I’m having one of those days when nothing feels alright. Mournful butterflies are weakly tumbling in my belly and I just want to repeat one sad song over and over again through my teeny white headphones…

I just took a dance break. Lil Flip meets Radiohead to get my nauseous tummy to move in sensual circles, dancing like no one’s watching because no one is. These are the occasions when cinematic moments stir my heart to beat in double time, or peacefully slow to a near hault. Lux’s hand swimming through an Air song, Mena Suvari reeling in a pile of crimson petals, Bree Daniels gliding down the long factory hall, sequin dress draped impossibly low on the way to her paying lover in Klute, the devastation lobotomy has reigned on R.P. McMurphy’s glassy, dead eyes, or Joel’s mind clamoring to save even an inkling of his beloved Clementine within his fading memory. Without the art of film I might shrivel up and die, emotionally. Stories restore my soul and the longing I crave to tell beautiful ones birthed from my own imagination is nearly consuming.

In the meantime it is all quite a ploy to simply distract from tears of my own. Cry for fictional characters and their devastating plight and everything will be alright.

Noot Seear

I heard of a woman, a wife, a mother who seemingly, spontaneously walked out of the life she built. My father spoke to his downtrodden mailman and found his wife of twenty years just left him “for no reason.” A former Post Secret reads: My wife told me about a guy at work whose wife of twenty years walked out without warning… Two weeks later my wife of fourteen years left me for the guy at work.

I had something spectacular. A gorgeous husband inside and out. He fixed everything that went broken, pushed and pulled me towards my goals, communicated in utter honesty, and seems like he’ll be a wonderfully engaged daddy someday. A while back I had written a list of ideals regarding my unknown lover and he met almost every fantastical line I’d penned.

Nine months ago he came out with a harbored secret that changed everything, for better and for worse. Suddenly there was transparency, tears, turmoil, and new trust. I struggled to overcome the pain I felt and believed he sincerely deserved my heart overflowed with love but I simply could not give it anymore. I felt, sometimes still do feel guilty for not being able to forgive and move forward. My logic could simplify the situation and beg my heart to open but its beating with resentment would not budge. Suddenly I understood there is no such thing as “leaving for no reason” or “out of the blue.” It may feel as such to the injured party but there is always a rationale. I perceived that many fight their deep-down knowing all for the sake of peace and seeming simplicity. But when one’s heart chooses withdrawal it’s difficult to restore.

I do not believe that there is one right choice for everyone. In my case, I brimmed over with joy on a daily basis and when the cup went dry my sorrow was palpable to my love. He would have made the planet spin on a new axis if that’s what I wanted but…

Now, I sit alone. My little bunny is feasting on hay, my wardrobe is split between boxes and an open embroidered suitcase. Most days I circle my palm over my heart to stop it from bleeding, all the while wondering how much pain I’ve caused my other half.

Last night I drove by our place for the first time since I left. I could tell the furniture is placed differently by the shadows through the cream curtains. It’s been but a week so to comprehend I have given away the keys still jars me. Taking this large step back feels like a lofty risk. I am longing to deepen my love, forgive from my core, and behold the painting in full. Five years of brush strokes, some carelessly splattered and some painstakingly conceived.

It’s difficult to look at children lately. I don’t desire one of my own anytime soon but I still imagined ours. A boy with thick, long lashes, wavy and full hair, a tall slender body. I have no idea if he will ever be born but I hope so. The truth is, I have submitted us both to the elements of the world apart from one another. We may be pulled by other men and women, our careers may take new directions, and I must remain conscious of those possibilities. Time and hearts will tell.

when 

Hanne Gaby Odiele

Wendy Bevan

Hollywood, in the adjective sense, is truly so bizarre. Human beings become products with price tags ranging from zero to millions and the ones assessing that value wheel and deal and talk a game as though the sun itself revolves around the big white letters on the hill. There is no surefire way to know who will be billboard worthy and who will “fail” and yet some suits presume to know how we all ought to be.

When I was seeking a sublet for September I met a talent agent with a spare room. It was in the valley on a particularly hot day and all I could think, if at all among the beads of sweat pouring down my face was: Brenda, you can’t live in the Valley right now. Don’t do it. [Don't get me wrong Studio City, Valley Village, Burbankians, I adore you and you live convenient to all the major freeways but my personal longing was to stumble upon a more calming studio that doesn't require an elevator. But I love you.]

