My love, the shadow that touches the flame…

Sometimes I hear you speak to me. Words echoing somewhere, just out of reach. Glimpses of light, fractured memories spin by like a carousel. I get that awkward feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if love sick. That longing, that sense of elevation…like flying and at the same time a melancholic sadness, like the unfulfilled lover. Waiting. Hoping. Praying that one day our roads will meet again.

I remember you as someone who used to fill me with fire. All my artistic dreams came to light. I would wander the streets, pen and poetry book in hand. Page after page would be filled with caffeine covered notes of beauty, mingled with my own inner pain. Everything was a little bit shattered. It was that pain I could never shake, the pain that made me fear my own pursuit. I had the fire. I had the desire. I just lacked the clarity, the knowledge, but I tried. I really went for it. That’s when I realized that beneath the fire was that pain, that insecurity and everything I did was tainted by it. The fire kind of got subdued. I censored myself. Artistic expression became about perfection, about following rules and guidelines. Sure enough some of those guidelines gave me so much – I created things I came to love, things I was truly proud of. I gained the knowledge. Yet I had let go of that sense of complete abandon. Of fully giving of myself. Like when I used to wander those streets.

Sometimes a street light, or the sight of a perfectly yellow lemon will take me right back. I’m once more where I belong, walking those streets, poetry book in hand. Everything I see is filled with beauty – I search for beauty in everything; in smells, tastes, sounds…and life is blissful. I’m immersed in the art of life and my creative juices are overflowing. Everything I see adds another piece to the puzzle. Everything I hear brings me one step closer to completing a script, a poem, an artwork… Around me answers are swirling in the air like leaves in autumn. Everything is there to help me create my art, like a giant jigsaw puzzle I’m gathering one piece after another. One step closer to fulfilling the dream of completing another project.

I’m allowing myself to create again. Stains of red wine next to my laptop. Delirious words flying by. This blog is no longer just about sexy confessions, sexy life lessons with a twinkle in their eye…ever so often I take a break from those and I play. Words enchant me and I let them. The garlic bread and the wine…I’m suddenly eleven years younger and I’m walking the streets of Paris with a dream in my hand.

I still dream. The dancers at the Moulin Rouge are still as colorful as they were when I left Sweden all those years ago. When I dreamt of a bohemian revolution, of beauty, truth, freedom and love…when I took my backpack and left and ended up in Paris. The sunrise by the Seine, the artist studios in Montmartre…every part of the city touched me with her beauty, every part made me ache and wonder.

I can feel you again, your streets so filled with beauty. The streetlights that would fill the night with magic. How you inspired me! How every step I took felt like I was lost in an artwork, or in my own dream. And then as I kept pursuing my dreams everyone congratulated me on one school after another, one city after another. London, Los Angeles, Cape Town…but somewhere along I died. I started believing I’d never come to accomplish anything. That I would be stuck doing something other than what I trained in. The irony in following your dream to become an artist.

A light flickers in the night. A wind caresses my ear. I can hear you speak to me. Soft words. A soft welcome back. Back to the core. To who I always was. Without the pain. Without the destruction.

I remember sitting in our first flat…I was writing on my laptop. The laptop suddenly died, although the battery was full. The lights were flickering. My flatmate was talking about writing erotica as a means of survival as a writer and I laughed. I was so filled with youthful enthusiasm. I told her our flat would be put on the map. A tourist destination. We would become famous. I believed in my dreams, but fame was a false dream, my heart was the true dream. I loved the artistic life. The feeling of living the dream, but as youthful fools do they pursue before they are ready, they start feeling ashamed for having listened to the ego as much as the heart and then they lose the fire as challenges extinguish the flames…just like my laptop died. Just as the lights flickered. A ghost? A story foretold?

I’m sitting by my laptop writing at night. The can can girls still dance. The creperies are all still there. Paris’ streets look the same. With my eyes I seek out the angles for the camera. My heart dreams the same dreams. Nothing’s changed, but everything is different. And from the wilderness in Africa you can hear a different roar…

A romantic comedy starring me, myself and I…

If you didn’t already know, my life often resembles a movie…you know one of those comedies where the main character is blonde and end up in situations to prove the validity of blonde jokes. Only yesterday I packed down the clothes I was meaning to wear before heading to the shower…and then had to unpack everything again coming out of the shower…but that’s not even funny, that’s just blonde.

