Oct. 20, 1972

The sun never reared its head in the morning. It did not concern me, though. He would be shining by noon once the marine layer wore off and the early morning fog lifted itself out of the crevices of the canyon. I had risen later than usual. 10 A.M.—maybe 11. My body ached, felt sluggish. My head pulsed with the residual effects of marijuana and brandy. The sun began to break through the fog, and the light was white and raw. There’s a latency to the seasons in California. Deep into October and the heat is still relentless. The wind is violent. The only way to mark autumn among the evergreen flora and chaparral setting is by the light. On this morning, it danced between the sloping branches of the eucalyptus trees in my backyard.

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Joni and Neil left their guitars here last night. I hopped in my Stingray and drove to Joni’s. No one answered after 10 knocks. I left both guitars on the porch.

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I continued driving. It was Sunday, after all. I had done a lot of damage to the tenets of my Midwestern upbringing. I had traveled the globe as a lone female, slept with many people, digested many suspicious substances. But there was something about the Sunday Drive I couldn’t shake off. I remember it was the only time I felt free. My father let me sit in the front seat, and on the days my mother didn’t join us he would speed down the country roads. The fields of wheat and barley looked like butter melting into the dirt road.

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I drove on the 101 with unusual fluidity that day. I stopped my car when I got to water’s edge in Malibu. I felt at peace—damage done. Free from the push-pull—maybe? Almost. But that’s the funny thing about Los Angeles. I never got it. And I never will get it. A monstrosity built on fantasy and semi-attainable dreams. But just like that, it could implode on itself. The sea could erode the cliffs I once danced upon at soirees. The darlings of Hollywood could fall into an abyss created by savage tectonic plates. The wells could dry up, and the oasis of a perceived delusion could shrivel into a harsh reality.

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It was late afternoon before I knew it. This was the second time I’d missed lunch with Michelle Phillips at The Country Store. I blamed it on the seasonal latency.

Written by Emma Hager