Somebody spoke & I went into a dream.

10 months. Some will argue that’s not enough time to really know and experience a city, or a profession. But it was enough for me. For the time being anyway. 

I moved to Southern California in May 2016, and life has been a whirlwind and full of the unexpected ever since then. Do I regret coming here at the time I did? Yes. Do I regret moving and following my dreams and doing something on my own for once? Never. Would I do it again? Yep. 

In a short, and incredibly quick time, here’s what I’ve learned that I want to share with my fellow Hollywood dreamers and doers: 

There is not enough time in our lives to do all that we love to do, so don’t waste any of it. Hell, there’s not even enough time (or funds) to do everything wonderful the city, or its surroundings, has to offer. 

There’s nothing more I love in this world, especially in this great state, than mountains, hills, palms, beaches, and sunsets. It’s my daily peace. 

Breathing, taking time, and embracing the little moments is the key to serenity. 

Outdoor exercise is awesome. I like running, it’s great. Running uphill on the other hand - NOPE. 

Driving sucks. Commuting sucks. And no amount of podcasts or Hamilton sing alongs can fix that. 

Having a high paying or steady or “adult” job isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. But it is a nice comfort, as long as you make time to live and pursue.

Hard work (sometimes, but more often than not) will not get you that far.

The stereotypes of LA people hold true. It’s difficult to connect. But they are some of the chillest and most interesting people the U.S. has to offer. 

That being said, no one will help you or be there for you. Most are only concerned with themselves. Learn to help yourself. 

The industry here is not “all that.” Creativity and diversity is seriously lacking. 

Celebrities are people. They are real. And it’s not a big deal. No one cares who they are, and they love that. 

I love Asian food much more than I thought I did. I’ll miss Japanese curry, endless Thai places, and true Korean BBQ. 

My love affair with a variety of authentic and cheap Mexican food will be the worst breakup of my life. 

Scratch that, my breakup with In N Out might be the biggest heartbreak i’ll ever suffer. (You can tell California’s food is very important to me.)

Getting drunk in this town is just like the movies. There’s a handful of nights that give me plenty of writing material. 

The same goes for dating. (It’s a joke.)

Winters are a thing here. They exist. In the sense of 50 and 60 degree temperatures, but I’ve lived in southern climates, so now I’m a wuss. But it’s not the same without fall foliage and snow. I know I’ll end up in the North/Mid Atlantic or Pacific Northwest at some point in my life soon. 

I lived in a “dangerous” (to some people’s standards) neighborhood, and played witness to gentrification. It has its cons. Yet, I loved it. The Eastside is the place for me. 

In my style and interests, I’m mostly “hipster” or “indie” or “vintage,” however I will NEVER be as cool hipster vintage sheik as the kids on my block. I’m too nerdy for that. And too eclectic. And weird in a different way. (Maybe cause I want to be a princess but also a villain.)

Seeing shows and exploring this place alone, is my favorite past time. 

In fact, I love “me time.” But I also love people. The people in my life are what’s most important to me right now (particularly the goofy, wacky, nerdy, passionate, intellectual and cultured kind), and shared experiences, as well as lone wolf experiences. I’m lucky that my people are everywhere. But I met most of my people on the East Coast, in a college town and the place where dreams came true. 

Falling in love with yourself and falling in complete comfort and esteem with yourself is the way. 

There’s an importance to being selfish in a specific way, in really caring about yourself and devoting focus to working on and finding yourself. Most people wait until their middle aged to realize that. And some are unlucky enough to never take that time. 

I fell back in love with my natural talents: photography and writing. And I know I can and want to make something of myself out of them. 

I realized I love acting. In its purest form. I love studying it. I love doing it, especially challenging roles. But that’s it right there. I don’t love the business. I don’t love roles that I “have” to do (for the sake of a paycheck or exposure). And right now, at this stage in my life and who I’ve become, it’s not worth it. I don’t want to fall out of love with the craft. 

