Podcasts about Abbot Kinney

This episode explores the trends, secrets, and future of luxury and high-street retail in Los Angeles and beyond with Jay Luchs, Vice Chairman of Newmark.The Crexi Podcast explores various aspects of the commercial real estate industry in conversation with top CRE professionals. In each episode, we feature different guests to tap into their wealth of CRE expertise and explore the latest trends and updates from the world of commercial real estate.  In this episode, Shanti Ryle, Director of Content Marketing at Crexi, sits down with Jay, one of Los Angeles's most prominent retail commercial real estate brokers. They discuss Jay's background, his journey from aspiring actor to leading real estate broker, and his significant transactions, including deals with top global fashion brands and high-profile real estate deals along Rodeo Drive and Melrose Avenue. Jay shares insights into the world of luxury retail, the challenges and strategies in securing prime retail locations, and the importance of genuine connections and caring about the community's landscape. They also explore the impact of social media on retail, the dynamics of leasing and buying in high-demand areas, and Jay's perspective on the future of retail in Los Angeles.Introduction and Guest WelcomeJay Luxe's Background and Career HighlightsEarly Career and Transition to Real EstateChallenges and Strategies in Real EstateSpecialization in Retail LeasingNotable Deals and Community ImpactLuxury Retail and Market InsightsUnderstanding Real Estate PricingLocation and Rent DynamicsChallenges in Leasing and Landlord-Tenant RelationshipsImportance of Taxes and Broker RepresentationRetail Landscape and Market TrendsRestaurant Real Estate DynamicsFuture of Retail and Real Estate InsightsRapid Fire Questions and Closing Thoughts About Jay Luchs:Jay Luchs is Vice Chairman at Newmark and one of Los Angeles' most recognizable commercial real estate brokers, known for his “For Lease” and “Leased” signs across the city. He specializes in retail, office, and investment sales, representing top global fashion brands, entertainment companies, and emerging retailers. Luchs has completed major transactions for clients such as LVMH, Louis Vuitton, Dior, Celine, KITH, James Perse, and Equinox, including high-profile deals along Rodeo Drive, Melrose Avenue, and Sunset Boulevard.He played a key role in LVMH's $200 million purchase of the Luxe Hotel and the $122 million sale of 457-459 N Rodeo Drive to the Rueben Brothers. He's also helped launch first stores for brands like Alo Yoga and James Perse, and secured pop-up and permanent spaces for brands like Supreme, SKIMS, and Fear of God.In addition to retail, Luchs places corporate offices for fashion and entertainment clients, including Tom Ford, H&M, STAUD, and Brunel cuccinelli and various lvmh offices. He's also active in the local art and restaurant scenes, helping galleries like Gagosian and restaurants such as Craig's, Avra, and Tao Group find key locations across LA.Luchs and his team represent over 125 landlord listings in premier areas such as Rodeo Drive, Abbot Kinney, and Malibu. A top producer at Newmark since 2014, he has closed several billion dollars in deals. Originally from Maryland, Luchs graduated from the University of Virginia and has lived in Los Angeles since 1995. He serves on MOCA's Acquisition and Collections Committee. If you enjoyed this episode, please subscribe to our newsletter and enjoy the next podcast delivered straight to your inbox. For show notes, past guests, and more CRE content, please check out Crexi's blog. Ready to find your next CRE property? Visit Crexi and immediately browse 500,000+ available commercial properties for sale and lease. Follow Crexi:https://www.crexi.com/​ https://www.crexi.com/instagram​ https://www.crexi.com/facebook​ https://www.crexi.com/twitter​ https://www.crexi.com/linkedin​ https://www.youtube.com/crexi

Enjoy this fascinating conversation with Almost Friday Media President, Andrew Kenward. Conversation starts at time stamp 3:30. Andrew landed his first job in entertainment with C3 Presents, hosting Austin City Limits. From ACL, he went on to become an Agent in Hollywood at William Morris Endeavor for 8 years before joining the rocket ship Almost Friday Media as their President. Almost Friday Media is a media conglomerate and production company of 20 brands; including notable Friday Beers and Empty Netters. They have 18 million followers across their social media platforms, put out 17,000 pieces of content last quarter, reach 200 million people weekly, and have an insane new office on Abbot Kinney in Venice, CA. This conversation provides a deep dive into Andrew's upbringing and the lessons he's learned throughout. Please enjoy and as always, hit the "follow" button so you never miss an episode AND it tremendously helps me bring you the BEST guests. -Andrew @PermissionToShine_

This podcast episode is a part of the REV x Farmer's Footprint Regenerative Podcast Series! For the seventh episode in our regenerative podcast series in collaboration with Farmer's Footprint, I got to go to LA and speak to husband and wife duo, Christy and Aras, of Christy Dawn – a regenerative fashion line that is doing more to make their brand sustainable than almost any other line I can think of in the industry. Their commitment to a better planet and human experience is palpable and I can't wait to share this conversation with you all, but first a quick thank you to our sponsors of today's episode. This Podcast episode is brought to you by our friends at EcoCart, Vivobarefoot and Milky Oat! “So to Christy and Aras and the story of Christy Dawn. I was lucky enough to get to do this podcast in person at their beautiful store on Abbot Kinney in LA. Christy and Aras started the Christy Dawn line in order to help women feel beautiful and comfortable in an array of dresses that they began making locally in LA with deadstock fabrics. As the brand evolved however, they knew they could be doing more – they wanted to heal the land more than simply do no harm. This led them to a partnership with Oshadi Collective, an incredible regenerative farm in India that is growing, processing and creating some of the most sustainable fabrics on earth. This is a story of a couple who have put their passion and ideologies into creating something bigger than themselves, and Christy Dawn has gone from regenerating 4 acres to over 80 in the course of just a couple of years with the Farm to Closet collections. My conversation with them is incredibly honest, at some points surprising, and mostly a tale of the power of one couple to make an incredible impact on the fashion industry, but also people and the planet. Which really at the end of the day is the point of this whole series with Farmer's Footprint! – Cora Hilts  Merci To Our Sponsors For This Episode!   EcoCart The average customer lacks access to information that could help them estimate the carbon footprint of the items they purchase, even though 4 out of 5 consumers say climate impact is a factor in who they decide to purchase with. Dane Baker and Peter Twomey recognized this missing information and created EcoCart as a solution. EcoCart has already empowered over 2,000 brands, including Christy Dawn, to embark on their climate-positive journey. Their innovative carbon-offsetting tool seamlessly integrates with ecommerce brand's checkout pages to calculate carbon emissions, and then enables either merchants or shoppers (or both!) to pay to offset those emissions, based on the brand's budget. Ecocart exists to lower the barrier to entry for ecommerce brands wanting to become more climate-friendly. We here at REV believe hugely in the power of reducing carbon at every step along a brand's journey and this is a tool that can help with that whilst helping educate consumers at the same time. Go to ecocart.io to book a demo and if you hop on a call with EcoCart they'll cover the cost to offset a day's worth of carbon emissions from your online store if you mention Rêve En Vert! Vivobarefoot Vivobarefoot, is a natural health lifestyle B Corp on a mission to reconnect people into the natural world and human natural potential, from the ground up, foot by foot, person by person. Created by two cousins from a long line of cobblers, Galahad and Asher Clark, Vivobarefoot draws upon simple barefoot design principles: wide, thin and flexible, for optimum foot health and natural movement. Check out the science and start your barefoot journey on VivoHealth, a growing body of courses and experiences guided by natural health experts. Get 15% off your first Vivobarefoot order with the code ‘REVENVERT15' at www.vivobarefoot.com