I shifted on my heels pulling on my awkwardly grown out bangs and waited for him to arrive, having already decided the outcome. He approached, cell phone at constant bay and shook my hand. We toured the place quickly in between his incessant phone calls and I eventually plopped onto the sticky tan leather couch while he checked an “emergency” Saturday email. Twenty (!!) minutes later he finally sat with me and discussed the house. I don’t know why I choose to be polite over honest sometimes; talking price with him was like giving a terrible boy your phone number. I knew it wasn’t even a temporary place to call home.

He (let’s say Chad) inquired about my career and the state of it. It was honestly the last thing I felt like hashing out with a stranger but I did. I spilt out some of my latest projects, careful to not be too transparent about my girlish heart’s desires. I had an innate knowing he would only attempt to tear them down with “realism.” At one point he reeled back in disgust, “You do music videos?”

I smiled to keep my eyes from rolling. “I love working. I love being an actress and in whichever format those opportunities come is of no matter.” (Actually, because I’m not a fancy British woman in 1850 there’s no way that’s a quote but I said something like that.)

“Well, I mean sure, I don’t know how far away you actually are from having a career so if that’s what you want to do,” he shuddered, “fine.”

If I had a thought bubble it would’ve just read: Argh. Feeling no immediate desire to defend I explained I had to go to work. In hindsight I should’ve said I had a meeting with Michael Bay at the Four Seasons but a girl can’t be witty all the time, can she?

Luckily I left with the joyful knowing that he tried to affect me but didn’t even leave a ding. I’m no fool. Would I rather follow the Hollywood “rules” that only the shallow-minded believe exist or spend my days working with excellent directors who will all make movies someday, ideally with myself still on board? It may be all about “who you know” but how lovely that the ones I know are authentic dreamers creating their careers one project at a time. I would love to do big budget films with fancy names but only time will tell and all I can do is be blessed by these very moments.

Terry Richardson

Greta Ilieva

A couple weeks ago Camille took me to something called Mortified at the King King in Hollywood. It was an assortment of brave souls from all walks of life that chose the most humiliating entries from their former diaries and read them aloud. There was a guy, white as snow through and through, who wrote in the voice of the WuTang Clan at thirteen, a bygone teen R&B sensation whose arrogance elevated paragraph by paragraph, a devout Mormon who couldn’t fathom why gay man sought his constant advice (yes, he came out), and several more. I fluxed between being in stitches and longing to seep into the floorboards. The show was a hilarious parade of humiliation and the notion warmed me to the core. For one, I realized the obsessions and bitchiness and foolishness saturating my adolescent words are wholly common. And also, oh my goodness, everything is going to be OK.

One commonality, no matter the person’s walk of life was the nearly enslaving importance of each written event. As a teenager each brush with a crush, hallway humiliation, and sibling squabble was like the earth had stood still and the sun revolved around the said teenager. Hell overcame them with flames or angels sung over their tender hearts depending upon what occurred in the cafeteria that day.

Of course, the pain that I feel is of no comparison. A broken heart and uncertain future, topped by bills to pay and dreams to pursue is no “OMG I lost prom queen” but there is much to be said about age and time being a healer and a teacher. I realized that a youthful perspective makes life nearly impossible to survive but the hope of growth and understanding is something to rejoice in. Everything that is a vast and heavy mystery to my heart will one day be fully understood and will have made me a woman. This is why wrinkles are so beautiful and wisdom from mature lips is invaluable. I cannot wait to see what I will become and what diary entries from these moments will one day bring me a smile and a sigh, “I was so young then.”

Here is a beautiful video David Hache directed for the line Odylne. It stars myself, Erika Dutra, and Ren Vokes:

odylne

“Should we take off our rings?”

“Yes,” I answered, perhaps too quickly. I wasn’t enthusiastic about the proposal, or opposite as it were, I was just happy to to get it over with at a seemingly “perfect” moment. Drew and I had just laughed together, found ourselves talking about our days, and then he popped the question: should we? We both grimaced sadly and pulled at the gold on our left hands.

“Why did you say yes?,” he asked.

“Because it was either now or when we’re both alone, crying somewhere. I’d rather do it after laughing, hanging out together. Yeah?”

