a bouquet of clumsy words @ll272514-blog - Tumblr Blog

For R5, the venture of finding themselves has been spurred by an openness to constantly adapting and evolving.

I remember the exact moment I knew I wanted to write. I was 14, sitting on the couch e-chatting with some internet friends I’d made through this tiny band i loved called R5, and we were all energetically fawning over a new article about them that had just come out. The piece was poignant, descriptive, gripping, and evoked this absurd sense of intimate emotion through mere words, and I realized that’s what I wanted to do for the rest of my life: tell good stories.

Six years later, I’m here sharing an article I wrote for Local Wolves about this not-so-tiny band called R5. A lot changes in that duration — I hadn’t necessarily kept up closely with the band’s endeavors throughout it, but within a month found myself at 20 years old dancing in the same room as them celebrating at a release party in LA, and then sitting on my bed talking on the phone with Rocky, smiling like i was 14 again.

It goes without saying, then, that this conversation triggered a landslide of nostalgia and introspection. I could go on and on about how this feels like full circle in every sense of the term, but I won’t bore you — I’ll just say that there are slivers of moments where every little nuance and intricacy of the narrative makes sense, and this is one of them.

(Oh, and by the way, I still talk to those internet friends. They’ve become more like family. We’re all old now and have grown in our own ways, but you can bet I still Facetimed them from that party, dying of laughter. Anyhow, that friendship is a whole novel on its own. Maybe I’ll get around to it someday.)

i am coming to a lot of realizations this year. they sit heavily in the pit of my stomach, dissolving like painkillers - sharp and paralyzing, eventually subsiding into a strange, artificial relief.

“will i fall or will i misstep? / will i fall or will i misstep? / will i call you with my last breath? / will you be there for me after?”

i am in the process of redefining and reconciling various facets of my identity: my femininity, my ethnicity, my politics, my career field of choice. i have wrangled with external forces and conventions and untangled internal confusion. these are absolutely vital and important to sort through and understand. they characterize me and give me grounds to grow on. developing solidification in these areas has strengthened me, emboldened me, and opened up space for me to dialogue with people deeply and enrich my worldview, self-awareness, and even my knowledge of God.

“will i waste inside the silence / where my fear is f*cking violent?”

and yet i lay stone-like in an apathy that can’t be budged, an emotionally-void state of immobility, when i’m asked to come to terms with Him. every part of me pushes back when silence falls and there’s no one in the metaphorical room but the two of us. it’s been a familiar struggle throughout my entire life, but one i’ve become much more attuned to while living at bible college, a place so spiritually ablaze, surrounded by people who are just as zealous. they are exponentially kinder than the world outside these campus walls. they’ve got the theological explanations to your questions. they know the words to the nuanced metaphor-filled songs, and they’re aware of the cues triggering raised arms in worship. they’re fluent in the poetic, rhythmically flowing prayers to blanket you in if you ask (and even if you don’t, let’s be honest). they are gentle lovers and articulate mentors.

“i’m a child thrown to lions / wicked sinner thrown to lions / with no hope on the horizon / is there hope on the horizon?”

and these are beautiful things reflective of His spirit. i do not doubt that they are authentic and true. but i have been wrestling with this idea of the ideal, “american”, if i may, culture of Christianity. i spent the entirety of my first year here in a culture shock, frantically trying to learn the protocols of how my faith needed to look like. and i did pretty well. i learned the lingo, i adapted the vocal inflections. i raised my hands whenever the buildup to the bridge hit in chapel. i became bitter about my background, grew cynical and harsh towards anything that didn’t fit the mold of this new, fresh style of faith i was discovering. and i quickly began to dissociate from what i felt was holding me back.

but, after a hectic semester (and session upon session of therapy), i am in a vastly different place. my initial aforementioned preconceptions have been broken down. as i cement the implications of the upbringing that is unique to who i am today, the one that looks a little different than the majority of people i am around daily, i am learning that i don’t quite belong. i am obtrusive and crass. i am rough around the edges, unable to offer comfort with affection and softness because i never was. i stumble on my words and embody the opposite of elegance: poetry has never flowed from my tongue in prayer - instead, they’re almost always cries of desperation, accompanied by shaking clenched fists. they are vulgar and messy and projectile vomited, littered with error.

“jesus, where are you? am i still beside you? jesus, where are you? am i still beside you?”

there are no flowery sentiments spelled out in watercolored calligraphy. there are no pristine flatlays with open bibles and coffee and a graceful, eloquent caption. there are wars that wage incessantly and nights spent staring at walls playing at God. there are blotches of ink bleeding through tear-stained journal pages created by pressing down too hard. there are stretches of days i avoid confronting my Creator because i am ashamed of my inconsistency. i am humiliated by my inadequacy and disgusted at my pride. and my fear is f*cking violent; the lies seep in deeply and convince me that He will have turned a cold shoulder when i return.

“jesus, where are you? am i still beside you? am i still beside you? jesus, where are you? jesus, where are you?”

tonight i heard the song “a prayer” by king’s kaleidoscope for the first time. KK is a band that a) has kind of defined my time at biola because they’ve led worship (and will play) at conferences both years i’ve been here and b) is a pretty established and explicitly Christian band. so it shocked me at first when i saw the little “explicit” warning box next to the title on spotify, and caught me off guard when i heard it in the song, but i was instantly oddly overtaken by a wave of peace, a deep resonation. in an interview, songwriter/lead singer chad gardner says it’s a song that comes from the deepest part of his being, with lyrics directly from his journal.

