Last Girl in Hollywood

Tennessee Williams, Joan's packing list, and girl, so confusing.

It is officially summer in Hollywood, California. I’m sitting on my yellow couch in a sundress with the windows ajar. The high today is 95– that’s ninety five degrees fahrenheit. A few evenings ago I sat on my front steps while the street lights came on. I can’t stop thinking about it.

The only reasonable activity to do this weekend was go to Malibu, so I drove an hour to the coast, only to look for parking for 30 minutes. This ruined my terrible high of driving through Malibu Canyon with the windows open, letting the hot air in and around my station wagon— fucking basking in it. I’m not sure I would have been so keen on the beach if I didn’t have an All-American boyfriend who surfs. My dream man. I’m lucky that he’s such a hunk.

None of my friends in this town are left, they have all fled to Europe to have rendezvous in Hydra or one night stands at Paris Men’s Week. I am the last one standing. 

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Here’s an excerpt from Tennessee Williams’ introduction to his play Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. It moved me to tears.

If you’re blind, here’s what it says:

There is too much to say and not enough time to say it. Nor is there power enough. I am not a good writer. Sometimes I am a very bad writer indeed. There is hardly a successful writer in the field who cannot write circles around me…but I think of writing as something more organic than words, something closer to being and action. I want to work more and more with a more plastic theatre than the one I have (worked with) before. I have never for one moment doubted that there are people - millions! - to say things to. We come to each other, gradually, but with love. It is the short reach of my arms that hinders, not the length and multiplicity of theirs. With love and honesty, the embrace is inevitable.

I write this letter not because I think I am a master writer—I know there are (as Williams says) writers who can write in circles around me— but I want to share with you the parts of life that aren’t so pretty. Do I think I’m the best writer on Substack? Obviously not. Do I wish to reach someone? To make them feel less isolated in this big dark world of Earth? Obviously, of course, and so much more.

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In a week I will be back in New York, and until then I will be packing for a month away from home. I’ve been telling everyone about it. Mostly because the temperatures in New York are at an all time high and I am a total Pants Woman at heart. Shorts can go somewhere to die. I can't wait for a big east coast thunderstorm. We don’t get those in Hollywood.

I’ve set up a rack in our spare room to try and decipher what’s worth bringing on my travels. I looked at Joan’s packing list, but 2 skirts will not suffice on this trip. Here’s my list:

Here’s Joan’s:

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I’ve got to get out of Los Angeles in order to party. There’s nothing here that I’m interested in. I refuse to go to El Prado. Would sooner die! As I’ve mentioned I’m sober, so I need much more stimulation to feel anything. I’m sure I’ll find a dance floor in London. The girls are looking to party, and the good parties don’t happen in Los Angeles until August and September (not interested in pool parties). 

Charli XCX and Lorde’s girl, so confusing remix has me in shambles and is huge for those in eating disorder recovery. I’ll spare you the photo I took of my leg when I got chills from listening to it.

Are girls going to mend friendships because of this? I was thinking about reaching out to an old friend of mine, and she texted me for the first time since December asking what my side effects were when I lowered my Lexapro dose. I guess that’s a start. 

I’m going to London and Amsterdam in July, so if there’s any places there that I can’t miss, please respond to this email.

Sorry that I don’t have anything more interesting for you and that it’s a much shorter letter this week, but I’ll be back before you know it.