I want to give back, leave a legacy; and most of all make a difference and establish a connection with people. And I’m still trying to figure out how, using what I desire to do. 

Everyone takes their own time pursuing and achieving their dreams, goals, careers, relationships, and in discovering themselves. That’s ok. 

You can (and I will) make art any where. 

The world is truly my oyster. I want to see it, live it, and be immersed in different cultures. Happiness can be found living anywhere for me, and I am enthralled with being in a stage in my life where I want to move so much and live in so many different places. I leave a piece of my heart everywhere I go, and will leave a bit of it in LA. 

Follow your heart, your wants, your needs, in the moment. Especially if you’re like me and listened to your head (logic and practicality) your whole life. Don’t listen to what anyone else tells you. 

Don’t be afraid to speak up. Don’t be afraid to speak your mind. And certainly don’t be afraid to be who you really are. 

I tried something. And didn’t like it. You never know anything - until you try. Which means be completely in it. Don’t let yourself wonder “What if?” Do it. Go. It will make you stronger and more courageous and more complete and purely you, you will ever be. 

My ex boyfriend (now twice removed ex) was... well, he knows who he is, and he knows I tell this story for my own personal gain. We were what some people might call high school sweethearts... but we were more so college sweethearts... and we were the literal definition of “it’s complicated.”  The first time we dated was in the spring of our senior year at OPHS, right in the middle of college acceptance letters, prom season, and the One Act Festival. My ex-boyfriend (now thrice removed) and I had broken up some time ago but he and I were your traditional “on again, off again” since I claimed he was my “first love,” (and now that I think about it, he was SO not, and I’m sensing a pattern here in my relationships, huh) and I was still crazy about him. Actually crazy. But this guy in high school was quickly becoming my best friend and he was a nice guy (unlike my ex at that time), making me feel safe so I thought WHAT THE HELL? when he asked me out on an ice cream date.  Next thing I know, we’re “a thing” and everyone was talking about us cause he was “THAT guy” (you know - HEY THAT GUY, the class clown but also the one everyone secretly makes fun of?) who was kinda friends with everyone. We saw each other at rehearsals every day, cuddled in the wings of the stage before our cues, held hands at lunch, and my AP history teacher even cornered me after class one day to say “I hear you’re seeing Mr. [Blank]” and gave me a disappointing look. Should’ve been my first sign. Like a big X MARKS THE SPOT, HELLLOOOOOOO GET OUT OF THIS THING, DON’T DO IT, NOPE, NOPE, BIG OLD NOPE. But our professor didn’t like a lot of guys, especially the goofy and sarcastic ones who mouthed off at him, so I shrugged it off. Two weeks passed by with nothing out of the ordinary. 

Two weeks mind you. 

I’m going to say it again for emphasis. 

Two. Weeks. 

We had our first “real” date night, the classic dinner and a movie. UP was in theaters and I was a huge Disney PIXAR fan, so it was settled. We go in, the movie starts, and as you know (SPOILER ALERT) the movie doesn’t really start out happy but it tricks you into thinking this is a really life changing, epically romantic love story where they live happily ever after and then BAM a baby dies and THEN the wife dies after them never having children or going beyond their little rainbow house. Granted, yeah, they lived until they were old and crickety but seriously, why does EVERY movie Disney has their hands in start out with someone tragically dying? Honestly, I really picture John Lasseter as this guy, this master puppeteer, pulling at your heart strings while laughing maniacally in the background.  Beside the point - I’m a cryer. Like, I cry in about any show or movie - you name it. I cry when I see cute puppy videos on Buzzfeed. I cry when I see puppies in public. So I’ve learned the art of crying quietly and daintily out loud, like a lady. Unless it’s really bad - then you may as well call me Moaning Myrtle - but she’s still alive and being suffocated. Again, I digress. I’m in the theatre, with just a few tiny tears streaming gently down my face, when he gives my hand the grip of death and starts blubbering like he’s a whale who’s been beached. At first, you WANT to think “Awh, that’s sweet, he’s so sensitive and in tune with his emotions,” until he starts wailing like he’s never cried a day in his life, making a scene like salt water has never come out of his eyes and people start staring and whispering and you just stop and get lost in the black abyss before you wondering what on earth is happening and your body is frozen from cluelessness. He bansheed and sniffled for about 5 to 10 minutes nonstop... after she was already dead and gone. The movie moved on, but he couldn’t.  He calmed down and the rest of the movie went. He walked me to my car once we got out of the AMC. I gave him a hug goodnight (it felt too awkward to kiss him and I’m not going to lie I was terribly grossed out about the snot smeared all over his face) and I turned to get into my car, when he stopped me. “Lindsey,” he said rather desperately, “I have something to say.”