Tomorrow we have proper rom com material happening though as I’m attending a wedding where I’m the official wedding photographer…together with my ex. We used to compete incessantly over who could take the best photos and I remember this argument we had in Venice where he was angry because I was taking better photos than him and I was angry because he was paying his camera more attention than he was paying me. I am actually looking forward to the wedding, as I don’t mind hanging out with him, but you gotta give it cred for being potentially the best ever set up for a rom com, no?

And then today, I went to pick something up from an accountant, whom I’ve chased, sworn over and begged and pleaded to over various issues for the last 12 months. He often sounds like a combination of wanting to die, or kill me when I call him…for understandable reasons. And he sort of sounds kind too, but frustrated…so I always tried to be nice to him, but I still thought him a grumpy old git and he probably saw me as monster woman incarnated. When I called him yesterday he sounded quite happy though. Maybe because he started the conversation by saying “I haven’t heard from you in a long while!” In other words: he had no current reason for wanting to bite my head off. He was rather nice actually as we chatted about me leaving work and going to Cape Town (or Hout Bay to be precise) and he digged this as he turned out to be from Joburg.

So I strolled into their reception this morning and the receptionist told me he’d be right out to help me carry what I was picking up. I was trying to get the Add Lee cab to find its way to the main entrance when this hot young dude walked out and we both looked at one another in disbelief, probably equally shocked that the other didn’t look like a monster. I’m just very happy I didn’t start giggling as I found the situation hysterically funny. Instead I resorted to saying rather idiotic things, whilst contemplating whether my hair was in place and swearing about wearing no make-up, as he was wishing me good luck in Cape Town looking somewhat jealous, probably because of the amount of rain he will have to cope with in London.

My co-worker later apologized for not having warned me about his good looks and I sent an email to my boss reprimanding him for not warning me – after all he thought I should just say yes to clients wanting to date me as it would be good for business. I said no to that, but I would totally have done my best to appease the damn accountant! (There’s no sense of humor at our offices. None at all. And besides I’m officially not working there anymore. But I am.)

Sex…yes, no, wait, maybe?!?!

The place was cozy – big colorful cushions, lanterns reflecting all kinds of colors, the lights not too intruding, but rather husky and comforting and the place itself small enough to host only a dozen tables, with people sitting on sofas rather than chairs. It was a Lebanese restaurant with that typical feel of the Middle East, or Morocco. It’s the kind of place you can find in London if you manage to find the small door leading in there, in an otherwise over crowded neighborhood filled with people, bars and bike cabs. It was in other words a perfectly normal place in a perfectly normal town on a perfectly normal Saturday night. Apart from being 2012 no one was predicting the end of the world that particular night.

Even though no one had predicted the end of the world, I decided to bring it up….potentially influenced by my own blogs and thoughts from last week. I mean, why not? So, sitting sipping tea in SoHo with my friend I decided to ask him what he would do if this was either our only night together, or the last night of our lives? What would be different, if anything? Does circumstance really affect us? Would we run around town, sing along with the clocks of the Big Ben, dance like crazy people in night clubs, or just sit there sipping wine and tea?

Well, you know, the answer is of course, after exhausting our phone books with “I love you” calls, we’d have sex. I mean, wouldn’t you? OK, maybe not with anyone, but you know what I mean?! Attractive single friend, last night of the world…I think that’s when the phrase “I’m easy” is perfectly suitable. I mean are you gonna play difficult if you have 24hrs to live? I kinda reserve that to the rest of my life. And that’s just it. I do play it very difficult at times.

Normally I only say yes to challenges; things that force me to run after them, solving problems along the way and what have you. Things that keep my mind busy and give me enough adrenaline kicks to keep me going. Things that keep me engaged and constantly addicted to victory; to winning a fight. If something is served on a plate I refuse to eat it, because I sit contemplating all the other things I could eat if I wasn’t eating that. Besides, just chewing what’s served on a plate in front of you doesn’t come with any adrenaline kicks, or the sweet smell of victory either.

Of course when it comes to men it’s not all about challenges – there are also the men who make you surrender without you lifting a finger. I have been known to fall for a few of those. The kind whose power over you (plain masculine force that is) is stronger than your power to say no…and suddenly you surrender and it’s the best feeling in the world…as you are as high as anything on some sort of hormonal kick. Only you kind of forgot to check what you were surrendering to, so you end up heartbroken all the same.