“i don’t know how everyone else has conversations with God, but i have very vulnerable conversations, and God already knows how afraid i am…and i know fear and Satan and death - the voice of all that is not poetic, it’s not thoughtful, it’s not patient. it’s aggressive and demanding and terrifying.”

in this way, garner is also sharing things that are authentic and true and beautiful. they may not be pleasant or pretty, but they are honest. he is baring his broken heart and bringing it to the altar in its rawest form. and that is what God asks of us, that though the fear may be immobilizing, we mustn’t allow it to make us forget His unchanging promise:

“i’m right beside you! i feel what you feel / and i’m here to hold you when death is too real / you know, i died, too / i was terrified / i gave myself for you / i was crucified / because i love you / i love you, child.”

The Japanese House: Revelation through Recalibration

How the Japanese House’s presence and performance brought forth empowerment in unconventional ways

The Japanese House, solo musical project of 21-year old Amber Bain, is enigmatic and exploratory. Upon first listen, it is difficult to discern Bain’s gender from the deep and distorted layered vocals; the name of the band itself is derived from a Shakespearean twelfth night-esque experiment done by Bain as a child that has since fueled her fluidity. The Japanese House defies stereotypes in all aspects - from aesthetic, to ideology, to music.

That notion of fluidity was palpable on Sunday night, December 4th, when Bain and her band came to the Constellation Room in Santa Ana. The compact space, packed with attendees of the sold out show, buzzed in anticipation before the acts. As The Big Moon, London-based girl gang, sauntered onstage in boldly patterned shirts as the opening act, that subdued enthusiasm erupted into movement along to the band’s fast-paced punk melodies. Their lively energy was quite literally contagious — lead singer Juliette Jackson’s intense eye contact with individuals in the crowd made it impossible to stay withdrawn as the quartet rocked out with abrupt tempo changes and high-ponytailed headbanging. The Big Moon’s presence was fun, informal and airy, creating a setting that felt more like loitering with friends in someone’s garage: zeal in its purest form.

The tone set by The Big Moon was one with an unmistakable celebration of selfhood. It carried over into The Japanese House’s set, albeit with a dissenting approach. Amber Bain adorned the stage with an unadorned getup: loose denim jeans and an oversized sweatshirt with a large banana graphic (from ACNE studios, she later answered a curious fan). Her appearance was starkly contrasted to the sound that followed — a sonorous production with stirring lyrics sung through a vocoder and heavily manufactured instrumentals.

Bain started the set with the mellow guitar of “Cool Blue” and from there, the songs blended seamlessly into one another. The melancholy “Sister” is personal lyrical favorite: (If only you knew what resided within / I won't let her in / That would be callous and crass / A chip on my chin / You didn't want me back). But the crowd favorite seemed to Bain’s newest release, “Face Like Thunder”, an dance-y alt-pop song that sings ironically of heartbreak. That seems to be the theme of The Japanese House’s growing repertoire - unrequited, messed up, complicated love. And that’s where listeners find refuge: under the mask of musical manipulation, there lies solemness, a disparity that reflects the way in which we tend to disguise sensitivity.

In that contrast came the liberating understanding that empowerment doesn’t have to look one clear-cut way. It shifted presupposed structures of gender stereotypes and ultimately identity as a whole, making us realize that it’s not so much labels that connect us to one another, but the deep, universal stirrings of the heart. And the delivery? It doesn’t always have to be loud and flashy. But sometimes it is. Either way, it is powerful, it is uniting, and it is warm. Quite like the Constellation Room that night.

#the japanese house #concert review #the big moon

Made in Hollywood: The Kinda Tour It was just a matter of time before LANY ran this town.

LANY has become a household name at Biola. After drawing a large crowd at The Eddy last October, there’s been an indisputable connection between this campus and the three-piece synth-pop group. That link was evident at LANY’s sold-out Los Angeles dates of the closing leg of their “Kinda” tour. Several groups of Biola students were interspersed in the line that wrapped around Hollywood Boulevard outside of the historic Fonda Theater.

After doors opened on November 19th, Saturday night, the checkered floor of the venue gradually grew saturated with fans ranging from teenage girls to guys in their mid-twenties and, a personal favorite, a grown man repping a t-shirt with “#1 LANY Dad” sprawled across his back. From the balcony, one could see the crowd flood in, buzzing with an energy slightly juxtaposed to the venue’s choice of pre-show smooth jazz.

Transviolet warmed up the stage by opening with an intense, synthesizer-fueled performance of otherworldly tunes that coaxed listeners into dancing. Songs like “New Bohemia” and “Future” held themes of the uninhibited thrill and freedom of youth. “LA Love” served as an ode to the commonly romanticized and overrun town that both Transviolet and LANY reign from, and that bittersweet relationship with the city of angels infuses their rhetoric. Though “LA Love” hints at a distaste to the fame-obsessed culture of Los Angeles, lead singer Sarah McTaggart vocalized the band’s relief to be back in Southern California especially after the past two weeks of political uproar, proclaiming their pride to be an LA-bred band.

