inches. I used to be afraid to leave my window open. I still sometimes sleep with the light on. Living alone in a new city is complicated for someone who loves solitude and people equally. I am still depressed, as I have been since I was sixteen, and it catches up to me at night but in a new, lonely adult way, especially when I’m on the bus headed home, watching neon light streak past the window, stepping off at my stop that’s recently become overgrown with bougainvilleas. When I cross the street to my block, I am caught by the sight of a big pink bush – it’s new, I’ve never noticed it before. It speaks to me. I am tiredly mesmerized, bleary eyed. I stare and wonder what type of flower it is. Rhaphiolepis indica, Indian Hawthorn. Its variety? A “Ballerina”. A Ballerina bush. A sprig of it was carried here from China some hundreds of...