What I realized standing naked in my kitchen eating watermelon.

I’ve always loved to party. Dances in the sixth grade is where it started. I don’t about where you grew up, but the Carson Valley was EPIC for elementary school dances. Even at age twelve, I remember losing myself in the flashing lights, the anticipation of what boy might ask me to dance, and singing with my friends to TLC (I kept huge magazine pull-outs of T-Boz, Left Eye, and Chilli taped up in my closet, hidden behind my clothes so my mom wouldn’t see).

Nightlife is my modus operandi, so it’s disconcerting when the pursuit of pleasure starts to feel like a drag. Today was 4th of July, and I researched myself so many options of where to go, what to do, that I had an anxiety meltdown of whatwillbemostfun?!?!, made worse by trying to give myself hashtag perspective: #whitegirlproblems #firstworldissues, etc. Add in Los Angeles traffic, and I spent probably 70% of the day driving and 30% actually reveling.

But the real issue is any time away from writing feels like throwing my mind into a black hole. I’m just not a happy, adjusted person until I’ve done some writing for the day. I’ve been “rewarding” myself from the recent accomplishment of filming my pilot with some time off, but it feels like a punishment.

My wonderful roommate Ardalan is out of town on his first Vegas adventure, so me and Chairman Meow have the place to ourselves. I got home from the 4th festivities and did what anyone with a roommate does when they know they’ll be alone all night: got naked (right?), then headed to the kitchen to eat watermelon.

Standing at the sink, letting the watermelon juice drip straight from my chin into the sink, I felt the happiest I had all day. Because chasing the party makes me malcontent, and watermelon is my absolute obsession. But most of all, because I was inspired to write this little blog ditty. But I miss my freewheeling fun-self, up to get down at a moment’s notice. Oh, well. She’ll be back. For now I must write, and write, and then write more.

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Garden of social media delights.

Feeling caught between my electronic daily life and the dandelion desires of my soul. I 100% want to build an online audience for my words, my movies, my me. I 100% want to stare at trees and drink the ocean, feel the moon. That’s a 200% contradiction. I love communicating, sharing, instatweetbooking my latest photo/feeling/idea. But I belong in wildflowers. 

Creating “The Girl Behind the Glass” videos I shoot while inside the glass box at the Standard has been a revelation. Just me and the camera. I get to direct, edit and market myself, no middleman, just me straight to the viewer. It’s a practice in trusting my creative instincts, no second guessing myself. 

But the challenge of getting the videos seen is like building a mountain one pebble at a time. But this is the norm of the 21st century performer. We’re our own muses, managers, and marketing machines. I am NOT complaining, don’t get me wrong. It’s an incredible opportunity to be emerging in the entertainment industry at this point in time, getting discovered could be as close as the nearest smartphone. But it’s overwhelming as fuck. 

I don’t know why social media marketing myself and being in touch with my earthy soul feel mutually exclusive, but they do. Running off into the woods pulls my focus, and once I’m there I never want to come back. So I’ve decided to become the master of my 10’x10′ Koreatown front lawn. If that’s the nature I have in my care, than I shall be a good steward and revel in it everyday. I drink my coffee in the sun when I can, touch the velvet leaves on the bougainvillea and tell Mother Earth she’s looking damn sexy. I close my eyes and hope she’ll infuse me with life, taking in the helicopters overhead and the homeless lady rummaging through my trash, thanking them for contributing to the symphony of my life. We’re in this together after all. Balance is something worth “liking.”

My garden, my bougainvillea, my dream: 

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