“Ok...shoot.”

“I, um, hmmm... don’t know how... uh uh... to...” he stumbled between silences until he finally blurted out, “I LOVE YOU.” 

You know that moment in Saved by the Bell when Zack Morris takes a time out and breaks the 4th wall, going into an internal monologue? Didn’t think that was real until that exact moment for me when time stopped and I screamed, “YOU WHAT? YOU LOVE ME? AFTER TWO WEEKS? TWO WEEKS. TWO - FUCKING - WEEKS. AND YOU LOVE ME? OH GOD. Oh God. What do I do? What do I say? Think Lindsey, think. Time is passing by. You haven’t said anything. It’s been like 5 minutes. Just say something Lindsey, anything, stop being a bitch and just...” until I then word vomited in real time, “What time is it? I should go. I have curfew. See ya later, bye!” And slammed my car door shut and sped away with him looking longingly back at me in my rear view mirror. 

I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t fathom it. I’ve never had commitment issues before, but this was a giant OH HELL NO. It made me so anxious thinking about it, him, us, my reaction, my friendships, my ex, and my future that I almost pulled the car over to the side of the road to puke. Luckily I made it home scot free and went right to sleep, praying that I had only been having a night terror the past couple of hours.

Can’t shake the feeling. Beg and plead with it. “Please, go away.” But there, it hangs, over the mind, over the soul.

The signs are there. But the thoughts are not.

The body says yes— disappear, alone.

The mind says no. But here—alone.

Don’t want it, but don’t push it away.

Things wanted, things unwanted.

Can’t shake the thoughts. Can’t seem to choose, what is the best—

time spent alone,

time spent gone;

or time spent well,

time spent fulfilled—

Her fingers grazed the solid gray walls as as she wandered along the portraits. Tiny text lay in a perfect rectangle beneath each giant print; words that painted a lifetime of work in a mere 4 inch by 4 of the person depicted in the photograph. Actors. Writers. Musicians. Politicians. Businesspeople. Designers. Activists. Service men and women. Athletes. Artists. All lined these stark gray walls. Their identity captured in a flash of a bulb from an old wooden contraption of a camera. 

As she stared at the lines in their faces, the thoughts in their eyes, the wrinkles on the clothing, and the tones in their muscles, hearing their speech on film, describing how they defined themselves in the background; she contemplated her own identity. Of who she used to be. 

Of who she is now. 

At one point - no - throughout all her life - she wanted to be these celebrities. Not for the fame, or fortune, but for the opportunity to create, to make a difference and an impact on someone’s life, on this world, all while “pretending” - “performing” - as someone else. To BE the art. 

Ever since she could talk, her elders would ask “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and her response, without fail was always “A movie star.” 

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Peter Pan. Neverland. She’ll forever dream of that far off place. Deep down, she’ll never ever really grow up, at least not in her soul. Peter existed out there, he could whisk her away at any moment, no matter how silver her hair got. 

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Here, in this exhibit, all the tiny little pieces of moments scattered throughout the last 6 months came together to form the completed puzzle. 

