It’s hard not to picture Sarah Jessica Parker being associated with reading, writing, typing, and other means of expressive, journalistic behavior.
Her fashionably influential role as Carrie Bradshaw, a relationship-riddened, sexpert columnist in HBO’s critically acclaimed series, Sex and the City, launched a new breed of a pioneering, intellectual female who is aware and in touch with various aspects of the human character.
Bradshaw’s narration via her weekly column in the fictional newspaper, The New York Star, depicts a socially relatable woman navigating her way through the carnal maze of life, love, and poignant musings in New York City.
Sarah Jessica Parker does not stray too far from the creatively independent essence of Carrie Bradshaw. As an award-winning actress, UNICEF Ambassador, designer, producer and entrepreneur, she is the quintessential maven of what it means to be an artistically diverse icon.
A few years ago, on a former digital diary, I wrote about my anticlimactic experience with a Los Angeles psychic.
During that time in my life, I was feeling lonely, unsure, sad, and unusually vulnerable. It was that unsettling vibe in my bones whereby I was constantly searching for answers to questions I didn’t even have. Each time I passed the psychic shop on Melrose Avenue, I toyed with the idea of stopping in. One day, I finally did.
However, it wasn’t until a few days ago after reading a post on Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop, titled “Trust the Gut,” that I decided to search for my original entry buried in the archives of my laptop. I was pleasantly surprised to read Goop’s recent enlightening feature on an LA-based medium. The insightful and informative Q&A illuminated the business aspect and professional culture of psychics, and how we can tap into our own intuitive power as well.
If I had read Goop‘s “Trust The Gut” three years ago, I wouldn’t have opted for a random walk-in shop on Melrose Avenue. However, the experience solidified my open-minded approach to all aspects of spirituality.
In retrospect, sometimes it takes a psychic in a tacky tracksuit to unlock such spiritual intrigue.
Below is an original piece about my non-Goop encounter with an LA psychic.
Frances Bean Cobain is a bewitchingly intellectual creature. Her ethereal beauty, brains, coveted coolness, and goth girl problems grow maddeningly enviable with each new moon.
Cobain is a visual artist who labels herself as a horror movies enthusiast and just your typical 宇宙魔女 (space witch). Within the artistic world, she claims the top spot as the quintessential source of alluringly unchartered territory.
Mere mortals can only gain insight into her mysterious life on a tweet by tweet basis. With each new post via Twitter, she sprinkles little gems about herself that, once combined, unveil a lustrous disco ball of information.
Within her cauldron of Twitter posts, we are granted instant access into her spellbinding brew: Spotify playlists for winos, gore-tastic films, Courtney Love retweets, vampire-esque sleep patterns, chain-smoking, nail polish, convos with Lana Del Rey, ever-changing hair colors, supernatural favors, concerts, paintings, YouTube favorites, tattoos by Kat Von D, thought-provoking quotes, Elvira worship, and more… way, way more.
The character confessed, “Sometimes you run your life back to see at what point it could have taken a different turn. But sometimes there’s nothing at all to run back – you yourself don’t know it yet, but the only button that’s still working is forward. You wish you could freeze the picture … Here, you tell yourself. If I’d said something else … done something else.”
I re-read, “You wish you could freeze the picture … Here, you tell yourself. If I’d said something else … done something else.”
After reading the sentence for a third time, I finally understood the unnecessary commitment we have to one of the naughtiest words housed in the dictionary.
This feeling doesn’t come around very often. It creeps up on me like a ghost; the eerie presence provides a cold rush of unwelcome company in emotional darkness. That slow, sinking feeling tightly wraps around my heart, making each breath I take a little slower, and almost apprehensively so. The colors of my soul start to fade into a dull depiction of what it once was as the tide of thoughts, questions, and worries begin to roll onto the rocky shores of my mind.
Only moments passed before my natural air of contentment turned into a state of deep, cloudy reflection. Entangled within my mental web are abstract questions about life, love, and relationships. The heaviest concern is about people and the roles they played in my life.
People will always wander in and out of our lives until the day we die. Ironically, our complex interactions with others is a fact of raw human existence. Either the person is here to stay or has already left, never to be seen again.
Why did I meet that person? How come we don’t talk anymore? Will I see her again? Does he ever think about me?
It is rare to discover a band with such an artistically novelistic description of their music.
The Ghost of a Saber Tooth Tiger (The GOASTT) is a singer-songwriter duo consisting of mysterious creatures: Charlotte Kemp Muhl and Sean Lennon.
Within all facets of their collaborative efforts, The GOASTT represents a coveted spot in the musical realm that illuminates true musical freedom. Sean and Charlotte seemed to escape the inevitable genre labeling and comparisons that is often projected onto artists as they begin to develop their sound.
As told to Nylon TV, Charlotte began painting a complex verbal image when asked by Sean: “What is our music like?”
I was sitting on a wooden bar stool at a cozy espresso shop in Washington, D.C. on a Wednesday afternoon.
I escaped the heat and humidity that taunted me from outside. My untamed hair was an obvious sign of the impending summer weather.
I ordered an iced soy latte with four shots of espresso.
There was a weathered brick wall in front of me. There was no way to avoid staring at the wall, so I began to study it.
The bricks proudly displayed an intricate map of cracks. The wall seemed to be haunted with secrets and stories from years of intimate conversations shared over cups of coffee. I imagine the dusty brick wall witnessing flirty first dates, spying on lonely people hiding behind the Sunday paper, and peering into everything in between. If only the wall could talk.