“I guess.” Drew grimaced and I teared up a bit, as usual. We’d been crying for a month, facing the inevitable, the choice I made to separate from the marraige.

The whys, hows, whos, and how comes are very personal and I suppose I only wanted to share this news on two counts. One, I haven’t posted a thing for such a long while out of utter confusion. My mind spilled over with desire to purge itself of words but I trapped them inside, fearing they were too personal for any audience; even a future audience to a private diary. I sussed everything out in my head alone. Second, I have been transparent to the extent I feel comfortable and because life will be inevitably different now, I thought you ought to know such a change has occurred.

I moved into a friend’s beautiful studio apartment, where I will remain for the month while I sublet then… who knows? So far the most difficult part was grocery shopping. I perused Trader Joe’s and, in my familiar routine, reached for this and that I knew Drew would like. I held back the waterfall in my eyes while replacing lemon cookies, dried banana, and green tea Mochi. It was the first revelation that this time is truly mine alone; there is no one else to completely consider. Back at “home” my phone rung on the unfamiliar white bed. For an instant I thought it might be Drew but found myself a sopping mess when I remembered it wouldn’t be him at all, at least not for a while.

Our time before my Saturday move was riddled with joy, pain, agony, and ecstasy. Some moments I questioned what the hell is wrong with me making a choice like this. Other times I knew beyond a shadow of doubt that I must follow my heart while I’m young… and, I suppose, childless. Friday was our last date night until we meet again, which is a time undetermined. Drew wanted to head for the beach but we absentmindedly drove the wrong direction and stumbled upon a popped up carnival (or “ghetto carnival” as I say affectionately.) Everything was shutting down but we were just in time to grab a home made candy apple and to slip the Zipper operator ten bucks to let us ride. We screamed and laughed and shouted “I love yous” as we spun up into the nearby trees and into the darkened sky and back towards the hard cement. Afterwards we ate at the famously cheesy Buci de Beppo in Santa Monica beside an authentic couple who bickered in Italian the entire time. We ended up laying on the beach covered in woven Mexican blankets and staring at the three or four visable stars until I got sleepy.

I know I will be writing more, purging more, learning more, growing more, seeking more… I look forward to it all because pain absolutely does beautiful things to the heart and mind. I can hardly wait to see the woman I will become day by day.

That’s all for now… but stop by again. I won’t be such a non-blogger in the upcoming weeks.

<3

I just arrived in New York City on Sunday nearing midnight. Tired but feverishly excited to be back East I waited in the lengthy cab line with the summer humidity stirring sweat from my every pore. My cabbie wasn’t in the mood for chit chat and to that I was thankful. I quietly watched the familiar scenery of one of my favorite city’s ramble by with a feeling of adventure in my spirit. The game plan includes getting my hands dirty on the shoot for a new Paul Rudd flick but with my first day off I decided to wander the streets provoking old, fond memories to jump out from the least expected places. Forgotten restaurants, distant souls I once knew peeked out from here and there all day long. In between roaming I became somewhat of a creepy, staring subway voyeur. Cruising from Greenpoint to Manhattan required a few subway changes and something that stuck out was the array of people that each car held.

Talking to Tanya, we concluded that there is no situation in Los Angeles that nears being sardined into a subway car. Most towns are neatly divided into varying walks of life. Everyone from the gangsters to the gays have portions of town that they’ve staked or been trapped in by life circumstance and rarely, if ever at all, do they cross paths. “Maybe at the DMV?” I suggested.

“Each town has their own,” she countered. So there it was: subway cars meshing bodies and lives unwittingly together. At this very circumstance, I sat on the sweaty orange seats or clung as casual-looking as possible to the germy poles and stared in awe. Each line up was amazing from one end to the other. An elderly Mexican woman stuffed a beaten Billabong carry-on covered in black and white Hawaiian flowers under her legs. Her orthopedic shoes poised neatly on the tiles as she read a small-sized Spanish Bible with ornately painted references of Jesus on every page. An intent and joyful smile stretched across her face now and again while her eyes trailed left to right, left to right.

Beside her a tall, black teenager with giant headphones bobbed his head furiously, mumbling the music’s obscenities under his breath. His crisp white tee still showed a weaving of dark tattoos trailing down each arm and leading to a diamondy gold watch. His bright blue Nikes dwarfed even the liberal bag of his dark jeans and his brows remained in a constant furrow.

