Deserted

If there’s one thing Angelenos know in their bones it’s that the mood must always be right. We go to great lengths to achieve the vibe necessary to get through the day, to dream, to create, to love, to live. There’s a reason we cop the incense boxes by the handful at Merkato and woo-woo it out on the celery juice, the Boy Smells candles and the mushroom-inflected matchas. We know that saging the timeline is the righteous path toward becoming our best selves. There’s a method to the madness, always: First you manifest, then you cleanse. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, we believe we’re always one vibe check away from where we’re going.

Where do you go to find yourself when you live in a city people visit to lose themselves? The birds of Los Angeles flock to the place that reminds them who they are: the desert. There’s something soothing about the visual representation of the end of the world. Sure, it’s a site of peril, of danger. But the land purifies us. The topography — the barrenness, the dryness, the extreme heat and cold, the vastness, the natural wonder — was designed for a good detox.

The desert is not so much an escape from L.A. as it is a return. We pilgrimage to Joshua Tree, Palm Springs, Twentynine Palms, Landers, Borrego Springs, the Mojave, the Great Basin and the Sonoran to bask in the feeling of renewal. Every person brings something with them to give; and the desert is full of offerings. Some are buried. Some move with the wind. All are left to be found.

Issue 8 is called “Deserted.� We love you enough to take you with us as we figure out who we are. This installment is about becoming. It’s about the magic that happens in the space of the unknown. We brought some members of the fam to teach you how to fly. Experimental filmmaker Sophia Nahli Allison shows you what’s possible when you allow yourself to be led by spirit. Grammy-nominated singer Alice Smith and artist Kenturah Davis walk you through their rituals of release during a full moon and eclipse. Justin Torres remembers those visits to the clothing-optional hotels in Palm Springs. We even tapped a few poets — Christine Larusso, Sara Borjas, Elaine Kahn — to put into words what exists in the void.

It had to be this way; it’s the final issue of the year — or the first, depending on which cosmic clock or star pattern you follow. We’re excited to post up with you around the fire and take it all in.

Enjoy the trip. (Wink, wink.) Leave behind whatever you need.

Ian F. Blair
Editor in Chief