“Where The Hell Are My Friends?”, the fun single off LANY’s most recent album, Kinda, shares a similar theme. With lyrics that ask, “Am I starting to hate California? Why am I in LA?”, the pervasive loneliness, despite being in a city with a population of over 40 million, is present. However, the redemptive line that closes the chorus reveals the popular vague, but pertinent, sentiment that keeps many Angelenos around - “God, I’m so in love with this place.”

And that love is no question with Paul Klein, LANY’s frontman. Pausing after performing the heart-rending “Someone Else”, Klein acknowledged that he writes too many songs about LA, but for good reason. As he began explaining that not long ago, the band was living in a tiny apartment on Wilcox and Willoughby--not far from the venue -- he broke down in tears, emotionally sharing snippets of the band’s journey.

"I just wrote songs in the corner of my one-bedroom apartment in Hollywood; these are my best friends in the world and I called and I asked if I could be in their band,” spoke Klein, gesturing to drummer Jake Goss and guitarist Les Priest while fidgeting with the microphone’s wire. “We flew to Nashville and we wrote a couple songs and if you were to fast-forward two years, we’d find ourselves in the Fonda playing two sold out nights.”

After being met with loud cheers of encouragement and support, Klein directed words of advice to eager listeners. “That dream that’s in your heart, the thing that you can’t ignore, the thing that keeps you up every night, the thing that everybody says you can’t do but you know you actually can, I want to tell you, don’t give up.”

He announced that he was all cried out, and the lighted screens that backdropped the set melted into a warm yellow as the distinct percussion intro of the anthemic “Made In Hollywood” began. Before the chorus dropped, Klein yelled that this is the only city that can sing this song and really mean it, and an illuminated sea of phone screens and arms punched the air victoriously as the audience screamed lines like, “It’s just a matter of time until we run this town,” and “We’ll dream about it, talk about it, won’t live without it. Made in Hollywood.”

Those three minutes felt like a coming of age not only for the band, but for the LA fans too. “Made in Hollywood” is a song that evokes the hopefulness of seeing things come to fruition, and it remains specific to inhabitants of Los Angeles, a city with unquestionable flaws, running rampant with materialism, grime and the superficial. But more than that, LA is a hubbub of scrappy aspirations and people who will not hesitate to “dream about them, talk about them, and won’t live without them.”

#LANY #concert review

OUTGROWN | Vancouver Sleep Clinic The Bootleg Theater, November 29, 2016

The Bootleg Theater is a music venue, but it strikingly resembles the residential studios surrounding it. Sitting on the fringe of Echo Park and backdropped by the Los Angeles skyline, Beverly Boulevard felt like it was nestled in a suburb, quiet and littered with pharmacies and liquor stores and churches. The area is not glamorous, rather homely, and that vibe could not have been more fitting for Vancouver Sleep Clinic’s intimate headlining show on November 29.

Upon arrival, one would immediately notice the welcoming, almost familiar comfort of the Bootleg. The theater is spacious, its walls donned with exposed brick and cement. Down the hall there is a lounge with a loft-style setup — couches and chairs are scattered throughout the two-story space and occupied by relaxed patrons. Before the show began, that was where the bands lingered and mingled, surrounding the ping-pong table and sharing snacks.

With all of these environmental oddities factored in, Tuesday night felt less like a concert and more like a house party. As Brisbane-based MTNS took the stage at nine, Tim Bettinson, frontman of Vancouver Sleep Clinic, stood with the crowd and swayed along to their ambient synth-heavy melodies. The second opener, Lo Moon, performed a high-energy set of tunes that sounded like a hybrid of 80’s ballads and 80’s rock, shaking the room with each bridge buildup.

But none of that could match the mesmerizing slew of songs that rang through the theater when Vancouver Sleep Clinic came on a little after 11pm. With his haunting falsetto and harrowing instrumental crescendos, Bettinson’s poetry manifested itself as sound that crooned the crowd into intent listening. A hushed roomful of eyes remained fixated on the 19-year-old as he poured himself into what is undoubtedly his soul’s expression: stanzas of raw emotion that take on a different meaning for each listener. In that interpretive freedom, everyone in the room was clearly connected to each song, unifying the crowd despite an array of diverse circumstances.

In a 2014 interview with The Guardian, the Australian singer-songwriter described his vision for Vancouver Sleep Clinic by stating, “Making music has never been about me placing myself in any spotlight; it’s about giving people a collective experience.” And that is exactly what he accomplished two years later, older now, in the same place he’d performed once before.

“We were all 17; nobody had any idea how to play their instruments or anything. We were just a complete mess. It was on this exact stage, and I was freaking out – I’m still freaking out now, but in a better way,” Bettinson told the crowd after being urged back onstage for an encore.

Vancouver Sleep Clinic closed the show with their most popular track, “Collapse”, a soulful and moving power ballad that ends with the repeated line, “We’ve been outgrown.” It was a reprise both musically (defined as “the repetition of the exposition preceding the development”) and representatively regarding the band’s journey. 2016 has been a year of steady upward movement for them. Having just released new music for the first time in years and wrapping up as the opening act for Daughter’s North America tour within a few months, returning to the Bootleg to play a humble and unsophisticated show constituted a full circle ending, a nostalgic homecoming to where the narrative began.

