life serial
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Matthew Allard is an author, creative copywriter, and Internet geek. Some of his stories were inspired by illustrations from Ian Dingman and made into a book called To Slow Down The Time. One of those has been adapted into a short film.

His latest project is called Pops and Clicks.

This is his blog.
And we kept saying how we’d never stay in Los Angeles forever, how it’s not a forever-place. Except this morning, staring at my pants in the closet, I thought that we’d eventually just find ourselves having stayed here forever. You and me and everyone else we know in different formations or pairings, maybe, with lives that have gotten bulky or skeletal from all of the decisions and the choices and the living. We’ll be closer to the water somehow in an old house with all of the old things we’ve collected as we’ve collectively gotten older. You and me and everyone else, older and still here. Because I don’t want to wear pants, and here I can most often wear last year’s pants that I’ve hacked off above the knee, and I can most often wear some T-shirt I’ve had for so long and washed and washed till it’s gotten thin around the bones in my shoulders. And when it’s the first day of spring and it’s not snowing and it’s overcast but it’s not cold, not cold the way that other people know cold and live with cold, we will just wander out of the house in whatever with our hair saying whatever and our faces saying whatever and our mouths saying whatever. Of course there will be those times when the ground got upset and our whole houses moved on their own, but then I’ll think about how I, too, get upset—you and me and everyone else, we get upset sometimes—and so…whatever. Hollywood will still hang around the corner with a wide white smile that’s so horrific I gasp and shake my head and maybe laugh, and I’ll have to force-remember how there is a lot of everything else here too. There is a lot, and that is what has made this not a forever-place and a place we’ve found ourselves staying forever, looking at our aging faces in the mirror fifteen, twenty, thirty years later and seeing palm trees out the window behind us. Sit on the sofa, stare at the wall, walk by the ocean, run. You and me and everyone else we know, different but still holding onto some shred of the same, in tiny colored boxes, living our secret little lives.

And we kept saying how we’d never stay in Los Angeles forever, how it’s not a forever-place. Except this morning, staring at my pants in the closet, I thought that we’d eventually just find ourselves having stayed here forever. You and me and everyone else we know in different formations or pairings, maybe, with lives that have gotten bulky or skeletal from all of the decisions and the choices and the living. We’ll be closer to the water somehow in an old house with all of the old things we’ve collected as we’ve collectively gotten older. You and me and everyone else, older and still here. Because I don’t want to wear pants, and here I can most often wear last year’s pants that I’ve hacked off above the knee, and I can most often wear some T-shirt I’ve had for so long and washed and washed till it’s gotten thin around the bones in my shoulders. And when it’s the first day of spring and it’s not snowing and it’s overcast but it’s not cold, not cold the way that other people know cold and live with cold, we will just wander out of the house in whatever with our hair saying whatever and our faces saying whatever and our mouths saying whatever. Of course there will be those times when the ground got upset and our whole houses moved on their own, but then I’ll think about how I, too, get upset—you and me and everyone else, we get upset sometimes—and so…whatever. Hollywood will still hang around the corner with a wide white smile that’s so horrific I gasp and shake my head and maybe laugh, and I’ll have to force-remember how there is a lot of everything else here too. There is a lot, and that is what has made this not a forever-place and a place we’ve found ourselves staying forever, looking at our aging faces in the mirror fifteen, twenty, thirty years later and seeing palm trees out the window behind us. Sit on the sofa, stare at the wall, walk by the ocean, run. You and me and everyone else we know, different but still holding onto some shred of the same, in tiny colored boxes, living our secret little lives.

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