Welcome to the Instant Trivia podcast episode 907, where we ask the best trivia on the Internet. Round 1. Category: home sweet home 1: The house where she wrote "Silent Spring" is a National Historic Monument in Silver Spring, Maryland. Rachel Carson. 2: Spanish for "Sea to Lake" this Palm Beach estate was home to Donald Trump and earlier, Marjorie Merriweather Post. Mar-a-Lago. 3: Her Silver Spring, Maryland home where she wrote "Silent Spring", is now a national landmark. Rachel Carson. 4: Notables who have called this NYC apartment building home include Judy Garland, John Lennon and Lauren Bacall. The Dakota. 5: In 1839, this president bought Lindenwald, the estate he would retire to, in Kinderhook. Van Buren. Round 2. Category: world almanac 1868 1: The book lists 2 of these solar phenomena, including a total one. an eclipse. 2: It's the chief wool-producing state, and we're not pulling the wool over your buckeyes. Ohio. 3: On Nov. 14, 1867 there were meteor showers and this volcano near Naples erupted. Vesuvius. 4: There are about 1,250,000 free and accepted ones of these around the world, including 100,000 in Scotland. Masons. 5: This U.S. president earns a big $25,000 a year. Andrew Johnson. Round 3. Category: sculpture 1: A prehistoric sculpture of a bison licking itself was found in this country's cave of La Madeleine. France. 2: After Degas' death, many of the statues he'd modeled in clay or wax were cast in this alloy. bronze. 3: Antoine Louis Barye became expert in sculpting wild animals through regular visits to this place in Paris. the zoo. 4: The Kamakura period, 1185-1338, is considered by many to be this country's great age of sculpture. Japan. 5: His famous sculpture "The Thinker" resulted from his unfinished "The Gates of Hell" project. Auguste Rodin. Round 4. Category: day time 1: The first day of the week mentioned by name in "Robinson Crusoe" isn't Friday but this (1st day is a clue). Sunday. 2: In English, it's alphabetically the last day of the week. Wednesday. 3: J. Wellington Wimpy often said, "I will gladly pay you" this day "for a hamburger today". Tuesday. 4: Day of the week that's the English equivalent to the Latin Saturni dies. Saturday. 5: G.K. Chesterton wrote of a "Man Who Was" this day. Thursday. Round 5. Category: so. cal. 1: Specialty of Rubin's Red Hots and Tail O' The Pup. hot dogs. 2: On the Warner Bros. lot tour you can see the water tower that this cartoon trio calls home. the Animaniacs. 3: In 1929 most of the canals Abbot Kinney added to this community were filled in. Venice. 4: The original and current homes of the Oscar ceremony are on opposite sides of this street. Hollywood Blvd.. 5: Every spring the Toyota Grand Prix races through the downtown streets of this city. Long Beach. Thanks for listening! Come back tomorrow for more exciting trivia! Special thanks to https://blog.feedspot.com/trivia_podcasts/

On this week's episode of THE FULLEST Podcast, we sit down with Licensed Acupuncturist, Board Certified Herbalist, Lead Health Practitioner, and Co-Owner of Den Mother, Elisa Angelone. Den Mother is a healing house and social space offering myriad services designed to help down-regulate the nervous system to help up-regulate health and healing. They focus on creating a welcoming wellness space that counterbalances the stress of modern-day lives — tucked away on Abbot Kinney in Venice Beach, this sanctuary is the ideal place to unwind from the city chaos. Elisa is an East Asian Medicine Practitioner specializing in Japanese acupuncture and neuromuscular testing. Understanding the connection between the natural world, our physicality, and our inner world is a huge part of Elisa's professional vocation — and as we learn in this episode, this has also played a significant role in the design and creation of Den Mother's wellness space.

Dan busts out some of the coolest pieces he's ever written about alcohol and nightlife, including an excoriation of a long-since-gone whiskey brand that was apparently created to appeal to horrible people and horrible people only. Also, he rants about gentrification and the demise of the once-great Venice Beach thoroughfare, Abbot Kinney. And finally, he offers up a list of the worst booze-brand names of all time — Popsy Sperm Shaped Vanilla Cream Liqueur or Fliquor Bean Coffee Infused Whiskey anyone? Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

On this episode of the California Now Podcast, host Soterios Johnson discusses why the Golden State is the perfect place for aspiring creatives with four notable Canadian expats.  First, Johnson talks with Janet Zuccarini, owner of the acclaimed restaurant Felix in Venice Beach. The Toronto-born restaurateur breaks down the dishes she loves and names some of the many A-list diners who frequent her Abbot Kinney eatery. Zuccarini also discusses where she likes to dine in Los Angeles, as well as a handful of her favorite California road-trip stops up the coast.  Next, Johnson chats with Eric Bauza, Emmy-winning voice actor who specializes in characters like Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and Tweety. Bauza gives Johnson a live sampling of some of the iconic voices he can produce and recounts behind-the-scenes stories featuring the likes of LeBron James and Mark Hamill. Finally, Johnson speaks with Jason Couse and Wes Marskell of the alt-pop band The Darcys. Couse and Marskell give a live performance of two songs, “Trouble Found Me” and “Washed Away.” The pair talk music, list some of their favorite spots in L.A.'s vast food scene, and share what prompted them to relocate to the Golden State. 

Ray Calabro's work emphasizes the relationship of a building to its surrounding landscape; he believes that architecture is a thoughtful response to the culture and spirit of each place. His buildings embody the common principles of site-responsive architecture, robust forms and innovative use of material. Yet each responds differently to the special nature of client, program and place, qualities that elevate buildings to the realm of sensitive and lastingarchitecture.Educated at Virginia Tech (B. Arch 1994), Ray began his career there as a Lecturer in the College of Architecture and Urban Studies. Since joining Bohlin Cywinski Jackson in 1995, Ray's project experience spans academic, cultural commercial and residential projects in the continental US and Canada. In 2009, he was named a Principal/Owner in the firm.As Principal of Bohlin Cywinski Jackson's Seattle studio, Ray leads a collaborative design process on a diverse range of projects. Some of the projects discussed in this podcast include the award-winning Grand Teton Discovery and Visitor Center in Jackson, Wyoming, the Nu Skin Innovation Center and corporate headquarters in Provo, Utah, Everlane's Abbot Kinney retail store in Venice, California and extraordinary private residences in Jackson, Wyoming; Canmore, Alberta; West Kootenay, British Columbia, and the San Juan Islands in Washington state. His work has been recognized with numerous national and international awards for design, and has been published in Dwell, Architectural Record, ArchDaily, The PLAN and Architectural Digest. He is a curatorial leader within BCJ and has been instrumental in the creation of its celebrated monographs, including its most recent publication Gathering.In 2014, he was elevated to the American Institute of Architects College of Fellows. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Festival Project A Saga S Ū P A © R E E ™ One World. | PEACE. LOVE. UNITY. RESPECT. | Lifelong friends navigate the infinitely incredible world of rave culture, journeying together (and sometimes, apart) into the PLUniveRse© in fantastical, philosophical, and third-eye-opening adventures--the likes of which have never been seen (or foretold.) Festival Project™ is a multi-genre, mystifying and magical cross-genre series, set against the backdrop of modern rave culture-- combined with historical and futuristic elements-- across expansions of space-and-time, unifying with The Universal Consciousness in a multidimensional and explorative ensemble of Films, Episodic Series, Music Videos, Extended Playlists, and Concept Albums. A perpetual symphony of artistic storytelling though a cavalcade of wonderful and whimsical characters along high-intensity, off-the-map adventures--showcased through Music, Film & Interactive Art Explorations--set upon the dreamlike actual reality of an unravelling fabric of time-and-space. Enter The Multiverse: Anything Is Possible. This explosive and expansive wave of enigmatic, chaos-colliding, charismatic [ and often comedic] kinetic energy, reflects a shared experience throughout all time in human connection; Journey beyond the unknown, to Worlds Within--and Without. Everything is Everything. The Festival Project Saga is a multi-media Music, Film and Television saga that offers a new perspective on the ever-changing and recently popularized culture of dance music; it touches on the history of the culture as a whole, as well as a variety of other societal issues this generation faces—friendship, connectivity, communication—the dawn of social media, America's education system and justice system, immigration, and emerging mental health and drug crisis—while also taking a look at a history of counter culture as a derivative of the rapidly evolving technology of today's society. Through its characters and storylines, we dive deeply into a conglomerate of generational growth and exponentially educational topics, lightheartedly touching tales of friendship, family through blood and through bond, and exploring fields, of Astrology, Philosophy. Festival Trip- Two lifelong friends take a two-week-long trip across the country, to attend two major music festivals—one on the west coast (Among Aliens, in California), and one on the east (Ultimate Music Festival) Chava Hoffs Sala Emillio Gunther Ross- The more than interesting circus-act of a plug/one of Sala's romantic interests, who just happens to be in the same place at the same time, once Sala and Chava arrive in California. Solomon Dominguez- Chava's “homie-lover-friend”, a DC native transplanted to LA who hustles and bustles the 3-job life to live the California dream—a surprisingly dedicated and loyal friend to Chava, who considers him the “king of fuckboys”—which, is not entirely untrue. Johnny McEntire- An eclectic and friendly photographer who stumbles upon Sala during a vulnerable moment—a sweet, humble, and vibrant personality, Chava mostly dismisses him as just another victim of Sala's constantly-inconstant romantic gestures and affiliations. Grace Williams (Chava's Super-Christian (but very sweet) Aunt) Billy Williams- Chava's very dorky, southern Baptist uncle who can't help but throw in a (praise-jesus) Krista DeVaunte- Bride-To-Be—Noah's Fiance Noah Williams- Chava's Cousin, the groom to be Naomi Williams- Chava's salty Cousin, and freinemy since birth—Noah's younger sister Sonny Johnson— Chava's ex-fiance Dustin Roberts—Sala's ex-boyfriend Juan Manuel Jose Melendez Gutierrez-Rodriguez—Sala's current boyfriend, with whom she lives & works with. Running Jokes: -Ridiculous DJ names and Absurd Fictional Festivals -Speaking Spanish with a Mandarin-inflenced dialect—speaking/yelling in awful Spanish-sounding-Mandarin—speaking “Mandarish” or “Spandarin” -Every time Chava mentions Sonny (her ex), Sala interjects with “Fuck Sonny!” -Cop Jokes (due to Chava's occupation) “Go climb broke-bitch mountain!” ACT I- The Wedding Bashers/It's Festival Season “Save-The-Date” Inciting Incident—Plans to attend a destination wedding that Chava and her lifelong. long- distance best friend Sala, have been planning for almost a year are abruptly halted when Chava learns via a very eventful FaceTime call (‘Meet The Williams') that her +1 invitation had apparently only applied to her now-ex-fiance [whom her stuck-up family adored because of his abhorrent Christianity], and that the bride-to-be would not allow Sala to take his place on the guest list—as her vivid memories of Sala from Chava's engagement party are severely grotesque. Flashback: Chava + Sonny's engagement party. Chava: Yeah dude, they got all, mad-butthurt that I was bringing you instead of Sonny. Sala: Fuck Sonny! [The Break-Up] Sala: FUCK YOUR BIRTHDAY! CHAVA: I'M SURE YOU WOULD IF YOU COULD, IF MY BIRTHDAY HAD A PENIS. Sala: YOUR BIRTHDAY DOES HAVE A PENIS—IT'S YOU, DICK. CHAVA: THEN SUCK ME, SALLY MAE. SALA: YOU WISH, WANDA. CHAVA: Can't make a wish with no fucking candles, Kandace. SALA: Huh. I would have thought there were candles just judging by hard you fucking BLOW, Bonnie! CHAVA: Then drive off cliff, Clyde. A remote, unnamed city near the North Pole, in the Alaskan Arctic Circle. It is severely cold, even visually so. ACT II- Sunny California ACT III- Sunny Florida In the scene where random ravers find Sala's backpack in the parking lot, debut Rave Dora [Backpack SupaCreeMixx] “I'm a backpack loaded up with things and Knick-knacks too—anything that you might need, I got inside for you...” Festival Trip One-Liners/ Slang/ Phrases Keep up, Kassandra Hold Up, Heather Be back, Becky Back up, Barbra Shut up, Susan/ Shut Up Sandra/ Shut Up Sharon/ Sit Down, Sally Shove It, Shelly Stop It, Stella Chill, Chelsea Cheer Up, Charlie (a reference to Willy Wonka) Get out my biz, Liz Really Billy? Excerpt, Act III Chava: Dude, your energy is killing me. Sala: So. Chava: Soo, fix it. Sala: What do I look like—Bob the Builder? Chava: More like Wreck-It-Ralphed-All-Over-Yourself Sala: Fuck you. Chava: Off limits. I'm the last person on earth you haven't fucked. Sala: Jealous? Chava: Of the super-massive black-hole that is your vagina? No. I just wish my camera had a better low-light filter so I had actual photographic proof of an 8th world wonder. Sala: …fuck you. Chava: ‘No' Means ‘No'. [blows whistle] Get up. Sala: Ahhhhh—Get fucked! Chava: I was—and you ruined it being a hoe—but I'm willing to look past that, because its a beautiful fucking day in Miami and we're about to get lit. C'mon. S'day one. Sala: Day 1 of rave 2, I'm over it. Chava: Hoe, I'm over you. Sala: Get over me, then, bitch— Chava: I already said I am. Get with it. Sala: Get with this dick. Chava: What's a dick without some balls, bro? Pussy. Sala: … Chava: You mad? Sala: I been mad. Chava: Stay mad, then. Sala: How about I just stay here. Chava: Pay here, stay here, bitch—this trip ain't free. Sala: This trip ain't me. Raves are your thing. I'm not a “festival chick.” Chava: You are for the next three days. Sala: …Three…?! Chava: And counting. Get. Some. Motherfuckin' balls. Here, have some Jesus Juice. [She extends her arm, holding the bottle in front of Sala] Sala: Ughhh. Chava: Come on, man. I'm tryna see Cow Turds. Sala: You're engaged to one. Chava: Shut the fuck up and drink. Here, I'll have one with you. The Epic Trip – ‘Girl—Meet World'. After breaking up with both her ex-fiance and her best friend, a depressed and anxious Chava decides to take a last-minute trip to another one of her bucket list destinations: The Epic Music Festival in Las Vegas, Nevada. F*ckFest: The Origins (Prequel) 21-year-old Chava Hoffs, a longtime raver and lover of all things dance culture, finally convinces her bar-scene best friend to accompany her to a regional event in her area, ‘F*ckfest', Sala's first ever festival/rave where—to both her and Chava's surprise, she connects with other longtime friends she had no idea were immersed into the culture. Sala, having been “rave-retired” since entering her first serious relationship, becomes overly-excited and branches off on her own, reconnecting with her true self after spending too long in her own shell—she discovers her love for an up-and-coming new artist (‘Shluggy') who magnetizes her with a newly-created sound (‘PukeRock'—a play on “VomitStep”) Vibes [Mini Series, Prequel]- A sequel-in-installments to the shenanigans following F*ckfest, where Chava returns to visit