#vancouver sleep clinic #daughter #concert review #music

i believe that epiphanies sometimes reveal themselves through dreams. it doesn’t happen all too often to me, but i sleep a lot more than the average functioning human being, so perhaps i’ve allowed more chances for it to occur.

the truth is that i have, as i’m sure many of you have as well, been with a heavy heart these past few days. a lot of it is jumbled, not fully processed, and at war with itself, but i have sat solemnly with a deadweight lingering in my chest. i’ve been frustrated and hurt at the complacent apathy that has made itself known in my community. i have felt, more than ever, desperate to reach out to the marginalized, to fellow minorities, to women, to LGBTQ individuals and come alongside them, however that may look.

if there is some glimpse of a silver lining, i have noticed a shift in myself in the recent months where i have been extremely convicted to finally take action. to stand with my brothers and sisters and be an advocate for the voiceless. the circumstances have forced me to solidify my stance on certain ideas and topics. i’ve always been afraid to label myself and be outspoken about my beliefs out of the fear of what people might associate me with, what stereotypes i might be grouped into.

but i am learning that it’s not about the labels. it’s not about being on one side or the other, conservative or liberal, republican or democrat. it’s about people. and it’s about love; love, over and underneath, love above all, love more than anything.

i think it may be too soon to draw grandiose conclusions from the reaction this election has incited. but i am sure that finding markers of hope is important, necessary, even. i am seeing young people draw near to one another, grieve together, raise their fists, and make their voices heard. i am reading exchanges between generations reminding the youth to never to give up. they give me courage, compassion, and reassure me that our efforts haven’t been all for naught.

and i will admit that this week feels a little bit like defeat. i tried combating that with immediate positivity, but it feels like passive invalidation. i encourage you to take the time you need to be confused and mad and sad. sit in the car with your friends listening to “fountain of youth” by local natives (which starts off with the powerful line of, “i think we better listen to these kids. we can’t keep pretending we know what we’re doing.”) and cry. tomorrow we will link arms, trudge forward, and do the best we can to pick up where we left off, loving harder and wider and deeper.

i had a dream during my accidental 2-hour nap today that had me shaken when i woke up. it was, dare i say, a message i feel God was trying to give me in order to push me forward with some lightness of heart. in my dream, i woke up on my bed in my dorm room in darkness. i thought to myself, “i need to turn on the light,” but my body wouldn’t move - the darkness was too scary for me to get up. i clearly and loudly heard a voice that spoke, “you want to get to the light, but you’re too afraid to walk through the darkness.” again, in my dream, i woke up, thinking the same thought: “i need to turn on the light,” and this time, i climbed down from my lofted bunk and fumbled around for the switch. i felt a myriad of buttons and exasperatedly tried them all, frustrated and angry as to why they wouldn’t turn on, so i retreated back to my sheets. the voice came again, “you want to get to the light, but it seems impossible, so you give up.“ for the third time, i woke up (again, in my dream), and thought, “i need to find the light.” when i went to try, i realized none of the individual wires were plugged into the main extension cord. the bigger unit. when i put them all together, the room was immediately illuminated.

we won’t reach the light if we let what seems like vast darkness paralyze us. we won’t reach the light if we allow the space we have yet to go and work we have left to do intimidate us. but we will reach it if we are brave enough to tunnel forward with attitudes of empathy, respect, and humility. true change will come, and it will come from the tireless work from the inside, not an individual in power. it is us, the people, who will determine what world we live in these next four years. we are powerful together.

“on and on, my friends; we will sing until it ends.”

(and to my peers who don't understand: i love you. and i urge you to lean in to the conversation. sit and listen. pain, even if misunderstood, is real, and sensitivity is a beautiful response.)

i have not written honestly in three months. i have hidden behind the comfort of excerpted ambiguity in instagram captions too long for “conventional” instagram but cut off conveniently before i bare too much and wax eloquent. that’s ironic because this semester has been one that has moved me, hurt me, made me cry, brought me colossal armfuls of joy. it has been one full of finally doing the things i’d been aspiring towards and feeling like the person i’d always hoped to feel like. and even surprising myself in that aspect, too. SO many of my friend-crushes have become friends, and it’s just as much (if not more) fulfilling than romance. i've come to a myriad of conclusions and realizations and have had so much to say.

which otherwise (in the past) would’ve called for blog posts on blog posts on blog posts. but i’ve been as busy as i’ve ever been (lame excuse, i know) and too occupied to pause and wholly process the gravity of it all. there’ve been small slivers of those glorious, exhale-like moments - sitting in the back seat of a crowded car alone, rare evenings in a mostly isolated corner of the library, those few minutes staring at the blurry dark ceiling before succumbing to your body’s exhaustion. for the most part, it’s been a persistent forward sprint, and i’ve compromised by settling for and accepting those short spurts of articulation as enough. i traded long-windedness for the bare minimum, mostly because i was shying away from the idea of the whole. the whole is daunting. it requires bolting down and forcing yourself to mull over why you feel what you feel. it means staring at a screen for however long it takes for the words to formulate. and it opens the possibility of discovering something powerful.

