Crack In The System

Nostalghia-music-band.jpg

For many years I struggled to be definable by the limitations of a singular defining thing. Perhaps people thought of me to be dark, so when I wasn't, I felt as though I had betrayed my "self." Perhaps people thought of me to be quiet, so when I had something to say, I felt uncomfortable after having said it. Perhaps people thought of me to be powerful, so when I felt small, I shut myself off from the world. Perhaps people thought of me to be spiritual, so when my energy was fractured, they found themselves confused. It's as though we are always looking for a crack in the system of safety. 

Realistically speaking, never once was I actually betraying my "self." We are ever changing beings in an ever changing universe, of this I am certain. My constant flux was never a dis-order, but rather a natural ebb and flow. The dis-ease lies in our desire for what seems static. Stepping out of the static, forces us to recognize the truth of life as we know it. Perhaps the comfort we seek exists in the acceptance of our many transformations that ultimately lead to yet another transformation, death. 

Some days death scares the shit out of me. Much like I tried to adhere to definable standards (failing miserably mind you!), my mind has tried to define death in some small concise way. Often times keeping me laying awake for hours on end assuming my mind might be able to place it in a comfortable box if I just...give it another few minutes. 

The more time I spend on this earth, the less I feel beholden to my mind for intelligent answers that require depth. Depth is a felt sense, an intuitive wisdom that can't be defined. It is expansive. Much like our true selves. Much like our metamorphic legacy. 

These days I feel much less bound by one way of being. I've tried on many costumes, and I'll try on many more. They all have their purpose. I'm a jester, I'm a saint, I'm a prophet, I'm a sinner, I'm a plant, I'm a raven, I'm a baby bunny, I'm the wind, I'm a lover, I'm a fighter, I'm a bitch, I'm a sweetheart, I'm a loud mouth, I'm a scared cat, I'm a mother, I'm a flower, I'm a...

And really, I'm none of that all. 

xx,

Nostalghia

Donate

 

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog and want you to have it for free. if you want to give me some help for the effort, feel free to donate below. Merci! xx

 

Nostalghia - The Cellphone Sessions

Old-piano.jpg

Hello all,

I have thousands upon thousands of snippets of songs I've recorded into my phone. I'm no longer afraid of what's raw so I've decided to release some here and there for you all to listen to.

This song in particular is by The Cure. I was drawn to my piano tonight and found myself playing similar chords. Luckily, I had pressed record. Feel free to download.

Enjoy xx

Nostalghia

Donate

WITH WINGS AS MY WEAPON

Screen Shot 2018-04-24 at 2.25.35 AM.png

I walked with the powerful man in the tall, tailored suit. People approached us as though exalted by his serpentine presence. It was the Soho House after all, where the very rich rub elbows with other kinds of very rich, pretending they've built a friendship not made of thin green paper.

Having little to say and a bit bored I muttered  "I've developed a fear of heights"

He stopped to stare at me. It was the first time I saw him as more than just a large suit, and with a reptilian flicker he voiced, "How strange for someone so tall."

Rather abruptly, and without referenced reason, about a year ago I developed a fear of heights. Bridges that I once lay upon like a foraging forest nymph had now become a direct path to my demise. It was almost as though I had lost faith in my own sense of balance. Symbolic, he stood staring back at me, the essence of all that had asked of me to question my equilibrium.

You see, there are many black tailored suits in this town. They feed on the doubtful and they prey on the pure. They count on you harassing your soul and they'll dangle that carrot with mirage until you're drenched in slobber and stuttering. Your insecurity is a prerequisite, for all they can offer you is a temporary band-aid, and perhaps, your very own black tailored suit.

Fortunately, wings do not fit in a suit. Fortunately flying doesn't require earthly balance. Fortunately, imagination has its perks. And fortunately crazy, sometimes, becomes clever.

I've never been plagued by fear to the point of no solution. I transform, and often paralyze the speculative. If I cannot live by the earthly standards, so be it. The mind is malleable, even if sometimes venomous for survivals sake. There is no limit to our sorrows if we refuse our fears the capacity to expand our concept of reality.

After numerous walks across that forest bridge, shutting my eyes to float like an apparition, I can say with certainty, that today, I did not notice the distance of that bridge from the ground. I rose above it alongside my dear friend, imagination.

Fear graces us with opportunity, and opportunity doesn't always demand that you focus on overcoming the fear itself. Sometimes all it requires is a subtle adjustment.

In the city now, I see the bodies as something illusory; hanging suits upon the shoulders of vacuous space. My soul still intact, I step into the light. I blind those who should strengthen their intuition, I deflect those who aren't worth my precious moments.

