I'm starting to feel Los Angeles course through my veins, having been here just long enough (five years) to be weighed and excited by association. There was a thin preternaturally aged asian bookkeeper with a kind demeanor and manicured toes at the storage place in Inglewood, and the guy who normally helps us has shorter arms than you'd think. Everyone's seedy there - like Bret Easton Ellis, 90s and 2000s, prepackaged shopping malls and floosey institutionalism, even the smell of it. The bookkeeper hugged herself at the patch of sunlight coming through the windows at the top of the stairs.

yesterday 4pm-6pm:
Tea with my grandmother:
Her french teacher's ex-husband is Luis Buñuel's son.
She made, with her hands with rings on them, egg salad sandwiches cut into triangles with bread from that day which wasn't as good, she said, because it's better if it's not so soft, and peeled a tangerine before I got there, so it got compressed a bit, from her efforts, although its juice tasted good, and as I moved things to the table broke it into sections in a rim around a draining bowl of grapes.
When they'd go to church on sundays, Nancy's mother never had a hair out of place and she must have gotten help because none of the children did either, which is not how her own children were, even though they're all intelligent and exude physical health.