i see that a lot, the fear of wholeness. i see it in our attitudes towards one another; the idea of fulfillment and success immediately triggers a defensive reaction on our behalf that breeds competition. i see it when things in my life are going suspiciously “too well”, afraid to revel in the now because it might not get this good again. it intensifies my fear of time. it eliminates my ability to be fully empathetic and empowering. it restricts the creation of things that require lofty ambitions.

there was a point this semester where i felt like i was losing my voice. i’d started to question the validity of my style, and, inevitably, the way i viewed life and how i chose to express it. it hit the hardest on a rainy sunday morning when i had the room to myself after a weekend spent driving up to yosemite and basking under towering trees by clear lakes in nevada. that weekend was refreshing - it gave me room to breathe air that wasn’t LA’s, it reminded me that the sky is bigger than i’ve grown accustomed to view it with tall buildings in the peripheral. and then i came back to the dreary, claustrophobic los angeles smog and it stormed, and i fell right back into mundanity. into the fear of coloring outside the lines.

i went to a concert that night at the hollywood bowl. bon iver (justin vernon) recently released a new album and it’s completely obscure and unlike his previous work that everyone loved for their gentle folk-indie melodies. before dropping this record, vernon hadn’t put anything out for 5 years. he spoke openly about his struggles to continue creating art when all he felt like doing was up and leave music altogether. but when he decided otherwise and made something straight from his soul, though dissonant and experimental, people responded, people connected, and people showed up.

what struck me most was the fact that despite the unforeseen rain over LA that night, over 17,000 people still packed the arena to listen. in fact, when i searched “bon iver” on twitter after the concert, i saw multiple tweets saying that it was the quietest crowd they had ever experienced at that venue, that you could hear a pin drop as he performed. being the type of person that draws sometimes crazy conclusions where they’re uncalled for, i took this as a bit of a reassurance that sometimes the abstract can be a good thing, a thing that brings people together in cold downpours and croons them to an intent state of silent listening.

the time changed today and the extra hour of darkness has always done a good job of being a source of debilitating sadness for me. i make jokes about how i think it’s a government conspiracy and messes with everyone’s head. it pushes my seasonally affective self into emotion-filled recluse. it's proving to be effective already as i sit here at just 7:15pm with tired eyes and melancholy songs playing. i feel a little hopeless about love and a little scared of the shifting of the seasons.

but i remember that it’s in that shaky state of mind where my best art is made. it’s a trade-off, and perhaps not a healthy one, but like keaton henson sings in his new album “kindly now”, it’s a habit of creative people to rely heavily on their vices to feel most themselves.

so that’s where i am. and i am trying to be better at this whole thing.

love you.

(soundtrack to the shrieking: i hear the day has come | matt maltese)

at the foot of my bed sits a duffel bag that’s missing a zipper and is fraying at the seams, clothes strung halfway out of its mouth that’s seen the inside of hotels and homes and the in-between (airbnbs). it’s been my most familiar companion these past three months, months that i look back on bewildered at the amount of which i’ve seen of life and freedom and youthfulness, of dirty lessons that’ve left me with scraped knees and bruised knuckles and wounds still wide open.

i force my eyes to linger open in a dark, 68-square foot room 18 floors up on 29th and the avenue of the americas, urging my pen to scratch into physicality each minuscule point. i play charades on these streets, donning a new identity on each block i stride through — she’s a curious stranger turned seasoned dweller. wearing anonymity like a veil while (ironically) cementing her dreams. now i know to turn the lights off and let the minor ballads echo to reach that girl again until the day arrives when i become her.

in this life i am a sojourner, taking from every city i overconfidently bound through and every forest i stand small in. at the end of the day, i sit before every mask i’ve thrown off. they chuckle and shake their heads at me, understanding my naivety but easing me towards Love. it’s there i let my bones rest, there i recharge for another dawn.

three months have made me become notably more acquainted with pulling the covers over my eyes to dull the intensity of looming criticisms by the masses. they hover over my sunken spirits, telling me to puff up here and simmer down there, to do more but dream less, to progress but not in the direction i’ve chosen. the voices win most nights. i have cried more than ever. i have fought for myself even more. perhaps that’s where the molding occurs — in the unrelenting strife between what the darkness would have me believe and what the light quietly whispers.

may strength rise in the spaces between.

don’t give up on me yet

a playlist for you.

fountain of youth // local natives stranger // covey reminders, defeats // jason marchant holland // novo amor gone // the head and the heart new jerusalem // bear’s den you there // aquilo farther along // josh garrels another love // grace pitts

another month down, another hundred identity crises + catastrophic crossroads to go. let’s talk.

i’d be lying if i said this summer hasn’t been daily wrecking me mentally, spiritually, and existentially, and i’d also be lying if i said i didn’t think it was stupid and didn’t hate every second of it. the best way i’ve come to label this season is one of persistent “growing pains” — a mix of realizing hard truths, churning pride into humility (oftentimes through humiliation), and being stretched in every which direction in my relationships with others, God, and myself. i’m getting back to finishing the book “scary close” by donald miller and it’s embarrassing how many times i’ve gone to bed with a clenching in my heart because of how honest and convicting his anecdotes are. he speaks of the risks in true intimacy + integrity and dropping the immaculate acts we perform/over-endearing images we portray for applause. it’s seriously shifting my lens of the way in which i live and love, and i’d highly, highly suggest you allow it to do the same to you. growing up, not only in age, but in maturation/view of the world, is frightening, but to rest in the promise of inexhaustible grace + His sovereignty in it all is the greatest comfort. "God is going to reveal me as a flawed human being as fast as he can and he’s going to enjoy it because it will force me to grapple with real intimacy…be encouraged. your heart is writing a poem on the world and it’s being turned into a thousand songs.” - donald miller

other than that, i’ve found that i have a lot of disarrayed feelings + strong ideologies that i, for whatever reason, like to yell into the void, so here is a list for you reading pleasure (or not):