Sala and return to ‘one of her favorite venues', which now hosts GoF*ckYourself (GFY), the biggest summertime festival in the region. Festival Trip II [First Sequel ]- It's been a magical year and the breakup is over; A 20-something's imaginary friend returns, a decade after disappearing, just as she finds herself on the brink of ‘real adulthood', and has settled into the mundane and mediocre—as he leads her on a journey of self-discovery, she internally struggles with whether to tell her therapist—after deciding (or rather, being convinced) she shouldn't, she begins a desperate search for answers in what seems like a downward spiral into (Use- I'm on my way to heaven, for trailer.) A group of friends decide to form their own society after discovering an “uncharted” island—what they don't know [understand] is that the world government is observing at every angle—and as their population increases, they struggle as the popularity of their culture and lifestyle explode— Craig's world- an ensemble about the good old days of craigslist Ū [Amnesia/Working Title] Miami (Ami) A fashion designer and music enthusiast who attends festivals in her spare time, seeking inspiration for her fashion and design blog; she shares an apartment with her lesbian best friend from college, who works as a freelance writer and photographer. Crystal (Chrys) A short-haired-yet-feminine gender-non-conforming lovable with a dry sense of humor and an eye for art; Music lover and fan of festivals, Miami's “convert” into the rave world. Serra- A high-matinence instagram model who supports herself through social media promotion and influencing, modeling Miami's fashion line and sugar-babying/arm-candying to make her way through life, usually attending festivals as someone's date or just to take pictures/show face. Samuel/Donnie- Sensei Samurai: An award-winning world-renowned music artist and specialty DJ, the soul-headliner of ‘Magic's Mountain art and Music Festival' Daz- Sam/Donnie's Manager- (Antagonist) Lazers, pyrotechnics, strobes, and confetti light the night sky as Sensei Samurai, a medium-build white guy sporting two long braids and a samurai cut (his signature style), dances atop the table which supports a state-of-the-art DJ set-up; The stage is massive, the crowd is wild--but he is at home--or rather, at work, and at the top of his game. He jumps down from the table, drinking from a red solo cup, before he picks up the microphone to speak to his audience: Samuel: LET ME SEE YOU FUCKING JUMP. He dances around, flailing his arms to gesture to the crowd, drinking again from his red solo cup . He moves to the beat of the music as he focuses to adjust the mixer, structuring a build-up. His manager watches from backstage, carefully eying his every move. Samuel: --ARE YOU GUYS READY? [He lights a ciggarette, sips from his cup again as he continues to mix. He nods along to the beat, grooving as he plots his next move, looking into the crowd with hunger in his eye.] Dez: (speaking into a earpiece) Sammy, take it easy... [He glances stage left, to where Dez is situated and watching him like a hawk; He nonchalantly shrugs, blowing out a plume of smoke into the air, decisively irritated with the instruction.] Dez: (Cont'd): I mean it, chill. [Samuel sticks his finger into his ear, wiggling it profusely--and dislodges the hidden inner-earpiece, eyeing Dez as he pulls up his headphones, deep in the mix; He takes a long drag from his ciggarette, master-minding as he feverously twists the knobs and dials of the mixer.] Samuel (over the mic) NO CHILL MOTHERFUCKERS. [The music speeds as he prepares for the drop.] Dez: (forgetting momentarily that he will not be heard) Sam, don't--! [Too late. Samuel Drops the bass so hard, it hurts, ripping off his headphones and running straight into the crowd, head first to crowd surf. The crowd goes massively, insanely wild.] Through the lens of Crystal's camera, we see a series of still photos, capturing Sam's wild plunge into the crowd, just off-center in the front row. Miami looks to her right, giving her a nod of approval; Crystal shoots her a hand signal for “ok”. Miami looks to her left, lifting an eyebrow and smirking at Serra, who bounces off-beat against a tall wooky gentleman who has his arms around her through the sleeves of a spirit hood, tilting her head from side to side as she poses for selfies. Miami happily sways to the motion of the music, putting one hand over the rail and pulling up her mask with the other, as she watches Samuel be lifted back onto the stage and take his place behind the decks. The set continues, the crowd, the lazers, and the effects go wild: The backdrop reads ‘SENSEI SAMURAI' His backup dancers are acrobatic ninjas. Samuel: Thank you Magical Mountain, I Love You Guys!! The crowd goes wild as Samuel exits the stage, ignoring Dez as he breezes past him. Dez: (following after him) I thought I said, “No more crowd surfing, no more stage diving.” Samuel: I thought you said that, too. Dez: Do you recall “OhMyLanta?” Samuel: (sarcastically) Oh, you mean that festival in Atlanta? Dez: Yes. Samuel: How creative. Dez: ‘Creative' would describe the legal team's very expensive, very strenuous tactical strategy which weaseled you out of a very serious lawsuit. Samuel: What? When was this? Dez: This was when you decided to stage dive wearing goth-pants and your chains got stuck in that kid's earholes Samuel: They're called Tripp pants. Dez: Oh yeah...what do you call them after mutilating a teenager with them? Samuel: Tripp pants I can sell on eBay. I made that kid a star. Dez: You made him a cripple. Samuel: --we still talk. [EXT. A FARAWAY FOREST] Bass blasts through the christmas-lit forest, a festival set in the meadow against the lush and natural forest scenery; Attendees come-and-go to-and-from the lines of tents and out into the festival grounds, where DJs headline stages, dancers and performers interact with spectators, vendors practice their unique salesmanship, and the wild and true nature of ravers is unleashed. Frozen breath leaks from the laughing mouths of three young individuals, running through the forest; Twigs crush and leaves crackle underfoot of their prancing and galloping feet, clad in combat boots, tennis shoes, and platforms, respectively. Ripped fishnets hug the thighs that sweep together rapidly, swooshing as the legs that bare them race forward; a pashmina trails behind one's back, acting as a cape of sorts. A thud, in the darkness of the forest. Crystal and Serra continue forward, unaware their friend has fallen for a few short moments, leaving Miami behind. Miami confusedly looks for the obstruction which caused her to trip, discovering under a pile of brush and leaves, a man (Samuel) lying face down on the ground; her eyes widen and she draws slightly back, frightened, before squinting and leaning in to get a closer look; She turns on a glow toy for added light, she pants heavily under her breath, shaking slightly as she brushes away debris and leaves, uncovering his head and shoulders, revealing he is wearing a mask. She examines him. His glasses are broken, lying on the ground under his face--His hair is wet; he appears dead. Crystal: ...I told you not to wear those. Miami: Yo… Crystal: Yo--*gasps* (she grabs Serra by the shoulder, holding her back.) Serra: (She notices the body, under her pashmina, spirit hood, and glasses) Ohwhatthefuck. (she takes a few steps back) Crystal: Don't move. Serra: Yeah, fuck that. Fuck this. (she wraps the pashmina tightly around her face) [muffled] Fuck this. Crystal: ...Ami, we should get out of here. Miami: We should help him. Crystal: He may be beyond help, honey. Serra: He's fucking dead. Whatthefuck. Fuck this! Crystal: ...Is he dead? Miami: (she looks at him closely, there are no signs of life. she checks for breathing with her hand.) ...I don't know. (she checks again, leaning in closer. she grabs his wrist to check a pulse) Serra: Don't touch it! Miami: Shut up, I'm trying to get a pulse (beat) ...he's super cold. Serra: He's super dead! Miam: No, no...I don't think so. Crystal, come here--help me turn him over. Crystal: Are you sure? What if he--wakes up and tries to--?? Miami: (urgently) What if it was you? Crystal