Drive. Somewhere. Edge. Words I keep thinking of as I struggle to write this story. Drive in the literal and figurative sense. In Los Angeles driving is every day. In a car, but also driving towards ends. Actors drive to auditions, producers, directors, writers drive to meetings. Bartenders drive to bars. People drive to bars driven by a need to let loose, by lust, seeking an edge. Edge, Michael said, is what runs through this. The edge of cliffs, of dusty hiking trails, of the highway, the PCH, the edge of neighborhoods, of an atomized city. Everyone has or cultivates an edge, whether toughness, hardness, not caring, ennui, nonchalance, “Who sent you?” Edginess reigns. Driving somewhere, unidentified, undefined. Driving on Santa Monica Blvd. to West L.A. in a car with a cracked windshield and a salvage title and a tampered-with record…Last week I cracked open an old notebook and in it found words scribbled by a person lost. I don’t want to open those notebooks but they lure me back…Between dispatches from the past I devour avocado facts, history, origins, economics and politics of the fruit, seeking an epiphany, information that creates a foil for journeys into annals of night life that lives on without me, takes on a life of its own, dormant so long as I keep the notebooks tightly closed but ready to spring to life as soon as I open them. No immersion in fact will make those memories go away. Where they’ll take me, I don’t know, nor can I tell the connection between memories and avocados, other than the contrast, the pushing against each other, tension.