- during a 1am traffic jam last night on the way home from a full(y exhausting) day at the beach, i had a very substantial, fiery conversation through tired eyes (and consequent disordered thoughts) about politics, culture, reifying media, and the aggravating nature of apathy in a life that offers an inexhaustible pursuit of thought and understanding. i find that verbalization leads to solidification, and being given the space to toss powerful insight back + forth was a hopeful exchange. i’m thankful for the ability to dialogue and for the gift of a brain + conscience to form beliefs (in all their nuances) and to utilize passions for the glorification of the Kingdom, in every and all capacities. use your mind. have opinions. ask “why?” fear indifference. the song “fountain of youth” kept popping into my head. “the first step is solidarity and compassion. the world is changed through collective action…we encourage you to find your stream today. if we don’t care, then who cares?"

- i’ve become aware of how much i admire young women in media -- writers/journalists specifically. i read their work, soak in their intellect + spunk + ferocity, and it inspires me to propel forward in my development of character, style, and knowledge. watching them makes me feel like it’s possible for me to achieve that level of accomplishment as well. it’s such a testament to how important it is for us youngins to see representation of women doing big things (in all fields!) -- it provides a ground for us to strive towards, to believe in. thx, ladies. you’re firecrackers.

- kind of related to that, the other night after reading blogs and articles and other pieces written by said women (i’d love to share some of my faves with you! connect with me on twitter), i had a wave of gusto take over my idle body at 2am, so i dragged myself out of bed and to my desk to make a list of things i owe to myself in this life. a lot of them held harsher undertones, but got me in check. i’d recommend doing the same. it’s nice to have some sense of purpose.

july, you’ve shaken me and made me cry a lot, but you’ve made me want to be better. onward!

| leave a light on |

a playlist for you.

runaway (live at the metro theater) // matt corby like vineyards // little india the halocline // hippo campus hymn for her // anchor and braille we don’t talk anymore // charlie puth ft. selena gomez valentine // dancing years pink skies // LANY lost stars // adam levine

this mix opens with one of the most powerful, rawest songs i’ve ever heard, a recording of a live performance i can only imagine to have been an otherworldly moving experience pulling the room in waves of feeling. it’s punctuated by melancholy, introspective tunes, interjected right in the middle by a pop radio hit just because, and ends with a piece from the soundtrack of one of my favorite movies, “begin again”. it’s a little haphazard, but it makes sense to me somehow, so...deal with it.

anyway, HEY! i apologize for neglecting this blog from more consistent slabs of text, and i could insert a “but” statement right about here, but i really have no excuse except for sheer procrastination caused by the fickleness of my impulsive nature. in everything, i dream too big, expect too much, and stop myself from starting because of the fear of not filling in. i know that’s a me problem, but let’s be real, it’s probably a you problem too, so we’ll fight through the rut together. cheers to an attempt at consistency (even though it seems as if normalcy just goes against my character).

i don’t know exactly what it is that intimidates me from the seemingly more “formal” writing outlets. i think it’s a mix of embarrassment, the looming labels of inadequacy, the hesitance in wondering if i’m just restating myself a hundred different times. maybe it’s that my format might be too cliche with its doubtful beginnings, scrambled middles, and pathetic attempts at dramatic resolutions. perhaps nobody cares enough to read, or maybe someone cares too much and picks apart my words, seeking something that can be used against me. i bounce between the “HURRAH” mindset of diving into life headfirst, advocating uninhibited expression, and the shrinking back in terror of oversharing and in turn seeming overbearing. see the shared theme here? i’m realizing it as i type - it’s a subconscious obsession with ego that i’d hate to admit. an inability to not only have others accept me just as who i am, this messy, naive, hypersensitive teen, but for myself to accept it as well. my desire to believe in the value of sharing my voice (and that of other young people) is too often outweighed by shame.

i don’t want that anymore. i want to be honest, immerse myself fully in whatever circumstances make up my “present”, and channel that weight of emotion into something beautiful (no matter how tangled it may end up looking). whether that be a real-talk blog post, something more vague and metaphorical, or even something purely visual...if it’s coming from the most sincere and candid part of myself, it holds worth.

in one of my recent journals, i dedicated this summer to a “raw cultivation of self” rather than keeping my eyes focused on progression. that removal of pressure was ridiculously liberating. an excerpt: “over time and because of people, i’ve tried writing less, creating less, and being less, but as i experience more of life, i’ve learned that storytelling + creativity isn’t something i do to make, but was made to do. having conviction/confidence in my niche has given me a freedom i wish i’d never allowed others to stifle.”

(ah, there it is. the dramatic resolve. happy july, friends. live louder.)

"to those who stay put, the world is but an imaginary place. but to the movers, the makers, and the shakers, the world is all around them, an endless invitation."