fishes for a flashlight and switchblade in her fanny pack, places the flashlight in her mouth and positioning the knife under her kandi cuffs. She cautiously inches forward. Crystal: Serra, try to get some cell service so we can call for help. The girls carefully turn him onto his back, wide eyed and bewildered. He is completely lifeless, clamy and pale--covered with dirt, and forestry. Miami continues to check for a pulse, shaking her head as he continues to appear dead. Crystal: Do you feel anything? Miami: …(shaking her head) I can't...he's like…(as she pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie and notices a familiar tattoo. she pauses for a moment, thinks, and then looks towards his head) Do you still have my mirror in your fanny pack?) Crystal returns to her fanny pack, digging for the mirror. Miami carefuly leans in towards the man, examining him once more; she notices a necklace, also familiar--she thinks, as she moves to remove first the excess hair, and then the mask from his face, very carefully. She peels off his mask, immidiately shocked as she reckognizes his face--It is Samuel, who she knows as Sensai Samurai. She yeeps (imploded gasp, making Crystal look up; she, too recognizes him; she gasps. They look at eachother, then at him--then back to eachother.) Miami: ...Give me your mirror. Crystal: Dude, is this…? Miami: Your mirror. (she holds the mirror under his nose--a subtle cloud of fog appears; he is, in fact, alive.) Crystal: Oh, my God. Miami: He's breathing. Serra! Crystal: ...This is Sensai Samurai. Miami: (trying to convince herself) It probably just looks like him…. Crystal: I just took one-hundred close-up photos, dude--like, less than an hour ago-- Miami: Shhhhh! (she frantically begins to check his pockets) He's gotta have a wallet. Crystal: What, you were going to save him--now you wanna roll him? Miami: An ID. He's got to have an ID. (she frantically searches him) Hey Serra! (Crystal lifts the other sleeve of his sweater, revealing a brightly colored wristband, and one singular kandi bracelet, which reads “Sensai” Simoltaneously, Miami has found something in one of the pockets--she produces a small box from one of the pockets of his cargo pants) Crystal: Holy fuck. Look. (she gestures the wrist band and bracelet.) Miami: ...Artist's wristband. Fuck. It is him. Crystal: [Samuel is slumped lifelessly over both Crystal and Miami's shoulders, head hanging downward and hair flailing and dangling in his face as the girls struggle to support him. His oversized light-up sunglasses begin slipping, almost revealing his eyes.] Girl:(looking over, concerned) ...Is your friend okay? [He is clearly not. Serra slides her finger up his nose to adjust his glasses, eyeing the girl suspiciously.] Crystal: [flatly] Yes. [Samuel's dead-weight pulls him towards the ground, as he slips; the girls struggle to readjust; he seems heavier by the minute. They all three stare back at the girl, awkwardly; Miami fakes an ‘everything's fine' smile, while Crystal stares blankly through her sunglasses and Serra shoots a look of dissatisfaction. [INT. KITCHEN. DAY.] The three girls gaze in awe of Donnie, multitasking busily in the kitchen, hair pinned neatly atop his head with chopsticks, wearing a neatly-pressed (as in, freshly ironed) apron, as he removes one baking mit with his mouth and works about, happily consumed and bouncily, humming. -...He's so...domestic. Crystal -You'd think he'd carry a better tune. Miami- Cause you'd be belting melodies after waking up out of a drug-induced coma? Crystal- No--I guess I'd open a bake shop in some random girls' kitchen. Miami: Donnie? Donnie: Hmm, yes? Miami: We...we have some news for you. Donnie: Oooh! Is it celebrity news? Miami:...sort of. Donnie: I hope it's juicy gossip. Crystal: Believe me--it'll be the talk of the town. Donnie: This town? Crystal: Any town. [ She refills her wine glass first, then prepares two more, never breaking eye contact with donnie; His lighthearted excitement turns to slight confusion, as he furrows his brows,] Miami: (sighs, taking his hand) Here, lets sit down. Donnie: But, the macaroons-- Serra-What? That's what you're making? [Donnie nods.] Serra-...(to the side) maybe we should let him finish the macaroons, first...what if this like, fucks him all up. Miami: No, it's time. I feel like we've already waited too long. Serra-...I feel like he makes really good macaroons. Miami: Yeah? Like grammy-award-winning macaroons? -If by ‘Grammy', you mean my Grandmother would approve… Miami: Your grandmother died of complications from diabetes. Serra-...and you think macaroons had absolutely nothing to do with that? [Crystal has already finished her first glass of wine, and begins to reach for the second glass, when Miami, out of the corner of her eye, catches her, snatching the glass from her gracefully, as she floats it to Donnie, sitting beside him, crossing her legs.] Donnie: Before noon? Crystal- Oh, so you know that rule? Donnie: I know some things. A 20-something's imaginary friend returns, a decade after disappearing, just as she finds herself on the brink of ‘real adulthood', and has settled into the mundane and mediocre—as he leads her on a journey of self-discovery, she internally struggles with whether to tell her therapist—after deciding (or rather, being convinced) she shouldn't, she begins a desperate search for answers in what seems like a downward spiral into A group of friends decide to form their own society after discovering an “uncharted” island—what they don't know [understand] is that the world government is observing at every angle—and as their population increases, they struggle as the popularity of their culture and lifestyle explode— Craig's world- an ensemble about the good old days of craigslist Blue Story A wayward security officer drunkenly fills out an application to join the police academy, and is accepted—both to his surprise, and dismay. #SQUAD OUT!- A Mockumentary-Style Comedy following several “tribes”, “squads”, “rave families”, and even solo-ravers surrounding a large group of ravers and friends. Ū [Amnesia/Working Title] Amnesia [Working Title] Three girls at a camping festival find an incapacitated man in the woods and take him back to their campsite for safety—when one of the girls discovers that she recognizes the mysterious man, actually a headliner at the festival they're attending—two of the girls keep it a secret from their friend who would certainly take advantage of the situation. After discovering a “butt-load” of mind-altering substances on his person, Miami, the ring leader, makes a ‘judgement call' not to call the authorities, deciding instead to attempt to take him back to his trailer—however—when the girls haul him back to his campsite, they discover his manager, Dez, rifling through his belongings. When Samuel awakens, he has no memory of himself—and so a journey begins: a test of friendship, and a race against the clock. Miami (Ami) A fashion designer and music enthusiast who attends festivals in her spare time, seeking inspiration for her fashion and design blog; she shares an apartment with her lesbian best friend from college, who works as a freelance writer and photographer. Crystal (Chrys) A short-haired-yet-feminine gender-non-conforming lovable with a dry sense of humor and an eye for art; Music lover and fan of festivals, Miami's “convert” into the rave world. Shane- A high-matinence instagram model who supports herself through social media promotion and influencing, modeling Miami's fashion line and sugar-babying/arm-candying to make her way through life, usually attending festivals as someone's date or just to take pictures/show face. DONNIE “*giggles* what's a rave?” Miami (takes a deep breath) Crystal (facepalm) Shane (purses her lips) C-Is Giving drugs to somebody with amnesia bad? M-I don't know what's bad for amnesia S-Well maybe, it's not giving it to him that would be bad—like, they were already in his system, probably wouldn't he go like, into withdraw or something. You're probably right S-(I'm probably not) Samuel/Donnie- Sensei Samurai: An award-winning world-renowned music artist and specialty DJ, the soul-headliner of ‘Magic's Mountain art and Music