Disconnected

Been unplugged for a while. Ever since the move, really. Haven't replaced my broken phone yet. And we still don't have internet in the new apartment. Or heat. Which ten months out of the year wouldn't be a problem in southern California. Thing is, it's the rainy season, and we've been waking up to temperatures in the 40s. We're sleeping in our winter clothes to keep warm. With luck, we'll have both heat and internet by the end of the day tomorrow. Don't know if I expect it to happen, but it'd be nice if it did.

One thing that has been nice is our near-complete disconnection since the move. The only outside media we've had in the new place is radio, and that connection's not too great. Camille says it's like living in the 80s -- no internet, no cable, and the only phone we have is our ground line. It's been quite refreshing, actually. I never realized what an anchor a cell phone was until I had to go without. So I'm not exactly rushing to get a replacement. I tell myself that in this industry, I need to be available 24/7. But I don't get too many calls at 2am from agents and producers demanding my unique emergency services, so for now the ground line will suffice.

The disconnection has also shown us just how tightly coiled our lives had been living in Hollywood. I'd expect moments of reflection to come after several months, or weeks at least, moments where you look back and notice details you missed, where you realize you couldn't see the forest of your life for the trees. For us, it happened the day of the move, on our way to return the moving truck. Driving down Western to Santa Monica to Highland, the business everywhere -- the press of traffic both foot and motor, the cascade of lights, the constant assault of every kind of noise -- pushed us towards sensory overload. We could only stare at each other. "Did we really live three-and-a-half years in this? Did we really get used to this? This was normal?" Can't say I miss it.

It's raining today. Really coming down. Our new place is a corner unit, second and top floor. Our kitchen and dining room windows face the Angeles National Forest. On cold and rainy days, we look out towards tree-heavy hills shrouded in fog, and it feels like home.