I wear my wings, as my greatest weapon.

xx,
Nostalghia

Donate

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog and want you to have it for free. if you want to give me some help for the effort, feel free to donate below. Merci! xx

 

THE MUSE MESSAGE OF THE MOTH

-2-2.jpg

When I began my journey into the maze that is music, much of it was approached with amateur objectivity. I played, just to feel myself playing. I played, because I wanted nothing more than to graze my hands on something asking to be played. I played for the spaces inside me that had no voice. I played for the women inside me, who came before me, who had no choice but to scream through the mouth of a young girl untamed by societal standards. I played to pulp myself of the puppetry, the pain, the people who could never understand. And most of all, I just played.

If you told me then, what I was really doing, I wouldn't have believed you. If you told me then there was method to the madness, a slow reveal, I would have asked you where you placed your medication. If you told me then there was something beyond that 7 ft space piano room I slept in, religiously dedicated to my path of no return, I would have asked that you pass me the digits to your dealer. Unbeknownst to me, a story was unfolding, filled with a richness so true only a lifetime could capture it.

The title for Chrysalis was born through a synergetic conversation with my dear friend and long time collaborator Roy Gnan. It was born from a knowledge well beyond our scope of comprehension, an intuition not yet understood by the masses. Music, the invisible allure, guiding me on the wings of clairvoyance, whispering her sweet nothings into two thirsty ears. Soon, it would become clear, that what I was to embark upon would be nothing short of a life fully lived. A lifetime, of celebrated transformations.

With cocooned wings prevalent in the sonic soundscapes of multiple songs, I too was in a swaddled state. Cloaking myself in white sheer chiffon, drenched in makeup like hell hath fury on my face, I was a girl simply trying to protect herself from the brutalities of this world. For those of you who know the album well, you will recall the song "Stockholm Syndrome," which quite literally is a condition that causes hostages to develop a psychological alliance with their captors as a survival strategy during captivity. A delicate dance of painstaking power. The last -thhhh- of the lyric "Tear those eyes out they'll do no good, shut that red mouth as mother should...Oh Stockholm Syndrome, let's get a room, my sweetest torture, don't die so soon, I lost my fortune, buried my purse, you know you owe me, for what it's worth..." brings you to a soundscape of a moth exiting my mouth, and leads, you as the listener, and me, as the artist, on an existential journey through the moth-like metamorphosis of our lives. A journey I am dedicated to documenting with every grain of my being.

This brings me to the muse message of The Moth.

Moths are nocturnal animals, culturally symbolizing wisdom of the other world, telepathy, and secret knowledge. Because they conduct their life-sustaining activities and practices in complete darkness, they are highly reliant on sensory perception. They navigate the night by using their awareness and inner-knowing. For humans, the moth animal totem is a sign to recognize our own vulnerabilities and utilize our own instincts and intuition, rather than relying solely on the concrete things that we can see in the daylight. Though nocturnal, they are driven towards light, so much so it can end in death. Even when its efforts toward light prove dangerous and futile, the moth continues to drive forward, demonstrating its faith and determination.

As masters of disguise, moths also camouflage as different creatures. The Lunar Hornet Moth has evolved to look just like a hornet, even having similar transparent wings without scales. Knowing hornets sting, predators are likely to avoid it, not realizing it's completely harmless. The Eyed Hawk-moth cleverly combines two tricks. Normally it rests with its camouflaged forewings covering its hind wings and so is difficult to see against bark. But if it is disturbed it suddenly exposes its hind wings to reveal a flash of bright eyes, which are enough to startle a predator and frighten it away.

Rich with symbolism, today, we are nearly finished with our new album IMAGO which quite literally means "the fully developed adult stage of a winged insect." Unveiled now, I embark on womanhood, free from the chains which bound me pre-birth, free from the bullshit that attempted to frighten me back into that precious cocoon. I bring you a woman untethered but still just as impassioned.

It is one of my life paths and greatest joys to bring you on this exploration of the mind, body, and soul. And as long as you tribe with us, I will always give of this gift that was given to me by the ancestors that came before me, and now, come through me.

May we all live with purpose and integrity.

With love,
Nostalghia

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog and want you to have it  for free. if you want to give me some help for the effort, feel free to donate below. Merci! xx

Donate

WORMHOLES OF WORDS

In a world stuffed silly with emoji’s, I still find myself getting lost in wormholes of words. Tiny empty missiles shaped with the heat of perspective, filled with the breath of anima. I rest between awe and frustration that I’ll never truly understand them all. 

I don’t watch tv. I wouldn’t even know how to use a remote at this point. All the pixels could never add up to the visual I get from a blind word. Eroticism exists in a letter that sculpts the universe with imagination and empties the eyes of what never was there to begin with. 

Here’s something I read the other night that I adored. Perhaps it will inspire you as well...