#newyorkisforlovers #new york #manhattan #brooklyn

she made me love more.

(a slightly delayed conglomeration of journal entries from my recent trip to new york city. this scene occurred on a warm monday night in brooklyn, when the sky put on a show for the ones looking up. one of my favorite tumblrs is coined with the username @newyorkisforlovers, and on this night, i finally saw the sheer truth in that saying.)

i am one with the helpless dreamers on these streets, the starry-eyed wanderers. new york city overtakes me with a massive shroud of nostalgia too magnificent to adequately express, and being back has my head + heart in a whole new state. my time here will be spent retracting and rediscovering, no longer focusing on progression/ostentation but an intensely raw cultivation of soul. i’d apologize for the likely [media/art] craze, but i can’t seem to find any regretfulness in identifying a muse and creating with truest conviction.

"i feel a resurgence of my 6-year-old self...that little warrior, goddess of a girl reminding me of who i was when i was little, before the world got its hands on me." this 18th floor window is perfect for people/city-watching. it's therapeutic and inspiring. i'll likely lose track and stay up all night soaking it in while journaling & reading poetry, but i really wouldn't want it any other way. (i love the faraway sound of horns honking and sirens blaring in the night.)

iii

it's 1am and i just returned from the most nostalgic stroll through manhattan. this morning it rained, so naturally i shimmied up a rooftop fire escape to catch the fog rolling over the towering skyscrapers. we then ate breakfast in the flatiron district, explored the MET, rowed boats in central park, walked allll the way to the upper east side for ramen and then sauntered a couple of miles along the chelsea high line (with a ton of subway rides and walking in between...convinced my toes are going to fall off). this emotional stroll i previously mentioned was a spur of the moment happenstance after a midnight gelato run - it's like my feet just knew the way and my heart kept swelling as i spotted the murals and walked past the midtown drunkard-filled jazz bars that first ignited my affinity. i've been writing a lot here. when i'm not in a place where i'm able to conveniently scratch the words down, there's a heavyweight in my chest that drives me insane. i can't stop even when it's nearing 2am and everything in my tired body just wants to shut down (example: now) it's oftentimes annoying, but i think it's proving to be a good thing.

i'm also coming to a bunch of far-fetched conclusions about an array of things, but most of all, i'm thankful that even a few of you care to follow along with my hyperemotional sojourn through life. i know i'm sometimes impulsive, naïve, and feel things waaaay too deeply, but i'm ridiculously blown away by your constant love and willingness to hear a sliver of the contents of my crazy, messy heart. as an ENFP verbal processor, it means the world.

the second we stepped foot in brooklyn, we were immediately pelted by SHEETS of rain and had to tread (an endeavor that felt 72 days long) above the river on the brooklyn bridge against the storm. everyone was yelling and rushing towards shelter and i couldn't stop laughing hysterically while the weight of the wind + water was literally pushing me backwards.

other than the chaos, today has been pretty mellow. we spent most of our afternoon in cafes and visiting the MoMA (one of my favorite museums). rainy days tint this city even more poetic than usual - i mean, i'm looking out the window as i type this and seeing the sun break through the dark clouds, blanketing the edges of some of these buildings in what looks like liquid gold.

this world. i cannot handle it.

iv, pt ii

i see songs so vividly in certain scenes, and this one rang "wait" by m83. from last night's 3am revelation: i will continue unapologetically pouring my whole heart into things (and likely learning from heartbreak upon heartbreak) until it all burns. if the art stems from true conviction, it's created out of a place of urgency, of intense desperation to share the way you see the world. these words, these photos, these films, are a coping mechanism, a means of transforming weight into beauty. thank you for sharing in this with me.

2:00am: brooklyn, thank you for gracing me with the most enchanting night i've ever experienced in my 19 years of living. thank you for engulfing lovers in warm hues of soft pink, for glances prolonged despite the inevitable impermanence, and interactions that belong directly in indie films. thank you for giving my endlessly curious, overall-clad self something to hope for, something to believe in, something to learn from. you made me love more.

home

back in ol' LA, and it'd be an understatement to say that i'm not overly thrilled about it. on the plane ride back, i read old journal entries penned in the city a few years ago and the sentiments have not only stayed consistent but grown stronger and more sure. in listening to the playlist i made then, "already home" by a great big world reduced me to tears as the flight took off, the lyrics hitting me (embarrassingly) in a multitude of ways.there's an empty sort of strangeness that comes with inhabiting a place that feels so much like home and having to leave far too soon. last night seemed to be a fitting final hurrah though, as we returned to manhattan and weaved our way through mostly vacant streets, revisiting special spots until the wee hours of morning. i'm glad that when we travel, we go hard, immersing ourselves richly in the lifestyles of locals. from becoming familiar with numbered street names and (mostly) mastering the letter trains of public transit to getting acquainted to the not-so-glam parts of daily life, each feat felt more like a preparation for something more permanent, an easing into of sorts. i've accepted that everything i write here turns into a love letter; avoiding the cliche is impossible. so new york, thank you for setting ablaze the spirit of the dreamer in me i feared had been lost. your people move me to boldness, fiery individuality, and a lionhearted grit with a softness for the inexhaustible poetry and art in your air.(this photo was taken from the shore of brooklyn during the most magical, hazy golden hour i've ever seen. i sat on the floor with my notebook in my lap and camera around my neck along with others having picnics, on dates, reading, and reveling in the warmth of the evening. i loved every second.)