So my conclusion after a night in SoHo that didn’t turn out to be the end of the world is that…well I have to start saying maybe to things. Even if the platter is served rather than me chasing it up the Himalayan mountains, I’m gonna have to try. Close my eyes, take a bite and see what happens, instead of fretting about all the other available plates out there. I have to surrender to the moment as if it was the last night of the world. I have to let go of my own inhibitions, fears and what have you and allow myself to enjoy what is. Besides, taking one bite doesn’t mean you have to commit to something for a lifetime. It’s just one bite. And really if you don’t take a bite you will never know what you could be missing out on…whereas I never take a bite thinking I’ll be missing out on everything else. (And this goes for everything in life, men is just one part of it…and as for men: taking a bite does not mean having sex people…explore the possibility and the energy between you and potential dates, yes. And let’s face it: energy is important. Look into David Deida’s work if you want to know what I mean. However, I’m still convinced that if you go for sex first you may fall more in love with your own hormones than the person at hand. My conclusion that the only way of knowing if someone is right for you is if you long to spend your time with them all the time, still stands. If you aren’t best friends, what’s the point?)

I’ve simply decided to take control over my own heart and surrender to goodness. The time has come to give myself my own adrenaline kicks rather than waiting for surroundings, or men, to provide them for me. Because when you surrender to the moment is when you start to truly live. It’s hard. It’s fucking hard to surrender to anything because of fears, what ifs and opportunity cost (especially opportunity cost)…but it’s the only way to reach bliss. Hopefully there will still be some force though. Masculine energy is so kind of like indulgent if you know what I mean…

Somewhere in-between home made pornos and creaking beds…

Yesterday I was standing in Ann Summers in Soho, having a nakedly blonde moment as I was waiting for the other half of Two Naked Blondes & Co. Amongst Pussy Rub and Dick Lick I realized I have been single for long enough and definitively not gone to Soho often enough since I got back. I love Soho. Because of all the movie companies and cafes. Not the sex shops. Doh. However, I have seen some of London since I came back and as an almost Californian, most definitively Swedish person I have made some observations about London and the Londoners…

Londoners love keeping mice as their pets. It’s the most popular pet in town. The city is so overcrowded that people feel lonely because no one knows who they are, not even in the local pub, so they have decided they need pets around and mice was the best option, as they don’t cost anything (living in the most expensive city in the world already ruins their personal economy) and they don’t require that you are around much either. As most Londoners are stuck on some train platform waiting for a tube that never arrives due to adverse weather conditions (rain…) they don’t have that much time to hang about their house. Especially not when it’s raining as there will be leaks everywhere. They have to go to the local pub then, as there will be a fireplace amidst the leaks where they can dry their clothes and drench their sorrows. Then they go home stinking like beer and feel even less lonely as they now have the beer with them.

The other way in which Londoners overcome loneliness is by having too few busses and tubes, so that they all overflow with people, meaning everyone is squeezed together, holding onto each other for dear life as the train or bus shakes you about. Especially the bus as the drivers really want to make people hug each other by driving so badly that if you don’t you fall over. It’s a special trick of theirs. They often also make you extremely grateful for the kindness of fellow passengers by being so grumpy that in comparison Margaret Thatcher would come across as a softie.

The most popular accessory is the umbrella, of course. It is highly useful for knocking people over when you try to walk through Oxford Circus any given day. Especially when you walk through the crowds around the Jesus preacher who tells you that you are a sinner. I mean you can’t stand around listening to that for too long – you may get brainwashed on some semi-conscious level. It can also be useful to poke hot blokes with, and pretend to be awfully sorry and ask for their number, but since it’s Britain they may consider this suspicious behavior – you don’t talk to strangers here.

Another highly suspicious behavior is smiling in the tube (and you know you have to report all suspicious behavior on the tube). People don’t smile on the streets of London unless the sun is shining and we already know it’s almost always raining. And in the tube it’s never sunny – either it’s under ground, or if it’s above ground it’s either cloudy or if the sun happens to shine it turns into a sauna, so hot all the windows get clogged up by fog and you think you are still under ground.

The sense of humor is so dry that anything bad can be considered a joke. Which is lucky really, because there is no fakeness positivity vibe in this town, like there is in LA. So even when people say bad things about you, it can be considered a joke and you can walk off smiling. Blooming marvelous. And it’s good for me too, because people actually laugh at my jokes here. In Cali they just thought I was mean. Sarcasm doesn’t hit the Californians. They are too fake positive to get it.

