I’ve tried writing an honest blog post for years. I’ve failed and failed. I’ve succeeded in posting blurbs on photo shoots that I’ve worked on… the “behind the scenes”, the thought process, the final product. I love showcasing my latest photography efforts, but I’ve always wanted my blog to be more of a a window into my life. A journal.
One of my best friends (lets call her Crimson) and I used to write each other emails a few times a week. We did this mostly because it was still that time in our lives where cell phones only had unlimited minutes after 9:00 PM, and our moms were likely to be snooping in on our phone conversations by pressing their ears up to the laundry vents. Therefor, we were left with the option of composing digital newsletters back and forth, spillin’ gritty details and asking for advice, keeping each other a part of our lives even though we were geographically far apart.
I stumbled across theses virtual confessionals recently while cleaning out the good ol’ gmail inbox. They’re just straight up for realz, no shame. Friend to friend, and safe because you never really had to say it out loud.
I like this no-bullshit kind of communication, so I figure I’ll try it here.
But it’s a lot harder than it sounds. Sitting down, spilling your beans, writing on a blank blog template that feels impersonal. Like you need to fill it with something worthy and artsy and shit. It’s white, sterile, and that damn “PUBLISH” button stares you down like a the jerk asking you what your three biggest negative qualities are at a job interview for some stupid position that you don’t really want anyways. You know?
I figured that the best way for me to be as translucent as I want to be with you all was to write an email to Crimson. Then share it. So I did. Here it is.
Life is crazy. I feel like I’m the pair of jeans that are on the inside of a washing machine. Being swished around in all fucking directions, becoming cleansed with each aggressive twist.
It’s been five months since Donny and I split up, and one month since my move to Los Angeles.
A polaroid that I took of him is still taped to the back page of my passport. I forgot I put it there. I don’t even know when I stuck it there actually.. probably a couple of years ago? I just noticed it last week. I think I will leave the it there for now. Is that weak?
Things have been awesome here in LA though. I feel fucking NEW. Limitless.
Let’s start with the juicy stuff.
The men are like the weather…
I’ve been on five different “dates” since I’ve moved here (just realized that sounds terrible considering I’ve been here only four weeks.. Or not? Or yes? Or no? Fuck).
One date was clingy, one date was genuine, one date was good fun, one date was… HOT, and one date was decent conversation. Their professions were: a tattoo artist, an IT guy, an editor, a writer, and a bartender. I’m going to leave that to you to try and match those up like a puzzle. ;) Being single is weird as hell.
I’ve only shot a couple of sets since I’ve landed. One was with a girl who I met at LAX, one was with a couple (Joan and Garrett, you know Joan – champagne-North-Loop-Joan), and one with a model I met in Phoenix (you gonna DIE when you see these shots..). I do have some exciting, fresh stuff coming up in October with an artist that has such an AMAZING VOICE AND STEEZ! I’ll be shooting some album artwork for her new EP. Be prepared to dieeeee again, in lust and pure amazingness, with this artist.
Other than that, I’ve been going to the beach (Venice) just about every other day. From my front steps to where the sand starts is about four miles. It is the best fucking thing on the earth. There’s something about being on the edge of this country that is so beautiful and insane and weird.
Usually, on my way to the beach, I stop at Rite-Aid and buy a pepperoni pizza lunchable and two little shooters of merlot. When I get to the beach, I lay down my little towel, pop in my ear buds, listen to music, soak in the sun, and about every 20 minutes or so, I plunge into the waves while constantly peering back to shore in fear that my lone backpack in the sand has been stolen. Oh yeah, and… I totally stare at the surfers with absolutely NO SHAME… well, I do have sunglasses on, so they can’t really tell I’m staring.. Right? ** Shame suddenly sets in **
I also finished editing Kristin and Michael’s wedding since I’ve been out here. I’ve been going to the coffee shop down the block from my apartment to edit photos and apply for jobs. We have wifi at my apartment, but it feels much more productive to be getting this kind of stuff done while other creative strangers buzz by me.
I’ve been turned down for a couple of really sweet photo re-touching jobs that I was definitely feeling optimistic about. :( But um… everything happens for a reason, right?
In the mean time, while I try to figure it all out and not blow all of my money on lunchables and wine - I got a little part–time job at a vegan/raw/100% plant–based food café…… don’t ask me why. I was intrigued, okay?! But hey, now I know how to make almond milk, cashew nacho cheese, and I have a new obsession with kelp noodles. AND it’s really fucking cute. AND the people I work with are amazing and uplifting and bright. But then I come home and eat pizza…. extra cheese and extra pep, don’t tell the cafe. ;)
What else, what else…
My roommates are cool! I found them on Facebook on some “HEY I NEED A ROOMIE” group, similar to Craigslist. I feel like I got really lucky. We chatted via FB messenger for a week, then before you know it, I was at their front door with my suitcase and cat like “HEY STRANGERS, I’m your new roommate!”.
Pip’s in love (and by that I mean not in-hate) with their little dog, Henry. I think she’s confused and missing Bailey, because she’s acting like a new kitty. All happy and shit. It’s weird and awesome. You know Pip.
With all of that fucking awesome news on the table, I have to admit the bad.
I’m spending my savings probably a little too quickly. I’m in a constant battle between this confident, daring, brave woman VS. this terrible bucket of self loathe… like I’m “just another girl who calls herself a photographer”. I cry about once a day. Sometimes it is just for one single minute (maybe my eyes are just sweating?), sometimes it lasts for 20 minutes. Sometimes with a glass (…bottle) of wine in the bathtub. Sometimes sober. Sometimes on the bus. Sometimes at Trader Joes.
It’s more of a “HOLY SHIT! What the FUCK am I doing with my LIFE!?” kind of a cry… with a dash of homesick… topped with a sprinkle of straight up self-doubt. These tears quickly disappear in a realization of “OHH YEAHHHHHH! I’m fucking LIVING. I’m doing that whole not-staying-stuck thing I’ve been craving my entire life, and following my dreams and heart and mind. I usually follow up these crying fiascos with a FaceTime call to Kyla + Gage, and girly chats with Ally/You/Britt, and BOOM.. just like that, I’m feelin’ READY for the next obstacle/blessing.
For someone who absolutely hates rollercoasters, I sure am on THE most ridiculously loopy / gonna-throw-you-upside-down-again-and-again-and-again-till-you-throw-up-one.
Cheers to never “staying put”. Cheers to giving your curiosity a chance. Cheers to taking (amazing, terrifying, and completely LOCO) chances. Cheers to trusting that the best is yet to come. And last but not least, cheers to freezing watermelon into cubes so that your wine stays cold and delicious.
PS. I miss you.