This isn’t what she thought she wanted. This isn’t where she thought she’d be. Somehow, that’s what they’ve always been - thoughts, not dreams or desires. Her heart is no longer in it. Her heart has grown. Maybe she finally woke up. Maybe her heart was born with empty spaces to fill and now it’s whole for the first time. 

Most likely? She grew up. 

Wants and needs go hand in hand. They’re different, but they go together, and must. If you need something, you also want it. If you want something, you also need it. 

She realized she didn’t need to be the art. More significantly, she realized, she didn’t want to be the art. She wanted to create the art. She was tired of fighting; exhausted of defending herself against those that pushed, taunted, screamed, ignored, and rejected. She stopped caring. And when she stopped caring, her eyes opened to the why. She had been fighting to be loved, by everyone. She had been fighting for attention and nods of approval, from everyone. 

But now, she loved herself. And that’s was all she needed. That was all she wanted, without knowing it. Nobody else mattered. 

Love. 

Not in the biblical sense. Not in terms of Austen. 

Pure love, in all of its glory. 

That’s the most significant thing in life. I think. Not in its necessity or the drive we all feel to thoroughly and consistently love life itself, but loving people, loving nature, loving creation, loving what’s man made, loving animals, loving culture, music, art, science. Love what’s good. Love what’s bad. Love your friends, your family, your enemies, a random stranger, or that girl, boy, or thing that burns purpose and passion within you. Love yourself. Love what exists. Better yet, or more importantly - love what doesn’t exist. Love what is yet to come or what could or couldn’t be. 

We don’t do it enough. We don’t love enough with every cell of our being. The entire world, in its massive, overly crowded and distracted capacity, doesn’t love enough, or maybe even, hardly at all. 

That is what we can’t find that’s wrong. 

That - is our #1 problem.

They could be the heart’s desire, or its tearing apart, bit by bit.

A Waiting Room

The sun peaks through the blinds as my eyelids slowly rise. With a yawn and a smile, I roll over to see him sleep soundly. The weekend’s almost over, and it pains me to see it end.

I wake him up, by thrusting open the shade, he winces at the sight of such a bright yellow. The sheets are thrown off before clothes for the day are thrown onto the gorgeous day.

The picnic basket’s packed. The summer afternoon couldn’t be any more than a picture painted perfect. The day is hot, but all is well with our homemade ice cream.

Quickly, the sundae must be made, or the sun will evaporate it. Our favorite ingredients, French vanilla flavored, hot and thick fudge, and rich whipped cream. He sticks a finger in the cream,

sticking a glop on my nose. Struggling, I lick it off as he, giggles. Both creams are melting too fast for our spoons, so we take the bowls and drink the sweet, runny liquid.

It’s as if we’re toddlers learning to eat all over again, both chins covered in a sticky mess. Our laughs echo the other’s as he takes my face and slowly kisses the vanilla away.

Like a puppy happy to see the one they love, I take his face to mine and return the favor. Still hungry for more sugar, I gather spoonfuls of hot fudge to savor like a lollipop.

The linger of the soupy frozen treat, mixed with the warm chocolate concoction is a juxtaposition to die for. Beaming sun rays do not take away from the explosive tastes.

We lay on the checkered blanket, taking in our surroundings. In unison we sigh a breath of pleasure. He looks at me, placing his arm under my head, hands twirled in m hair.

As told by scribbled journaling from July 2015. 

He’s tall, dark, and handsome. The dream. My dream. I go back to recollect every piece of me I ever left with a man. And I realize, I never left anything behind with them. I’ve still always had me. And I don’t think I ever really felt anything, for any of them. At least, nothing real. 

In each moment, it always felt like the world was coming down on my shoulders, digging my toes into the ground, swiftly disappearing like I was among quick sand. But that was just a moment. Never a fixed point in time (as the Doctor would put it). My silly little head would never fail to jump to the conclusion of “this is it,” “never again,” each and every time. There was even once where collectively my heart, body, soul, everything thought we found “the one.” But he, and it, was never like how this one feels. 