London is London, innit? And I fucking love it because I can swear so bloody much, which is extremely useful – whenever I get confused I don’t answer people in a rational manner – I just open my eyes really wide and say “FUCK a duck” or “For fuck’s sake babe” or “Bloody hell!” and stare at them in wonder. Then they solemnly nod and say “Fuck, yeah.”

Another thing I love about this country is that I can put an x in every sentence. Kissing in writing is very popular here. In LA it was almost considered rude, which is illogical as all their billboards display sex in one variation of a theme or another. But kissing is clearly beyond impersonal sex, so they don’t really get it in Hollywood. Londoners may never smile and they most certainly don’t think everything’s totally awesome, but at least they can kiss, which gives you hope they will be able to make love. So maybe I landed in the right town after all – I can’t shag surfers in hot tubs under the palm trees whilst the neighbors are sneaking in the bushes hoping to capture the new smash hit home porno, but I may end up making love in some Victorian mansion where the bed is creaking whilst you’re rocking and only the ghosts are watching. Not too bad, not too bad…

The unusual life of a Swedish blonde…

Fall is approaching. It’s undeniable. I went out the other night in a short dress and swore rather loudly…in my mind. As I ran through the night, late, as always, I couldn’t help but feeling refreshed though. There is something about the cold that awakens you, refreshes you and the smell of burning wood that was filling the night air, made me feel very much at home.

View from our livingroom in LA…

In LA where I used to live, up in the Hollywood Hills, the fog often drifted in, thick and somehow magical, making you forget that the rest of Los Angeles really existed. You saw the dim lights, but they seemed so far, far away. The ocean was no longer visible – you were lucky if you could see the neighbor’s house. And where I was, in hippie canyon (Laurel Canyon) fires were always burning, always making you feel right at home. It was a magical little hill top. I knew I was going to leave though. I knew it the moment a British bloke entered our house on New Year’s Eve. “Right,” I thought “Britain is back.” And as I tried getting a paper plate filled with cake off his ass, I couldn’t help but ponder the irony. The irony of going back to the town I once left. Of wanting to go back to what I wanted to leave.

Fog drifting in…

I’m holding onto the lingering moments of summer, just as I was holding onto the lingering moments of LA. I soak up the sun, I sniff the flowers, but I know, in my heart, that summer is gone. There is nothing I can do about it. I feel as helpless as when I realised it was time to return home to Europe. Still, there is something magical about that sensation of foreboding. When you just know something is about to happen. It’s like standing in front of a man knowing you are about to fall, but it hasn’t happened quite yet. Your knees haven’t buckled, there is only a slight tremor and your heart gets filled with excitement, with fear, with hope, with joy…

I always used to dread fall. Only after two years in LA can I appreciate it. Mainly because I decided I was going to indulge. I was going to feel, to experience everything handed on my plate and make the most of it. As Rumi said – I was going to dance with it. In every moment, there is magic. For me it is often related to nature, to purity, to feeling, but we all have different things we ascribe as magical. As fall enters I’m getting more and more into my apple crumbles, I’m contemplating mulled wine and roasted chestnuts. Candle light and the smell of cinnamon and vanilla. Always vanilla. It’s my favorite perfume.

Plum pie…

I associate all the treats of fall and winter to be those you share with others – of coziness and friendship, love and warmth. I think I’m obsessed with spoiling people; looking after people. That and performance, magic, mystery, witchcraft, pure indulgence and a naughty sense of play. Nothing gets me going quite like tales of lust and wonder, of tarot cards and wizards, of nature and traveling theaters. I’m like a gypsy with a flair for cooking and theatre. And soon I’m getting my cats. Now I only lack a kettle and a wand…watch out there will be real magic in the air… LOL!

Getting cozy…

Maybe one day I’ll have my house in France that I’ve always dreamt of – an herbal garden, a nearby chateau I run like a retreat, kids running around my feet, a gorgeous husband, time to travel, time to perform, to paint, to make movies…to make magic…but at least I live on Mary Poppins street in a Victorian mansion now, with a magical, ivy clad garden, soon two cats, the most gorgeous friends I could wish for, two companies almost up and running and I spend my spare time writing my stories, painting my canvases, abusing my cameras, preparing to set up a play and baking chocolate cake…life is good…and soon there will be mulled wine…

(And if you really want to find out about Sweden and all our sex-o-holic ideas and funky quirks, you will have to read I’m Swedish, blonde and in your bed??!?!?)