Festival' Daz- Sam/Donnie's Manager- (Antagonist-) Lazers, pyrotechnics, strobes, and confetti light the night sky as Sensei Samurai, a medium-build white guy sporting two long braids and a samurai cut (his signature style), dances atop the table which supports a state-of-the-art DJ set-up; The stage is massive, the crowd is wild--but he is at home--or rather, at work, and at the top of his game. He jumps down from the table, drinking from a red solo cup, before he picks up the microphone to speak to his audience: Samuel: LET ME SEE YOU FUCKING JUMP. He dances around, flailing his arms to gesture to the crowd, drinking again from his red solo cup . He moves to the beat of the music as he focuses to adjust the mixer, structuring a build-up. His manager watches from backstage, carefully eying his every move. Samuel: --ARE YOU GUYS READY? [He lights a ciggarette, sips from his cup again as he continues to mix. He nods along to the beat, grooving as he plots his next move, looking into the crowd with hunger in his eye.] Dez: (speaking into a earpiece) Sammy, take it easy... [He glances stage left, to where Dez is situated and watching him like a hawk; He nonchalantly shrugs, blowing out a plume of smoke into the air, decisively irritated with the instruction.] Dez: (Cont'd): I mean it, chill. [Samuel sticks his finger into his ear, wiggling it profusely--and dislodges the hidden inner-earpiece, eyeing Dez as he pulls up his headphones, deep in the mix; He takes a long drag from his ciggarette, master-minding as he feverously twists the knobs and dials of the mixer.] Samuel (over the mic) NO CHILL MOTHERFUCKERS. [The music speeds as he prepares for the drop.] Dez: (forgetting momentarily that he will not be heard) Sam, don't--! [Too late. Samuel Drops the bass so hard, it hurts, ripping off his headphones and running straight into the crowd, head first to crowd surf. The crowd goes massively, insanely wild.] Through the lens of Crystal's camera, we see a series of still photos, capturing Sam's wild plunge into the crowd, just off-center in the front row. Miami looks to her right, giving her a nod of approval; Crystal shoots her a hand signal for “ok”. Miami looks to her left, lifting an eyebrow and smirking at Serra, who bounces off-beat against a tall wooky gentleman who has his arms around her through the sleeves of a spirit hood, tilting her head from side to side as she poses for selfies. Miami happily sways to the motion of the music, putting one hand over the rail and pulling up her mask with the other, as she watches Samuel be lifted back onto the stage and take his place behind the decks. The set continues, the crowd, the lazers, and the effects go wild: The backdrop reads ‘SENSEI SAMURAI' His backup dancers are acrobatic ninjas. Samuel: Thank you Magical Mountain, I Love You Guys!! The crowd goes wild as Samuel exits the stage, ignoring Dez as he breezes past him. Dez: (following after him) I thought I said, “No more crowd surfing, no more stage diving.” Samuel: I thought you said that, too. Dez: Do you recall “OhMyLanta?” Samuel: (sarcastically) Oh, you mean that festival in Atlanta? Dez: Yes. Samuel: How creative. Dez: ‘Creative' would describe the legal team's very expensive, very strenuous tactical strategy which weaseled you out of a very serious lawsuit. Samuel: Law-Suit? I've never worn one of those. Black-Label? Dez: More like ‘black-book' with your name written on and in it. It took me weeks clean up. Samuel: When was this? Dez: When you decided to stage dive wearing goth-pants and one of your chains got stuck in that kid's earhole. Samuel: They're called ‘Tripp' pants. Dez: Oh yeah...what do you call them after mutilating a teenager with them? Samuel: Tripp pants I can sell on eBay. Dez: You made him a cripple. Samuel: --we still talk. Bass blasts through the christmas-lit forest, a festival set in the meadow against the lush and natural forest scenery; Attendees come-and-go to-and-from the lines of tents and out into the festival grounds, where DJs headline stages, dancers and performers interact with spectators, vendors practice their unique salesmanship, and the wild and true nature of ravers is unleashed. Frozen breath leaks from the laughing mouths of three young individuals, running through the forest; Twigs crush and leaves crackle underfoot of their prancing and galloping feet, clad in combat boots, tennis shoes, and platforms, respectively. Ripped fishnets hug the thighs that sweep together rapidly, swooshing as the legs that bare them race forward; a pashmina trails behind one's back, acting as a cape of sorts. A thud, in the darkness of the forest. Crystal and Shane continue forward, unaware their friend has fallen for a few short moments, leaving Miami behind. Miami confusedly looks for the obstruction which caused her to trip, discovering under a pile of brush and leaves, a man (Samuel) lying face down on the ground; her eyes widen and she draws slightly back, frightened, before squinting and leaning in to get a closer look; She turns on a glow toy for added light, she pants heavily under her breath, shaking slightly as she brushes away debris and leaves, uncovering his head and shoulders, revealing he is wearing a mask. She examines him. His glasses are broken, lying on the ground under his face--His hair is wet; he appears dead. Miami is horrified, speechless, breathless. Crystal: ...I told you not to wear those. Miami: Yo… Crystal: Yo--*gasps* (she grabs Shane by the shoulder, holding her back.) Shane: (She notices the body, under her pashmina, spirit hood, and glasses) Ohwhatthefuck. (she takes a few steps back) Crystal: Don't move. Serra: Yeah, fuck that. Fuck this. (she wraps the pashmina tightly around her face) [muffled] Fuck this. Crystal: ...Ami, we should get out of here. Miami: We should help him. Crystal: He may be beyond help, honey. Shane: He's fucking dead. Whatthefuck. Cystal: ...Is he dead? Miami: (she looks at him closely, there are no signs of life. she checks for breathing with her hand.) ...I don't know. (she checks again, leaning in closer. she grabs his wrist to check a pulse) Shane: Don't touch it! Miami: Shut up, I'm trying to get a pulse (beat) ...he's super cold. Shane: He's super dead! Miam: No, no...I don't think so. Crystal, come here--help me turn him over. Crystal: Are you sure? What if he--wakes up and tries to--?? Miami: (urgently) What if it was you? Crystal fishes for a flashlight and switchblade in her fanny pack, places the flashlight in her mouth and positioning the knife under her kandi cuffs. She cautiously inches forward. Crystal: Shane, try to get some cell service so we can call for help. The girls carefully turn him onto his back, wide eyed and bewildered. He is completely lifeless, clamy and pale--covered with dirt, and forestry. Miami continues to check for a pulse, shaking her head as he continues to appear dead. Crystal: Do you feel anything? Miami: …(shaking her head) I can't...he's like…(as she pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie and notices a familiar tattoo. she pauses for a moment, thinks, and then looks towards his head) Do you still have my mirror in your fanny pack?) Crystal returns to her fanny pack, digging for the mirror. Miami carefuly leans in towards the man, examining him once more; she notices a necklace, also familiar--she thinks, as she moves to remove first the excess hair, and then the mask from his face, very carefully. She peels off his mask, immidiately shocked as she reckognizes his face--It is Samuel, who she knows as Sensai Samurai. She yeeps (imploded gasp, making Crystal look up; she, too recognizes him; she gasps. They look at eachother, then at him--then back to eachother.) Miami: ...Give me your mirror. Crystal: Dude, is this…? Miami: Your mirror. (she holds the mirror under his nose--a subtle cloud of fog appears; he is, in fact, alive.) Crystal: Oh, my God. Miami: He's breathing. Shane! Crystal: ...This is Sensai Samurai. Miami: (trying to convince herself) It probably just looks like him…. Crystal: I just took one-hundred close-up photos, dude--like, less than an hour ago-- Miami: Shhhhh! (she frantically begins to check his pockets) He's gotta have a wallet. Crystal: What, you were going to