If fame is simply the fortification of one's existence through others' awareness, then I am Mic Jagger as far as this apartment is concerned. In the past five years, compulsive gypsy that I am, rarely have I given myself time to really be in a space - to infuse it with my daily routines, my nitely rituals, my hours after waking of just lying bed and my hours before retiring of dancing barefoot on hard wood floors. But I feel that I lived a noteworthy enough life recently, that the walls of this abode cannot help but give me their attention. I like to think I'm their favorite.

Yes, now that I am famous, I recognize that this space which is fortifying my existence is more alive than I had previously imagined - not only conscious of my every breath, movement and thought, but responsive to it as well. So much so, that after three weeks into the Study in Domestication and the house sitting which has made such education possible, besides being now absolutely depressed with boredom from predictability, strange things have begun happening.

Now, I dance with ghouls in full make up at the Goth club on a weekly basis. I hitchhike Hollywood for rides to the health food store. I had to say how economical "my Toyota Prius" was and then promptly make out with a complete stranger in a suit and tie for an audition last week. When I say something is strange, take me seriously.

This space, in response to my listening, has become a place that whispers - sometimes yells. I come home to find locked second story windows agape, hear my name yelled as clear as day from the empty alley, smell incense burning, or find Zeus, the ordinary house cat, unable to blink or twitch an ear away from the front door as if something imperative and really tall were on the other side. I wonder if I hear something as well.

I'm listening.

Strange things have begun happening.

And I'm pretty sure they didn't happen before I got here. I admit that I feel a little concerned that the actual renter of this apartment, being a severely receptive soul, when back from the Caribbean, will undoubtedly sense the new energies that seem to follow said house-sitter around. I hope he doesn't mind.

So this is what happens when you stay still long enough for your karma to find you...

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Salvia quietly quietly go insane.

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Like a snake is how to put a foot on the floor. I am not shrinking, but going further at astonishing rate. Accelerating like a tornado like a twister funnel cloud sucking down and not up. Spiraling down. Had you thought of that yet? Spiraling down as a soulular paradigm. Without judgment, what is down, what is dark, what is black art? Spiral down and get large on the ground. Cover ground with every inch of your hard sensual being. Like a snake is how my lips will search over yours - with the most surface area, with the entire thing in my mouth. The entire world words and verbs and verbs. When I say I live, I live.

I like it.

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You'd think people in Los Angeles never seen a hitchhiker before. They stay so safely isolated behind the tinted glass of their air conditioned SUV's that when a dread locked funkstress comes up and politely pounds on their squeaky clean window at a red light, they look at her like she is Syphilis incarnate. Nonetheless, a Jeep, a Beamer and one Porsche later, I arrived at Whole Foods tonite where I ate my first cooked meal in some time. I chose whole-wheat crackers and vegan cheese. It was delicious, I think. Notably unalive and seriously puffy. How can something taste dead and puffy? That's between you and your crackers, man.

I sometimes wonder if I spare a striking resemblance to Sista Care Free, because I am mistaken frequently on the street for whoever she is. So today I made up a little metaphor I can recite as if I knew something or other about free time, sound smart, and keep signing those forged autographs. Here goes, take it or leave it:

Wearing socks and not wearing socks are opposites. Therefore, if one wants to be barefoot, one would not put on more socks.

Of course, if I were really Sista Care Free, you would know that socks are just a metaphor for work and bare feet, free time.

The reason I am hitchhiking Hollywood is because my veggie-fueled automobile has betrayed me and has been in the shoppe for five days. Now, Los Angeles is not exactly a pedestrian friendly city, but in the face of chaos is when I do my best work. I am stellar with impossible odds. So I consciously created today, walking four and half miles before noon to a commercial audition with my costume, makeup and headshots on my back, yes, uphill both ways - the best morning ever. I smelled southern Calie's spring flowers, I listened to the new Queens of the Stone Age album on my IPod and had real life conversations with some beautiful, some insane strangers. Tonite I was the sometimes beautiful, sometimes insane stranger tapping on idling gas guzzler windows. And it was the best careless day ever. Hey, maybe me and Sista CF got more in common than I think.

You can't work harder to create more free time in your life. There's only one way to have bare feet and that's to take off the damn socks.

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