The sound of shagging…

“He wants to shag me, what’s that supposed to mean? He said he loves me, does that mean he wants to have a relationship with me, or are we still just casually dating? He looked at me funnily in the office, then told me I’m cute, do you think he fancies me? He told me he will miss me when he’s away…do you think he really likes me, or is he just saying it to get laid?” Ever heard a woman obsess about a man like that? Ever heard her ASK the man what he’s really thinking and feeling? And ever met a man that actually COMMUNICATES his feelings?

He’s Not That Into You is a funny, yet poignant look at how great women are at misunderstanding men…I am yet to meet a man that was so into me he didn’t dare to show his emotions in one way or another, but many women will interpret whatever factor to their advantage (and men’s emotional difficulties). I once had a friend that was certain that because I added him on Facebook I was interested in him. People twist things around like there’s no tomorrow.

And how many times don’t you hear “I wish s/he would do more of xyz.” but do they ever tell their partner? No, they hope the person will get their “hints.” Often this leads to anger if the person that is “hinting” isn’t acknowledged. Then they may start sulking and doing other things to show their hurt, but their partner is unlikely to understand why. S/he just gets frustrated and may start showing their frustration.

Often we tell our friends how we feel about our partner, our boss, our other friends…but it is rare that we communicate clearly with them how we actually feel in a way that is neither offensive, nor apologetical. It is an art to be able to communicate in a way that people understand what you are saying and doing it in a caring and loving way.

Kudos to all those who dare to speak their minds and do so in a way that inspire rather than make others feel in any way small.

Listening to The Sound Of Silence, whilst working away, I cannot help but ponder how relevant the lyrics are today – communication really is a vital part of all relationships. When we do not manage to get a point across, when we do not feel seen, or acknowledged, many end up taking to extreme means. Just look at the streets of London.

I feel like a change…maybe I should become a lesbian???

Sex And The CITIES...

Warning: sexual, potentially funny content.

I mean, it’s like anal sex: whether you’ve done it or not you are screwed. If you have done it you are a slut, if you haven’t you are frigid. On the other hand, if you screw men, you have men trouble, but if you screw women you don’t get to screw men. Like Charlotte said in SATC – my vagina would be depressed. I mean it’s like life is this constant frustration. Unless of course you find Mr Right who gives you no problems and you get laid for the rest of your life by the greatest shag around, that keeps getting better. Naturally I don’t need men to be happy, it’s just so much easier if someone else carries the shopping for me, rubs my shoulders at night and keeps my vagina happy without a rabbit. And of course you could do just the sex, but that’s like saying you want one piece of chocolate, when really you want the whole bar.

And then there’s the question of what city to live in. In LA everything is totally awesome and in London nothing’s too bad, which kind of sums it up right there, apart from the fact that even though LA is awesome London has everything awesome in it. It’s like that bitch that has Mr Perfect inside her, whereas lovely gorgeous next door is shagging a somewhat alcoholic, fame obsessed nobody with too big a car and an even bigger ego.

My choice of cities feels like my choice of dream marriage: on the one hand I’d love to drive to Mexico on a bike, get hitched in really high heels and the sexiest skimpiest dress on the planet, drink tequila all night and have my honeymoon in oblivious bliss to the world, high on chocolate, sex and chili. On the other hand I would love a fairytale wedding in France with a hundred people, or more and a honeymoon which is the deepest spiritual journey on the planet, connecting my soul with my husband’s. I always figured I could get married with the aid of tequila first and then do the proper vow once I’ve grown up enough to handle the pressure and need a bit of a lift in my every day life. I mean weddings tend to perk things up. If nothing else you can argue with your mother in law five times a day.

My choice of ideal wedding is kind of like marrying an Angelino v.s. marrying a Londoner (who’s preferably of exotic breed – you need a house in the sun and some HOT blood if you are to survive that town): with the Angelino you feel sure they will file for a divorce and make you a millionaire, whereas with a Londoner it may actually last forever. I guess it depends on what your priorities are.

Life is confusing. Like you want the bad boy and the romance and the skyscrapers and the open fields all at the same time and bohemia and luxury. Like snow and 80 degrees farenheit.