To the boy’s left, beads of sweat gathered on the forehead of a businessman. I wondered if the type of man who must wear a suit to work finds a subway commute humbling or embarrassing. Are his counterparts galavanting through the city in cabs, or worse yet, raven hued town cars with tinted windows? At that moment he loosened his tie just a touch, seemingly aware that my eyes analyzed him so. I chose to give him a reprieve and move down the line.

Sandwiched very close to the businessman was a tiny brunette reading a novel. One of her unpolished fingers tapped against her knee like a nervous tick while she sucked her bottom lip into her top one. The humidity was unkind to her wavy tendrils so the ends went off furiously into thousands of different directions looking like they were planning a rebellious escape. Her cream sandals border-lined trendy and never-will-be but her floral dress was right up to date in its shape and pattern. A single gold ring hugged her fidgety pointer finger.

Last but not least, a homeless man drooled against the bench trapped in a deep sleep. Terrible fumes of sweat and feces traveled from his body and into all of our hopeless noses. He was white but deeply tanned by months and years exposed to the weather’s elements. He wore so many layers that I could scarcely imagine him entering the streets without tumbling over from heat exhaustion.

In many ways the lot of them seemed like one cliche after another. The Catholic Mexican, the hood African American teen, the stressed businessman, the mousy and bookish white girl, and the tragic homeless man. But there they were, in the flesh, side by side. It fascinated me to imagine all the different directions in which they would depart. Presumibly each would stop in a wholly separate part of New York City. Might they cook for their growing brood, sleep with their sassy girlfriend, finalize the Henderson account, listen to Indie rock in a tiny studio apartment, and keep on sleeping and self-loathing, respectively? Either way there they were for a short moment in time, sharing a ride at the same time, in the same place: a subway car.

Johnathon Miller

Vogue Nippon

I’ve been mulling over how to make this post sound minimally judgmental but I think that would require simply not writing it. So, here it goes. To be as ambiguous as possible let’s just say I found myself in a social situation recently that brought back old memories from when I first moved to Los Angeles. With every city or town there comes stereotypes that are merely “worst case scenarios” but often ring true for a certain group. For example, as a Jersey girl I could deny all day long that I knew any Guidos but to say they didn’t share my beach would be a lie. The same thing goes for different parts of Los Angeles County. In Weho it’s hardly unfair to say we’ll find beautiful gay boys everywhere, in Los Feliz through Echo Park one will see hoards of hipsters, and in Beverly Hills through the majority of the West Side reside princesses who love the paparazzi and their male counterparts. This weekend I went to a party by the fanciest beach that perfectly reflected the latter portion of human beings. Gentle enough?

I sat with a group of my dearest friends overlooking the vast and gorgeous ocean, one of the most idyllic views, only to overhear a “party photographer” say to a girl in a bikini top and jean skirt, “Yeah, yeah I’ll take a picture of the dog as long as I can see the titties!”

Lucy perked up incredulously, “Seriously? Seriously, guy!” We all laughed and I shrugged. “Yup, he just said that.” Surrounded by the array of fake breasts and equal tans, gelled crew cuts, neon mini-dresses, multi-toned Kanye inspired glasses, and the thumping of Ibiza style techno beats  I had to ask myself: am I a terrible witch or is there really something wrong here? A sweet but smashed girl sunk into a nearby deck chair and threw her arms over her head to rest; her surgical scars peeked out from her risen bikini top. I wondered if this should be treated as, “You’ve got somethin’ in your teeth, miss.” Does that work? “Um, excuse me, I can see your boob job from here, little lady. Are you cool with that or you wanna pull that down?”

My friends and I all took turns fetching burgers and beverages from the heartbeat of what I considered an official disaster area while dancing the should-we-stay-or-should-we-go. We quietly sipped cocktails only to be berated by bits and pieces of passing conversations which included, “Dude, all I’m trying to do is f*ck,” “Oh. My. God. Did you see [this celebrity], she’s so butterface! Gross!” and a 14 year-old skater boy noting in a crackly voice: “Jameson is my shit.” The last statement I found kind of adorable but he seemed so untainted on the real. I just wanted to throw him in a passing cab and send him to summer school screaming “Save yourself before it’s too late!”

