The musical car horns that parade around, announcing fruits, vegetables, and women’s clothing for sale from vans ambling down Kingsley Drive. A ceiling fan that gets started up around March, April, and will be in use until October if we’re lucky. Avocado green Naugahyde loveseat, an occasional bird staring in the direction of my window from the rooftop next door. Labor being an important part of laboratory. The pose, too, of fighters for sometimes we are both.Īll of the new knowledge slowly wafts by unless it can be caught hold of and respun, jagged edges alchemized into something smoother-or not-in the laboratory. No hunger, but rather, a giving up, as if all the tasks laid out are monumentally huge and cannot be undertaken, no matter deadlines, promises or other such nonsense. Tongue caressing teeth and the tobacco taste all inside. Abandoning thoughts of turning the oven on, slipping the last cut of bread inside, butter melting on its white crispy pores. Grey matter tired, maybe lazy at this not so late hour. Described in one interview as “a sequel of sorts” to Excavation, Hollywood Notebook takes a more fragmented, experimental approach to documenting events and landscapes that have loomed large in Ortiz’s life. Ortiz‘s memoir Excavation left us absolutely devastated, and we’re honored to be running an excerpt from her brand-new book Hollywood Notebook today.
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