save him--now you wanna roll him? Miami: An ID. He's got to have an ID. (she frantically searches him) Hey Shane! (Crystal lifts the other sleeve of his sweater, revealing a brightly colored wristband, and one singular kandi bracelet, which reads “Sensai” Simultaneously, Miami has found something in one of the pockets--she produces a small box from one of the pockets of his cargo pants) Crystal: Holy fuck. Look. (she gestures the wrist band and bracelet.) Miami: ...Artist's wristband. Fuck. It is him. Crystal: [Samuel is slumped lifelessly over both Crystal and Miami's shoulders, head hanging downward and hair flailing and dangling in his face as the girls struggle to support him. His oversized light-up sunglasses begin slipping, almost revealing his eyes.] Girl:(looking over, concerned) ...Is your friend okay? [He is clearly not. Serra slides her finger up his nose to adjust his glasses, eyeing the girl suspiciously.] Crystal: [flatly] Yes. [Samuel's dead-weight pulls him towards the ground, as he slips; the girls struggle to readjust; he seems heavier by the minute. They all three stare back at the girl, awkwardly; Miami fakes an ‘everything's fine' smile, while Crystal stares blankly through her sunglasses and Serra shoots a look of dissatisfaction. [INT. KITCHEN. DAY.] The three girls gaze in awe of Donnie, multitasking busily in the kitchen, hair pinned neatly atop his head with chopsticks, wearing a neatly-pressed (as in, freshly ironed) apron, as he removes one baking mit with his mouth and works about, happily consumed and bouncily, humming. -...He's so...domestic. Crystal -You'd think he'd carry a better tune. Miami- Cause you'd be belting melodies after waking up out of a drug-induced coma? Crystal- No--I guess I'd open a bake shop in some random girls' kitchen. Miami: Donnie? Donnie: Hmm, yes? Miami: We...we have some news for you. Donnie: Oooh! Is it celebrity news? Miami:...sort of. Donnie: I hope it's juicy gossip. Crystal: Believe me--it'll be the talk of the town. Donnie: This town? Crystal: Any town. [ She refills her wine glass first, then prepares two more, never breaking eye contact with donnie; His lighthearted excitement turns to slight confusion, as he furrows his brows,] Miami: (sighs, taking his hand) Here, lets sit down. Donnie: But, the macaroons-- Serra-What? That's what you're making? [Donnie nods.] Serra-...(to the side) maybe we should let him finish the macaroons, first...what if this like, fucks him all up. Miami: No, it's time. I feel like we've already waited too long. Serra-...I feel like he makes really good macaroons. Miami: Yeah? Like grammy-award-winning macaroons? -If by ‘Grammy', you mean my Grandmother would approve… Miami: Your grandmother died of complications from diabetes. Serra-...and you think macaroons had absolutely nothing to do with that? [Crystal has already finished her first glass of wine, and begins to reach for the second glass, when Miami, out of the corner of her eye, catches her, snatching the glass from her gracefully, as she floats it to Donnie, sitting beside him, crossing her legs.] Donnie: Before noon? Crystal- Oh, so you know that rule? Donnie: I know some things. Under The Mask —A superstar DJ and his best friend embark on a series of festivals under cover as non-celebrity citizens to first-handedly experience the other side of his world. Grandma's Girl- A funeral turns into an accidentally epic week-long house party, after the ‘favorite grand child' becomes disappointed in the traditional send-off given by the family; While grieving and going through her late-grandmothers belongings, Serra discovers journals and an old phonebook, containing the life and times of her wildly adventurous grandma and her close friends—when she realizes that none of the people from her grandmother's life ‘before the family' are in attendance of her funeral (or even aware of her passing), she links up with her best friends to organize a ‘proper goodbye'. All heaven breaks loose, when ‘ravers of old' begin showing up to pay their respects to Silvia—things get a little out-of-hand when the gathering explodes due-to-word of mouth, as it turns out Grandma Silvia had a few more connections than expected—and they've all come from near-and-far to say their goodbyes. Deathwish—A series about a woman who makes a death wish—but the stakes are raised wen all her wildest dreams come true, and death lurks just around the corner at every turn. ((M3))- A collection of silent films, by SupaCree Enter: World of Music Ascension- Set in a parallel universe, Father TIme and Mother Nature are reconnected on Earth, as the dawn of a new-era arises at the peak of mankind's evolutionary journey. Series is set in a parralell universe, a seperate realm where humans have met faced dark ages, technological or technological setbacks they live harmoniously and peacefully within— live spiritually and intuitively with the planet, and can gain/ strengthen certain abilities through higher learning, strength training, conditionig, and meditation; We begin at the dawn of a new age, where beings ('God Bodies' [working])acended from higher plains of conciousness walk amongst the living in 'humanform', guided and led to higher forms of being through teachings of the Acended sorcerers and masters belonging to the universal collective conciousness of light; Also amongst the living, in 'humanform', Costumes: Modern-Futuristic da ‘Thieo' makes his final wish (for his truest and ever lasting love) to his appointed Acceded Sorcerer; but there are trials he must endure and obstacles to be met before his wish come true— C'Esmett— A warrior princess raised to rule is on on the brink of going rouge, after she is betrayed by her betrothed —her calling to become queen is imminent; yet she must overcome boundaries set by tradition, facing the powers-that-be to strengthen and master her own. Her ancient knowledge, ascended sorcery, and intrinsic healing mysticism— amongst other gifts of nature (a seer, fortune of truths; being of light) “I'm sorry, but it's out of my control.” “NOTHING Is out of your control." "--Except for you." She scorns him, and turns away swiftly, as her cape sweeps across the floor, as it flutters and whips behind her “I'm sorry, but it's out of my control.” “NOTHING Is out of your control." "--Except for you." She scorns him, and turns away swiftly, as her cape sweeps across the floor, as it flutters and whips behind her--she turns again, eyeing him directly, pointing to him with dismay as she takes in a breath; catching herself in anger, she deflates, keeping eye contact (though her gaze suddenly softens as she arrives ‘ACENSION' Ascension- Set in a parallel universe, Father TIme and Mother Nature are reconnected on Earth, as the dawn of a new-era arises at the peak of mankind's evolutionary journey. CHARACTERS Thïeo {Petrutheïo} Godform Spiritclad Cross-Bodied sorcerer; Humanborn earthbound in his most recent incarnation to rule in the new age…(t b c) C'Esmétt {Ch'Esmett X'oxįl Nazari is the most powerful being on planet Earth, and throughout multiple dimensions, through which she presides over, in various forms and figures; She possesses the universe's oldest Soul. a Godform Spiritclad Ascended Sorceress who possesses rare “Creation Energy”—the ability to form and shape matter, bend and travel through time, and control aspects of reality; Youthful and fiery, she is praised as a God of Light; Supporting: Kï'yara—Fireborn, Earthbound Rai'ayn—Loveborn, Multi-Dimentional Onyyxx—Rooted, Tri-Dimentiinal The elements: Love Matter Earth -Of Ground -Of Water -Of Fire -Of Air ...there are more but I'm tired right now. The realms: Now Then (points in the past to which time bending bodies may access) The past (inaccessible points on past timelines to those in human form or bound to earth, besides Godform; even so, the process is strenuous and dangerous. Love Self (to self, to travel inward and reflect a physical presence of the world within, outwardly; true self exists freely and ideally—you are able to converse with self as others see you [appearing as an identical twin with ideal aspects. Light therapy Frequencies Vibrationally energizing Body waves are Paralyzing Lines of Broken harmonies Inside of