I watched a late 30some in camouflage cargos, an embellished tee, and oversized wrap-around type aviators sneak constant looks into a nearby reflective window. I could almost hear his inner Tony Robbins assuring him he’s the total ish while talking to nearby ladies. Lucy leaned into me, “Whenever you want to leave… I’m totally into it.” I smiled. We were all ready.

Our little posse departed and traded our location for a beautiful mansion on Rossmore. Entering the sprawling backyard with its saltwater pool, plush landscape, and, best of all, towels full of relaxed and sweet people was like leaving Sodom and finding Eden. I actually leapt for joy while I piled fruit and gorgonzola salad onto a paper plate, The Rolling Stones humming in my ears. We found our face-painted friends, unfamiliar souls I happily introduced myself to while waiting for the bathroom, and the welcoming owner of the house and his girlfriend whom I love.

While in this safety net of a situation truly idyllic, instead of just the scenery, some of us discussed whether or not we are horribly judgmental. After such a rough experience we couldn’t help but seek out the truth of the matter because wouldn’t that crowd just call us “art fags” or “hipsters” while we called them shallow and insecure? And if the attire and taste of music is wholly different does that really make us so different as people?

At the end of the day, literally, I did feel like it is a bit crazy to ever assume one won’t get along with another due to the separation of hair gel or beard. On the other hand, I overheard some crazy things. Some conversations were ridden with so much insecurity and trash talk that I couldn’t even comfortably hang ten feet away. Maybe the real difference lies in whether or not a guy needs, needs a Bentley to remember he’s worth something or a girl has to, has to have those boobies to stay afloat in LA. (*ZING!*) After all, the former party reminded me of when I first moved to LA because that was the crowd I fell into when I arrived. I didn’t know a soul in the city and maybe one’s name on a guest list did make it seem that I belonged where I wasn’t sure I did.

Henrik Purienne

I crashed out early so by the time I was stirred by the last call bar crowd it felt like dawn. All I could register was screaming, hollering, anger. A girl’s voice cut through the night and echoed towards each corner of the neighborhood. From across the street every ounce of her guts were spilling into my bedroom and I had to peek to see her face.

I discreetly opened the end of my beige curtains and slid the window open a touch more. From my view she was but a speck in tall, raven colored heels. Her blonde hair flung from side to side while two tall guys held her petite frame back. “Let it go,” one of them begged.

“No!” Her voice cracked while she shouted into the distance, “You! You sorry mother f*cker! No one hurts me! No one f*cking hurts me!”

Drew, my 9-6 working man stormed to the window and flung open the rest of the curtain, hence ruining my covert operation. “Shut up, my god,” he moaned to himself and me. “People are idiots.” To this statement I would usually agree. Especially if you drop the word “drunk” in there somewhere. And it’s 2:10AM. However, there was something about this drunk one that I really liked; something that my heart really went out for.

“No one! F*cking no one punches me in the face! You will feel my wrath down on your head, mother f*cker!”

Wholly used to these late night drunk antics, Drew had already retreated to bed but I steadied my attention. “Apparently a guy punched her in the face!”

“Ok,” Drew managed sleepily. Meanwhile the two boys still worked to refrain the little ball of anger and she refused to make it any easier on them. Sometimes she would play the, “I’m cool, I’m cool” game until they let her go and she could rev up past them towards the object of her animosity. They caught her every time.

Her voice reminded me of one of my best friend Jennika’s. It was a quite raspy and yet held a very feminine strength. It resounded with such power even the most cliche of threats made me worry for her attacker. Would she really come find him and his whole family? Would her wedge heel really wind up wedged in his derriere?

At one point one of the boys laughed while asking her to cool down. It was the sort of laugh one accidentally let’s loose at a funeral or at the finding of bad news: very nervous. “No one f*cking hurts me,” she yelled one last time before retreating back into the bar, “No one hurts me!”

While I crawled back into the comforter and Drew’s sleepy arms I thought about the way she sounded. It seemed she demanded no one ever hurt her because someone already really had. And now she had to be so tough, and to let everyone know. My whole entire neighborhood.

Jalouse

I know I don’t usually do strict picture blogging but Kim is such an incredible photographer, in addition to many other creative pursuits. Here are some of her gorgeous photos from our video trip to Big Sur. The whole collection can be found here. <3

“Don’t think I’ve ever been hiking with a latte, in an evening gown.”