So time for a change? Well the lesbian thing is outruled by logic: I can’t take prozac for my vagina. Marriage ain’t gonna happen anytime soon, so that’s outruled too. That leaves moving cities. Well, who knows? I don’t. Maybe I should just try a new pair of shoes first? Prada, Prada… Where’s my sugar daddy when I need him??? Or at least a bad boy with a pure heart???

“The universe may not always play fair, but at least it’s got a hell of a sense of humor.” – SATC

Miranda Hobbes: If he goes up your butt, will he respect you more or respect you less? That’s the issue.
Taxi Driver: [to Carrie] No smoking in the cab.
Carrie: Sir, we’re talking up the butt. A cigarette is in order.
Samantha Jones: Front, back, who cares? A hole is a hole.
Miranda Hobbes: Can I quote you?
Samantha Jones: Don’t be so judgmental. You could use a little back door.
Charlotte: I’m not a hole.
Carrie: Honey, we know.

London calling…that booty call you know…

London’s talking dirty to me right now. Real dirty. I got so excited I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m in love with LA. I love LA. I think it’s the greatest love story of my life, minus Paris of course. The problem is, in the middle of this gorgeous romance London called to talk dirty. Is “I’m horny” too bad a thing to say on here? Then again I talked anal sex the other day… So how’s that working out for you?

How is that working out? Yeah, that’s the fucking problem. You wanna shag one person, but you love another… As with any relationship, there are ups and downs. It’s not always easy here. The ego driven population sometimes makes me wanna run away screaming. I’m still a stranger in a strange town. Yet, I feel at home. Truly at home. At the same time, I start thinking I want Europe back in my life. I miss Europe like crazy. European values, European traditions… I miss my friends there . I miss cups of tea and country walks. And I miss the fact that I can talk to twenty people in one day and the next I can set up the Two Naked Blondes or Dizzy Blonde Stage Show….whatever. I can direct again. Even if that will make me zero cash it will make me a resume. Something instead of nothing….and it would be SO fun. The last show I did was straight after graduating in London. I took it to Sweden, got great reviews…and then I stopped. Yet, I love to direct. I just thought I wanted to make movies…now, now I just wanna do anything. I want to have fun again. I could do it here. It’s just…much more complicated and I can’t exactly call my fav actors. Also, two out of three business partners live over there (the other one in Maine of all places) and I can go down and set up a company for twenty pounds in twenty minutes. I can then call my bank and start trading. I’m already self-employed. I can already trade. Here? Good luck. Get married, or invest at least 100k from your country of origin and own more than 50% of the company. Honey, I’m broke.

That was the booty call.

So I see myself going back to London to do what I’m itiching to do: kick ass with my companies, set up a Show and just fucking get a move on with my life. But how to survive? Right, I just started emailing every film production company in the whole of London. Then I started gathering a list of emails to every film production company in LA. That, my darlings, is an accomplishment. There are a lot of them.

The thing is I don’t want to go back to London not knowing if I can return here. Which would mean if I go I have to leave soon enough, so that I have some months left on my work visa here. I also have a house here. The most gorgeous house I’ve ever had in my life. It’s the dream. My dream, in the Hollywood Hills. And my best friend happens to live in it. Paying double bills isn’t exactly easy. Making sure I earn enough money to come back should I wish isn’t easy either – I only own a one way ticket. I might even have to pay my blooming health insurance here at the same time, so as to keep my visa. I don’t know if I can work this out financially. I would like to leave beginning of April.

I came to the conclusion I will never be happy unless I at least try 100% to launch my ventures and really make something out of my career. Without it…I will be floating around forever. On the other hand, in my heart I will never be happy living in London. I most certainly don’t want to live there permanently. Here I have now set up some kind of a life. If I leave…I am building a life in London, not here. If I don’t leave, will my businesses ever happen? I am tired of dreaming. I need to live. Where I should do it…now that’s the question. Am I being lazy going back there? Am I crazy? What’s my real motivation? Fear? Homesickness? Wanting to see friends? Escaping life? Making something out of my career? Can I start it off there and then come back home here? Just the thought of leaving LA breaks my heart in two.

Anyway darlings, don’t worry. I have no rest in my own mind, but I have reached a conclusion: I have to be tied up. That’s just it. Anyone got handcuffs??? I like the fluffy ones…

I knew it….someone should have tied me up during Halloween! Damn it!!!