My heart is constantly in my throat around him. It’s hard to speak, but so easy to talk all at the same time. Everything’s stimulated. A mere stroke of his finger on my thigh or across the nape of my neck sets me into a fit of breathlessness. When he takes his hands and brushes the hair behind my ear or tosses a strand, my whole being swoons. As he wraps his lanky arms around my upper back, enveloping me in his whole self, the world is washed and I’ve never felt safer. So present. And I yearn to have the power to make time cease to exist in this world. There is an overwhelming feeling, sense, of serenity, of pure tranquility. He manages to resolve the war that’s constantly battled on inside me.

But when he kisses me. When he kisses me - he may as well be igniting the fire of revolution and the drums of the war. Seconds, minutes, stop ticking - almost - and time seems to - explode. Like the beginning of time. Fireworks. Cannonballs. Gunfire. Flamethrowers. Supernovas. Pure destruction. In the most beautiful and sensual way possible. And we’re in the center of the chaos, completely lost in this creation we’ve made. It’s a feat to simply get me back to reality and pull me away from his grasp. The little voice inside my head is screaming and crying whenever we’re faced with the point of separation. It makes me think of all those times nannying when I received blood curdling screams in my ear and temper tantrums into the floor when the child was separated from its mother. Internally, I’m always being held back by that hand, stretching my arm as far as it can go, kicking, writhing, anything to not let him go. But we go, and we always go fast, so he doesn’t see how I really feel about him, so the hand on the clock moves quicker toward our next meeting. 

Because when he’s not there, in front of me, beside me, the demons come back and smiles are fewer. Some might sum it up, or rather assume it to be unhappiness. “You can’t love someone until you love yourself.” But I have many more names for these diseases, these monsters creating the conflict within. You see, it’s not unhappiness. I’m perfectly content and pleasant without him. Things are good. Things are fine. I still laugh, enjoy others company, but with him - it reaches another level, maybe another dimension I was so sure I was incapable of finding. My face is unable to frown around his presence. Cheshire grins are plastered across my face, unwavering. It’s real. Genuine. No muscle forced, and I think it could be stuck that way and still wouldn’t cause me pain. I don’t have to work to be happy. In fact, I’ve worked to feel unhappy, to find something wrong with him, something to complain about, something that will go wrong, and I see nothing. For miles. For eternity. This is it. For good. 

And yet. 

I do find myself on the sideline - waiting - to screw this up. He won’t do it. But I can’t help but think - no - know - that I will. I know I’m going to mess it all up with him. Whether it’s tomorrow. Or the next day, or months, or years from now, it’ll be me. He drives me crazy in the best possible way, but deep down, my pesky intuition in my gut tells me it’s too good to be true. I reel for him, and then therefore am in a permanent state of paranoia and insecurity around him. Because that’s who I am. I must be dreaming. Someone or something along the path of this slumber is going to pinch me and I’ll wake up in a gasp of air, and it’ll all be gone. Nothing there. He is the personification of everything I’ve ever wanted since I could tell what and who I wanted in my life for its entire span - in friendship and in romance. But there’s the nagging, the sensation that doesn’t shove off. The anxiety. “How does he feel.” “What does he think about.” “What future does he see.” “What does he tell everyone.” “What do they think. “How does he think.” “Am I good enough.” “Is this real.” It spreads. The foundation he’s setting, I’m - or it - this thing in me - is crumbling it. I thought I got rid of it. I thought I got rid of that her. That version of me. And here she is, again, under a newfound confusion and worry. 

But this time, I’m not sure I can even begin to break her. To crack the code. And she’ll ruin us. I’ll ruin us. I’ll lose him, and that’s the last thing I want on this earth. I know I can have a future without him. But I think it’d be a future alone. Derek Shepherd said it best himself, “I can live without you, but I don’t want to. I don’t ever want to.” 

leia, gently correcting him: han, he wants to be called kyle ron now