"It struck me on the way home that the "I'm yours" in "Los Angeles, I'm Yours" has (as we say in the poetry business) a polysemous function.
On the one hand, it conveys dedication and love, but it can also convey
ownership, possession, even enslavement."
As is life and love always. Irony abounds. A coat of gray covers the black and white layers of meaning.
And who ever thought the best advice I'd get would come from a 51-year-old death-metal record producer? My Obi-Wan. One of the world's most unassuming wise men, mistaken for a homeless person by more than one person at the coffee shop, proves yet again that you can't judge a book by its cover.
I can't sleep, thinking only of him and our next meeting and the possibilities: what to say, what to wear, what to do. Punctuation and sex and baseball swirl through my mind. He is what I wanted. He wants to spend time with my kids and me this weekend. He is amazing.
Professor, I'm yours.
