On a hot August evening, I lean over the balcony staring at the bugs that have worked their way through my glass window. They straddle the seal of caulking between glass and paint chips. I am moved to discomfort and triggered to write. I approach this keyboard that I have been estranged from for too long.  Hunched over in the millennial type of way, I lean far in to the luminous screen. Big eyes and quick fingers.

     Los Angeles is to my left, the Pacific ocean branded in front of me, the usual taunt of salt air and perfumed sky, or as I call it, ‘Lana [Del Ray] light,’…settles around me.

     I am finally letting the pesky passions that have lingered in my soles for months, come dancing to my edges.  I make a conscious and lucid decision to create space for concrete emotions to solidify on paper; distraction, as I so cleverly cling to, has to take a seat for tonight. 

     Coming down into a visceral reality in the skin of a 26-year-old on the verge of finding her breaking point.

     It feels like I have been blindly scraping at my creative facets with numbed fingers. An abstract of what I desired to create was there but I keep falling short of action to harness the creative direction. 

     Beneath this veil of depression, I feel the weight of a weekend spent under neon lights cast upon sweaty palms, vapor thick with Father John Misty's sarcasm, Hot Chip's synthesized vibrato and Grace Jones’ warrior breath.

     Two days and nights of the F*** Ya Fest in downtown LA has stung me with a reality I have been craving.  The nostalgia of festival aftermath. You know the sensation; a rush of inspiration flushes your cheeks as you reflect on moments spent with the freedom to spit slang like song lyrics with the homies hitched on your side and fingers laced together so no one gets left behind.  Sonic bliss as you levitate from anxiety and cerebral baggage. 

     My standout musical moment was during a radically transcending set from the Aussie band, Tame Impala.  A friend of mine who has been in the music industry for 20 years, told me this band is worth witnessing; it is what pulled me to the festival in the first place.  I was snagged by their presence, inspired to get scalped tickets just 20 minutes before showtime., knowing you always do get more than entertainment at these shows; especially this time around. 

     It was my first night with them. I was vulnerable in a tee and jeans and it seemed as if they knew I was in search of an intrepid ride.  Cigarette smoke parched my throat and Kat, my Joan Jett-resembling bestie hangs a tight right to my side.  We blend into the crowd with a full-bodied exploration of the music, flailing wrists and wide hips.  The arena became a sound garden for incubated addictions, a place to share your vices and spread your stance.  The visual 'vibe' was lit with shades of pink and creamy tangerines, guitars and keyboards bounced between band members as hard-hitting notes of psychedelic rock glanced towards the past and made headway in the future of music.

     I was lucky enough to be caught in between the succulence of sobriety and escapism, allowing myself to be honest about my self-image, habits, spirituality and creative initiatives.  I slid through reflections of expectations and dreams, softening to the present moment as strangers nudged me and coiled sweat burst on raised brows. I thought of the laughter that cracks at the back of necks when you think no one else can hear and I was overwhelmed by the sensations of my social anxiety.  Realizing that not one person was paying attention to me, I broke from that fear.  Being in that crowd, felt like the comfort zone I needed to breach.      

     I heard John Lennon in Kevin Parker's vocals.  Exhales of vulnerability about the human condition with a pounding bass supporting the delicacy of the track.  Slack-jawed and swaying like lackadaisical sunbeams, this journey was feeling just right. I found a home in a crowd of 30,000 aroused by 4 men from a land down under.

All this running around
Trying to cover my shadow
An ocean growing inside
All the others seem shallow
All this running around
Bearing down on my shoulders

I can hear an alarm
Must be a warning

I heard about a whirlwind that's coming 'round
It's gonna carry off all that isn't bound
And when it happens, when it happens (I'm gonna be holding on)
So let it happen, let it happen

       A resonation of cool vocals oozes out of Parker.  High pitched leading into his steady chest voice. The cameras turn to each band member, highlighting their facial features, showcasing a devotion to their craft. 

Adorned with long hair and stoic expressions, an unprecedented swagger and a confident kick to their instrumental abilities, their sonic levity created a stage for us all.  

This venue became a place for honest expression in the concrete jungle. A place to be transfixed by the present and to transcend the walls we create inside ourselves.

Beyond the brilliance of the spectacle, I can be found attempting to channel a meditative breath while letting go of all thought. Craving total submission to this experience, I try to get ‘out’ of my head but the more I fall into realizations that sting me, tonight, in a moment of eruptive tears in the dusk of solitude. 

     The music, as raw as the bugs eating their way through my condo, gets me feeling all the feels. Tears flow.  I haven’t done this since the last funeral I attended, too many this year. I tap back into the loss and grief that began 2016, but this time it is grief over the life that sits right in front of me. Not a life lost, a life that is temporarily on hold from being authentically navigated. Flashes of the show turn despair on its side and into potential re-growth.  I let it happen. 

All this running around
I can't fight it much longer
Something's trying to get out
And it's never been closer
If my ticker fails
Make up some other story
And if I never come back
Tell my mother I'm sorry

I will not vanish and you will not scare me
Try to get through it, try to bounce to it
All the while thinking I might as well do it
They be lovin' someone and I'm not that stupid
Take the next ticket to take the next train
Why would I do it? And you wanna think that

I will not vanish and you will not scare me
Try to get through it, try to bounce to it
All the while thinking I might as well do it
They be lovin' someone and I'm not that stupid
Take the next ticket to take the next train
Why would I do it? And you wanna think that

    The bass beat through blades of grass, hypnotic jamming taking me on a journey to Planet Impala. Eyes roll back and Kat and I laugh at the poetic landscape we dance on. I know her mind is spanning a universe of thought right now and I try harder to meditate with eyes open, for the both of us. 