 

This is an occasion for genuinely tiny knickers…

Bridget said that, Bridget Jones. I didn’t just say it too… So, anyway, it’s time for tiny knickers (that translates to panties if you are American). Or maybe it’s time for huge knickers, or no knickers at all. Whatever you most frequently wear, it’s time for a change. If you are a man I recommend staying off the knickers entirely. Reinvent the boxer shorts instead, or, preferably, don’t wear any at all. I’m digressing.

So, my point is (because there always is a point, the question is how many sexy references I manage to squeeze in before making it) that it’s time to change knickers. That is to say: if you are always doing one thing, try something new. I challenge you, to in every area of your life that is NOT working out for you and even some that are, to do something totally different, maybe even radical.

At the time being I’m homesick for London, not because I actually wanna be in London; I get claustrophobia within a month and depressed within two. No, it’s because I know London. I don’t have to fight for a visa, or fight to understand the system there. I may hate living there permanently, but I know how to get around. LA is still unchartered, if much more exciting, territory. Ever so often I might also want to hug my friends in London, which is somewhat difficult, unless I send one of those “for order” people to my friends and have them hug them. That would, however, be a shitty substitute.

In my everyday life I limit myself all the time, simply because I don’t think outside the box. I think I was on about this in an earlier post, but really, it’s important. At least to me. Because I want to experience the world, not drift through it only seeing certain things, constantly limiting my

perspective and my abilities. I want to get out of my own comfort zone so that I become liberated and achieve what I truly long to achieve. I want to be freed of preconceptions about myself, everyone else and the world at large. I want to be able to use models of thinking that serve me and knowledge that I’ve gained, but still keep the eyes of a newborn.

It’s all about the pink polka-dot underwear…or what was that again????

The one time I did a Southern accent in front of Kevin Spacey…

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I have one role I loved above and beyond any other role I ever played. It was a part that I could recognize myself in, a part that scared me for the same reason and a part that was so fun to act, because it truly was a masterpiece of a play and a character that you could take quite far…I mean you could play with it, as she wasn’t very sane. It was Blanche Du Bois in A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams.

When the Old Vic Theatre in London offered students to come and do workshops there, our school, The Academy Of The Science Of Acting And Directing, went along. I believe it was only the third and fourth years that got to go this one time and what we had to do….well, we had to audition in front of Kevin Spacey.

I wasn’t thinking very strategically about the audition – I simply picked the part I loved the most. I mean, she was, at the time, a character at least six years older than me, if not ten. She also spoke with an accent I was not familiar with. The love of the character basically blurred my vision for whether or not it was a good auditioning piece.

In the week leading up to the audition my boyfriend told that when he came home one night and woke me up, I spoke to him in a Southern accent and I was saying something Blanche would have said (the only thing I remembered the next day was the thought “Do not get angry with him for waking you up and trying to hug you, just to say goodnight.” Apparently he wasn’t very successful in waking me up, as I was basically sleep talking.). For once in my life I was really into my acting (directing is my main passion), so into it I dreamt about it.

On “D-Day” we went to the Old Vic and we sat in the theatre watching people from different schools auditioning. Kevin was smoking cigarettes whilst watching everyone and giving feedback. Although fellow students later told me it was the best acting they had ever seen me do, Kevin told me my accent reeked, I couldn’t do a “mad Blanche” because that was too usual of an interpretation (if you ask me, it’s the only valid interpretation) and clearly I was younger than the character. It taught me a thing or two about choosing auditioning pieces.

What also stuck with me from this day was Kevin’s speech about being an Actor. The idea that you never know who will “make it” next, so you better be nice to everyone and you better work your ass off. Most Actors, he said, like going to the pub instead of work. He didn’t recommend that. In my school we we were in class from 8:30-5:30 every day, we had rehearsals until 11:50 and we were usually in school most weekends too, so I was happy to hear that. I was happy because I heard the tale of a hugely successful Actor telling us his long, hard journey, in an inspiring, no bullshit way. Clearly, he also loved his profession and he was willing to help young Actors by welcoming them into his theatre, lending his time. For that I give him cred.

Recently a video has become hugely popular amongst my FB friends. It’s a video where Kevin, once again, speaks the truth in a very straightforward and honest way. I love it. I love it because it is so true. There is no “tomorrow.” There is no fame and fortune awaiting around the corner. There is only this moment and doing what you love right now. Plan for the future, but live you passion now. Right here, right now.

So may I ask you: What are you doing with this incredible week/gift of time that is awaiting you? What are you filling your hours, minutes and seconds with?