Good afternoon, shit weather. What gives? It's gnarly out (cold and chilly) and I'm wishing I was under the covers with a Lifetime movie and the little fur face.
Funny thing last night- went to this photo event called Fotoworks which is basically speed dating for photographers and the people who get them work- photo editors, art producers, and others in my industry meet to review work and give advice to would be photographers. I have to say, I was very humbled to do it and felt how raw and expository it must be to show your work to that many people- I'm not sure I could handle that. G-d bless the artists. Living in your truth is not an easy gig. And doing it for money is even more difficult.(Is it still truth if money's involved? Dunno if it is).
Anyhoo, I ran in from the humidity a bit late and sat myself down to review work. One crazy sprite of a guy came bounding up to me- he had Kenny G. hair and kind eyes. Come to think of it, he was a mix of Kenny G. and Doug Henning. I know. Immediately he started unloading on how he loves to tell stories, "transcendental, cosmic" stories, and as he clanked his bracelets and widened his eyes in that Manson family kind of way, I found myself pulling away a little bit. All I could think about is being stranded on a shoot with him, and how any art director I know would probably be pretty freaked out by this double denim clad chap with the conscious party vibe and artist wife who is a "beautiful spirit who takes care of his sun beamed miracles" aka daughters. Oy.
Oh, it gets better. His sister is a famous child star who is now a super mommy type. So yea, his sister is famous and he's born and bred in LA and he lives in a magical ranch with magical children and he tells magic stories through his art. He speaks in miracles and lives in a parallel universe. As I sat there and fantasized about a chloroform soaked bandana, some duct tape, and an exit strategy, I realized something. THIS is why I could never live in LA. Mostly because my body is not "a vehicle for my art", and though I love to check out from time to time, I always check back in. Don't get me wrong- I love a freak, but something about that type of freak just irks me...
I like miracles and cosmic realities and vehicles as much as the next girl, but my hard edged intellectual East Coaster comes out in full force when I meet people like this- the ones who hug you a little too long and make that "MMMM" sound as they do so, while your lifeless New York carcass goes limp from panic. And no, I don't make my own kombucha (he' super into fermentation). I apologize to all of you who live out west- I know you have much better weather than we're having here today, but how you live amongst these types is beyond me. Sure, he's harmless and kind but the vacancy sign was just flashing a bit too bright for me, and even though having a birthday party with a former child actor/power mom sounds lovely, at what price really?
Just wanted to share that with you. There's many days that New York is less "I want to be a part of it" and more "Get me the fuck out of here", but for the most part, my tolerance for kundalini enhanced dreams, meaningful gazes, and spirit animals is just not that high. And though my life would probably be more chill and I'd be fitter and skinnier and more enlightened in LA, screw it. I'll have another Manhattan, please. You can keep your kombucha.
I'm grateful there's a different coast for you, dude. Let's keep my ice cream my ice cream, and your ice cream your ice cream. We may eat from the same dish from time to time, but we gotta have our own spoons.
Cause that's what's up this living in one's truth kind of Thursday in the 212. Keep it real (whatever that means), and namaste. XO