     No luck. Instead I burst into new truths. Trying not to take it too seriously, I dance a little deeper into the crowd, creating an illusion that Impala has me by the whole. 

     The more you pay attention to what everyone else is thinking about, the less you pay attention to yourself.

     Parker has seemingly given himself every chance to be honest and eruptive with his expression.  Giving his craft every effort of his being, seeing it through to opulent success.  Even more badass is his ability to tell his truth in a way that connects this vast group of strangers.  I think we can all relate to the desire of honest expression of our fullest selves.  Whether it is for a crowd of a thousand, streaming to the globe or to anyone who will simply listen. 

     Musicians, those that do art for the sake of art, well, I happen to think they are the coolest mothers on the block.  Tonight, I feel past all of the industry bullshit and I embrace the freedom to be vulnerable to a seductive and liberating set. It gives me the courage to dream about the venue I want to share at, whether it is a yoga studio, a conference hall, a classroom, on the slopes of the backcountry or the beaches of Bali.

     Are the people who are less concerned with the reaction of others, the freest of them all? Or do we all need an audience to validate our truths?

     I look around and get a sense of the crowd, most people are tied up in crews clad in face paint and dragging vape pens. Staring to the stage and then into each others faces everyone seems to be so blissfully awakened...right...now. I give myself a break and forget about them. 

     I am often a victim to self-criticism, frequently feeding the needy ego.  Occasionally believing I am not good enough to truly enjoy myself and my surroundings wholeheartedly. Especially lately.  

     The critic has made herself stronger, I am left as a victim.  I realize my need for creative expression to share 'her' raw voice through channels of exploration is my most fulfilling practice.  And there are incredibly supportive people in my life who are waiting for me to do something about it.  I can almost see my audience spread from coast to coast, spanning all ages, dead and alive. They know I will get there. With conviction and intention. 

     I think about the friends and siblings that provide me with the stamina to dream broadly and that part of my truth is providing reciprocal support for them.

     Never have I ever discovered sanity like this at a show, slightly inebriated but conscious of where I am in this moment beyond the security guards and dosed heavyweights holding down the scene. 

     I come to a flicker of light that shows me my present work life. 9-5. Daily grind. Quiet in expression.  Manipulating computers for the output of information. I often doubt the story we tell at the magazine I work for.  I seek meaning in the duties, often let down. 

     I understand the great advances it has given me into the digital publishing field, giving me the opportunity to explore, be proactive, confident, vocal in a business setting and acutely aware of the corporate personalities.  It has also shown me that my need to communicate with people on a physical and emotional level is one of the most important things in my life. I am missing that at work, and not to be dramatic but it kind of breaks my heart. I believe these tears are for the relationships I feel I have let slide and become mere ‘duties’ as opposed to passionate connections.  Engaged with a computer for 8 hours a day and limited to coworker camaraderie has bled into all facets of my life. Romantically, spiritually and emotionally.

     This past week I was introduced to a few people who made my head spin and aroused my passion for connectivity.  Although in some ways I was able to express this excitement, there were other times where I wasn’t, and that scares the shit out of me.  

     My goal with this blog is to be honest, to engage people in conversation. Not only through digital posts and screen-time but in the world of physical touch and eye-to-eye connection. I want my voice to be a part of a real scene, in the city, the studio, at shows, through events and volunteering and being a leader by example.

     That has always been my motive, yet I find myself against a wall, a fabricated illusion in the mind. Breaking through, manifesting a tear in the cerebral vortex and allowing myself to be vulnerable is the only way I can proceed.

     The sun has dipped out and it is a profoundly quiet, ethereal night in Malibu, that is to say, it is a Sunday night in Malibu.  Overlooking the southern coast and wrapped in a turquoise scarf from S. Africa, I take a hit of nicotine to bring me back to the weekend. It was one of those trips that happens all too quickly, like sand between fingers, I am trying to hold onto the grains of inspiration. Planting progress beneath me under Orion’s Belt and grounding my tectonic plans for a f***ing awesome life.

     Before writing this, the fantasy of the future, the overwhelm of what I wasn’t doing and who I wasn’t doing and how it was all being played out through months at a job I didn’t love and in a place that fractured my voice...freaked...me...out.  It scared the shit out of me, the not knowing!  A creative paralysis. 

     I am learning there are steps to be taken to proceed towards my audience, to tap the walls of engagement and eventually come riding through with hands on heart and building upon words that take me to places I didn't know existed.  

     First things first, playback the events of a weekend that is one for the books, one that grabbed my tethered heartstrings and yanked on my inhibitions while clad in glitter and pigtails.  Often our wake up calls are so quick we miss them.  This weekend brought clarity to the surface while rock music bled from speakers and tension split with every drip of the chorus. 

Now, I feel the all-encompassing impact.  The sensual ride of contemporary music, youthful inspiration from artists not much older than myself and the bold embrace of my own movement.  This time, it started in the field at Exposition Park and as always, continues onto the page.

     Welcome to Planet Impala. I don’t think I can ever leave.

I will not vanish and you will not scare me
Try to get through it, try to bounce to it
All the while thinking I might as well do it
They be lovin' someone and I'm not that stupid
Take the next ticket to take the next train
Why would I do it? And you wanna think that

Oh, maybe I was ready all along
Oh, maybe I was ready all along
Oh, maybe all I wanted was the sound
Oh but maybe I was ready all along