upon my return, in a desperate and distraught effort of kindling the dying flame of environmental (and mental) prolongation, i bruised my knees and roughened my hands stripping the baby pink off the walls that surrounded 18 years of transitory stretching, of fraying folders bursting with certificates embossed with childhood accomplishments and dusted medals clanking against one another, old notebooks with scribbled math equations and cringe-inducing, dramatized accounts of seventh grade love thrown arbitrarily into boxes and trash bins. paying no mind of heaviest/biggest to smallest/most delicate, photos and postcards snagged and creased, memories once hoarded tossed without second thought. bleak whiteness and minimalism has eclipsed -- possibly an admirable symbol of a pure new beginning, or a morbid, proud representation of angst-filled neglect, or simply an impulsive following of a temporary trend. the smell once so securely associated with home -- that musky, sleepy scent of worn fabric and old t-shrts -- has been stifled by paint fumes and cardboard. all this for the sake of maintaining a high. an attempt to channel the city of grit and light into my own drab bedroom in this dreary hometown. a man once told me to tune into every detail of my surroundings in the midst of those pinnacles so that to discover what ignites those waves of inspiration and exhilaration, and to learn how to imitate that posture in times of dullness. it’s safer that way, he said. less destructive. perhaps this is naivety at its finest, but for now, my candles are burning and my old mixtapes are singing, and i think i feel it still. i think it’s there.

day four. i think it's less about being "good" at doing something simply for the sake of "making stuff" and more about the intense need to share the way you see the world, the way you notice beauty in the mundane. for me, creating art has never really been about technicality (although the love for the medium will inevitably breed advancement), but rather to serve as another facet of communication. this compilation of moments from the past few days wasn't meant to be a mere documentation, but an honest expression (or coping mechanism, if you may) of the hypersensitivity i've been blessed/cursed with. i will continue unapologetically pouring my whole heart into things (and likely learning from heartbreak upon heartbreak) until it all burns.

a full(er) video may come later -- possibly. for now, enjoy.

#newyorkisforlovers #new york #manhattan #video

travel journal | day one 12:24am

i’m sitting in my janky hotel in queens eating popeyes’ sides and dunkin donuts straight out of the box after jaywalking through slightly alarming dark alleys. i can see the very top of the empire state building from my window (and i’ll be right next to it in tomorrow’s hotel in manhattan). the room smells musty and the air feels thick, my sweater’s stretched out at the sleeves, the time zone difference is still toying with my brain, but my heart feels whole again. like the hefty bit that was missing since i last inhabited this town has fit right back in so flawlessly.

| mulholland drive |

i try to be less long-winded, but these stories run in my blood.

audio: waiting // alice boman

it’s kind of a funny story.

i discovered to write love on her arms in sixth grade and fell in love with their message of hope and compassion. since then, i’ve been an advocate for TWLOHA’s vision, supporting their movement to end the stigma surrounding mental illness and combating the weight of it with the simple yet profound truth that we are not alone. i consider jamie tworkowski to be one of my long-time inspirations. the man has a love for people + a way with words i admiringly hope to someday match.

back in february, local wolves asked me to write a feature on jamie for this month’s issue that hones in on mental health. throughout the process of gathering research and interviewing jamie, there was a constant trend that kept revealing itself to me: TWLOHA’s prompting to get help. to reach out. to stop trying to fight your demons alone. i’m going to be really, awkwardly, uncomfortably real here: i felt strange working on this story because the whole time i felt like i was writing to myself, but i didn’t want to admit that. i would string together words preaching that there is no shame in seeking out healing, but i myself was too afraid to take that risk. it wasn’t until a close friend turned to me in the car and firmly told me it’d be best.

i kept this to myself because i was nervous of what people would think. after a while, though, the secrecy just stopped making sense. there’s this really unfair, brooding stigma with therapy/counseling that makes us as a society think that it means we’re “sick” or weak. and i so desperately wish we could destroy that mentality - like jamie said, we need people. we need stories. we need to be honest with ourselves and others.

i hope you have people in your life that will see through your crap and call it out like it is. people that will push you out of your pride and comfort because they WANT you to get better. the day i decided to take that terrifying step towards healing, i felt an insurmountable freedom. these past 3 months have been insane - i’ve walked out of that room feeling unbearably heavy some nights and full of hope + light on others. it’s a process. i’m definitely not where i want to be, but thank God i’m not where i used to be.

under my pillow sits a slightly crumbled, small slip of paper i wrote to myself the first rainy night after therapy. i went to chapel afterward, and the worship team sang a song that seemed to have been so divinely chosen - “all my life i have been called unworthy, named by the voice of my shame and regret. but when i hear You whisper, “child, lift up your head”, i remember, oh God, You're not done with me yet."

dear friend, i hope you know that you are not alone in your darkness. i hope you can rest knowing that your feelings are valid. i hope you find the courage to share your story, to allow yourself to be fully vulnerable, and to reach out for professional help if you need it. i hope you don’t let fear or shame stop you from growing exponentially.

hope is real. help is real. your story is important.

twloha.com

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