“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day.”

xx,
Nostalghia

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog and want you to have it  for free. if you want to give me some help for the effort, feel free to donate below. Merci! xx

Donate

PICASSO OF YOUR PORTRAIT

I dated someone once who thought it was attention seeking to speak about mental health issues on social media. If you went to his page, you’d have no idea he struggled with a major debilitating illness. It was all cherries and roses.
In my opinion, Imperfections should never be taboo. They are not a sign of weakness nor are they disempowering. They are tangible human qualities that all of us are threaded with. 
Depression does NOT mean you’re incapable. Anxiety does NOT mean your fears forever overtake you. Your momentary instabilities do NOT translate to something as watered down as “crazy.” And your imperfections are the beautiful Picasso of your portrait. Don’t you ask of us to fit inside your definition of sanity so you have some semblance of safety. We refuse. ...I stand for the broken. Each crack bursting with light is worth the fall. And those who rise though weighted by the pain, are that much stronger for having felt the world so deep. 
In the last week I’ve been posting directly from the heart, and the outpouring of love from you all has been really beautiful. We are emotional siphons paving the way for a more compassionate future and I am honored to have you as my fans and friends. Thank you for being a part of my musical journey.


xx,
Nostalghia

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog and want you to have it  for free. if you want to give me some help for the effort, feel free to donate below. Merci! xx

Donate

 

 

SWIRLING SADNESS

Sometimes when I’m listening to someone speak, I like to ever so slightly blur my eyes with a somewhat formless squint. Instead of taking in the details of their mouths, I’m able to see their spill of colors void of featured distraction. I feel them as a painting and I see no flaws. A breathing portrait. 

I thought today of my swirling sadnesses, the one’s I push past to stand in the morning, to smile, to create, to go another day. I thought about where these sadnesses stem from. Typically a slew of faded memories that slip through the cracks and slap me like a switchblade. I wondered on the importance of perspective. And with wonderment, I squinted my mind. I blurred the edges of memory and turned my past into nebulous shapes, colors of experience. Fire hot reds, soft blues, pulsating purples, gold glittering truths. It was as though a weight had been lifted from my chest. With the scrutinizing details removed, all that was left was an undulating portrait of a previous time. 

One day we will die. Death will squint us out of existence and we will be formless again. And in that moment, what will truly matter? The man that cut you off on the freeway? The woman who yelled at you in the grocery story? The kid who makes you uncomfortable simply for having a different sexual orientation than you? The man of a different race/religion? A fight with your lover? A fight with your mother? Will any of this matter on your last breath?

If your answer is no, try not to let it matter now. Let it go. Squint it out of existence before it devours and conquers your life.

xx,
Nostalghia

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog and want you to have it  for free. if you want to give me some help for the effort, feel free to donate below. Merci! xx

Donate

 

 

TRAUMA

nostalghia-music-photo.jpg

I read an article recently that links workaholic behavior to a traumatic upbringing. Upon first seeing the title, I didn’t even want to open it. I knew it would resonate and sometimes (only sometimes) I idealize the ignorance of the unknown. I don’t want to slow down. I don’t want to smell the roses! I want to leave a legacy of work that I’m proud of! (😡) And so I read it. Because I knew I had to read it.  See, I grew up in a household of highly educated parents. Perfection was promoted and I learned quickly how to earn respect. I was ridiculed in school for being too thin, too quiet, too weird...you name it, I heard it. My only real taste of happiness came from accomplishment, and I don’t think I’m alone in this. Our world is hyper focused on doing. Being is scoffed at. It doesn’t lead to “results,” and we want them. We want results like our lives depend on results. Have you ever seen a Labrador eat? He thinks his life depends on eating every last drop of the bird seed you accidentally left on the deck. HE HAS TO EAT IT ALL BECAUSE HE MUST. Then he gets really sick and pukes all over your Persian carpets. You clean it up in wonderment. How can such a smart dog be so fucking greedy? Well. I ask the same of you. And me. Why are we ravenous?  We’re ravenous because we believe our lives depend on it. Because we’ve been taught from a very young age to eat ALL the bird seed, reach for ALL the stars, be the BEST at EVERYTHING. We’ve been told our lives depend on it.  Well let me tell you something. I have no fucking clue what an em7 chord is. Please don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. If you ask me what chord I’m playing, I’ll look at you with an utterly blank stare. And you know what? I’m proud of that blank stare. For once in my life, I didn’t aim for perfection. I just played. It was fun, and so I kept playing. It was genuine, and so I kept playing.  It’s easy to lose perspective on that when you turn your playtime into a career. All the logistics dry you of the wetness that once drenched your spirit. I felt that. Have you felt that?  Then I remembered.  I came to my piano and I remembered. I wrote again and I PLAYED and I cried and I lost my mind. I felt free-dumb in simply being me. And songs were born. Songs I cannot wait to share with all of you who have been waiting patiently.  We all have our own paths. Perhaps some of you are musicians, painters, writers. Perhaps some of you are bankers, bus boys, strippers. Whatever you are, your purpose will never only be in “doing.” The most honest essence of you will come around when simply “being.” I relish in this lesson, because without it I’m just a headless chicken. With it, I’m the wind. 

xx,
Nostalghia

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog and want you to have it  for free. if you want to give me some help for the effort, feel free to donate below. Merci! xx

Donate