Bohemian Boy

So the last few nights have been a blur of artistry. Tonight Kirby and I went to the What? Club over in Glendale to watch our friend Justin Catalino perform. It was a beautiful, odd, Boston like loft with big chairs and Christmas light curtains. A lone painter worked as poetry was read and people milled around for conversation and art.

Eventually Justin came to the stage and I became like some 14-year-old girl at a Justin Timberlake concert. I sang along to the songs—squealed as he went in my favorite and just swayed and swooned as his set continued. Kirby joked about taking pictures of my foolishness—I love how she just lets me be that way some times.



My favorite moment of the night had nothing to do with Justin, or the cute boys, or the drinks I had but rather Los Angeles itself. I snuck outside for a smoke and watched the rain fall slowly. One of the trains came by and I could still hear the soul singer’s lonesome song and for a moment it felt right.

I often question being in Los Angeles, being an artist, whether I have the right to use that as my title. I am so scared of my talent, my words, the places they take me—I am afraid that if I was truly successful that I would no longer being to myself. I would belong to a director, an editor, an audience and I would no longer belong to me.

I know that in some ways this is silly. That nothing would change, that my blasé attitude serves no one at all. That I have been able to be successful in some ways, published and paid, admired by some. But that fear still sits in me and holds me back more than any writer’s block could.

I guess it’s a leftover from my childhood, to be noticed slightly, to not want too much, that I never belonged then and I wouldn’t know how to belong now. It’s the same way when it comes to guys and relationships. I’m too afraid that being with someone or being successful is akin to being someone else’s. I’ll have to figure that out eventually.