me. Crying on the clock; Rocking back and forth Stocking full of coal Greetings from the North Pole If Santa Clause is real Maybe we can make a deal; If my heart is made of steel You can't steal it—I can feel it Winter is here The world is money hungry (So am I) The world is simply starving (So am I) The world is so alarming (So am I) The world is just evolving. (So I am.) Cause I've been going crazy Stuck inside myself And I've been feeling lazy Just beside myself And I've been thinking lately That just maybe, someday maybe I'll be It's all connected— The reason we disconnect Is we're neglected I wonder what you'd expect You can't express it Just repress it. Repression syndrome— Came up too fast; Compression syndrome Suck it in Suck it up, You stupid fuck Dive deeper Ū (EP) 1. Thank U 2. I'm Sorry 3. I Love U 4. I miss U I like your vibe Come join my squad Curiosity killed the cat Carbohydrates killed the queen Don't cry “I'll try...” 50 Shades of Blue Don't pick up the phone Don't pick up the phone Don't pick up the phone Don't pick up the phone And here you are: 8 years later, With a baby on your back and— Bills to pay You have to decide (What the fuck) what the world is all about today. Don't want to be Cree For a really long time I just need I just need I just need a whole mind I was me the whole time I never left And yet There I was—looking at myself from above, All the love in the world; Just a lonely little girl Trapped in her Head Never got out of bed, that day: But I went away somewhere, And there I was—looking at myself from above, All the love in the world, Just a lonely little girl Trapped in her Head And I said “why are you waking me up?” But I wasn't asleep— I just wanted to fuck And sometimes, it's too much Too much is, never enough I've never been in love (with me) But I've always been in love (with you) And if you had seen it It wouldn't have been the death of me. Deeper I'll go: Deeper to find How I crossed white lines To become Colorblind How did you find me, here My deer? How did you know Where to go? How did you know, I would Follow you there, Once you finally showed me the road? I've seen both the frog, and the toad; You've already left me exposed, And I'm frozen in time Just to find Just to find Paradise— I tried. But love is a blind bat, Diving into a vat of Darkness; a hat is only a hat, If only there was more— And there is. There always is more— You just have to live more, And once you've been through the cycles, you could be Recycled. Ruined. Rebuilt. Guilt is only ever, Created after pleasure... With immense imploding pressure - [ ] You were born EP-GA [2K19] Mother Earth and Father Time are Making love right By the fire You are motion— I am sickness I am goddess; Be my witness. And I'll probably run for President— Just like I tend to run from everything; not because I want to do it, but because I have to... And just as I run from everything, I run to everything— As is the vicious cycle of life, unrepeated. I should have seen it coming, when he kicked my puppy—I didn't, but my mother did, and it might have been the same day. If not, it was definitely on the same porch—the same porch where...my adolescence began, and ended. There is no cure When your spirit is broken There is no cure—when you suffer in silence There is no cure— When you've seen all the violence It's only you. Breadcrumbs— I'm not dumb, I'm just muted. The dragon I'm chasing is me, And I just... Set the world on fire— I just—need to— I just—adjust. Translucent and transparent I am the thing that happens when you Parent your own parents. And I just I been waking up randomly, Panicking— Wishing I was dancing In the moonlight I'm vanishing without a trace And maybe I just hate this place, Maybe I'm just displaced I hate this I been waking up randomly Filling the void Avoiding my eyes in reflections I fell in love at a festival She came to dance, she was solo oh-oh ...took my hand, sack let's go- oh—oh-oh She didn't care She didn't care I'm a tax write-off I'm a meal ticket I'm a grasshopper; Or maybe, a cricket— Ricochet rabbit Why am I like this? “Why do you fight this?” I was not invited to mingle This ‘tingle' I get is more than A threat—I regretted, The moments I never forget The secrets you keep The stories you never will tell— This is hell, you're not dreaming It's only a nightmare. Too much to think about So I don't Dissociative, I associate everything Within—without I reflect everything I've been about, Stuck beside myself I am just a clone, A lone shadow of my Own All alone, and— I never planned to leave this planet But I have. You're out of my league Out of my league Why can't you see that It's so hard to be Paying the price for this Quarter-life crisis I don't mean to write this So bad, but I can't trust myself anymore I can't trust this world anymore Life is just Too complicated I'm jaded—I'm faded out Phased out, going about in this Town like I'm drowning in Insecurity Or rather, a diamond in the rough I've got enough stuff I just need love. You're out of my league I can see that I can't be that, thing What you want is perfection I just like who you are and thats— Never enough. I have nothing but love to give, love So forgive this: I didn't think I'd live this long But I was wrong And it was longer than I thought Ago Life is just Too complicated I'm jaded—I'm faded out Phased out, going about in this Town like I'm drowning in Insecurity Do you wanna know what it's like to be lonely like me I can tell you better than show you Once I get to know you good luck AMNESIA NOTES Miami Wade Crystal Brooks Donder (Donny) “we'll just call you Donny” “Why?” Uhhh...Because...we found you in the woods. “What?” “You know, like—the wild thornberrys” “Sounds tasty” “Uhhh—wasn't Donny found in the Jungle” “Uhhh—isn't the jungle just a denser version of the woods?” “I guess. It's like an earth-remix” “What's a remix?” Miami wells up—Crystal jumps up excitedly “Awwwwri And I've been stuck on Abbot Kinney, Thinking about Will Rodgers and Thinking that I'm a dodgers fan— But I'm not, I just like crowds. And LA makes me proud Of everything I need to be: And if the world were watching me She'd think she was herself. I was never sleeping, I'm just here And I was never reading, I just Put the bookmark where I left off... I could drift off into, The taste of ink And as it dries in my palm— I know it won't take long until I'm Drifting back into—sifting back into Space—grains of sand. You'll know when you've reached the promised land. Hello, Good Friend: ‘It's time to fall in love...with yourself.' The world has the most to learn from its elders and it's youth—fever disrespect the sometimes even subtle wisdom of a child or your elders. A1 (Lost in the Sauce) Break beats Ruffneck Bass: That's what I like in my face Drop that shit, don't make me wait Make me dance off all this waste I like chocolate, give me cake Wednesday mornin' wake-n-bake Star Jones—Oprah—Ricky lake Which is real and which is fake? Pick the right one, no mistake River—ocean—crater lake “White girl: can I touch your hair? Is it fake??” Out of order— Order steak. [ Sample: The Epic Trip] [interlude- two friends at a festival//a phone call] “Where the fuck are you?” “I can't hear you!” “Hello?” “BRO. Where are you?” “I'm by the—WAIT—hello?!” “WHAT? ” “HELLO?” [the call drops] “Yo. Where the fuck is she?” “I don't know man, probably lost in the sauce...” Sample Lost In The jungle//Kendrick Boo Boo Friends that say that they “gotchu” and then don't Ain't your friends— they're enemies Keep them close Nobody gives a fuck about you— Except you— Remember that. And if you can't remember Make a habit of forgetting Cause you're just another member of society With social anxiety Your sense of propriety Probably shouldn't be Anything I'd give anything Just to take back all my fucks Put them in a bucket, Throw it over my shoulder And wish the world “Good fucking luck” I'm so done with it This is the last chance you get So have fun with it There's no pleasure, no smiles— No love in it I'm just driving for miles Above the shit Transitions- Silent Film/EP Kandi moves to a new city from far, far away—and finds herself lost trying to find her own vibe. ❤️ 1. The Bus Song 2. Pretty Girls (SupaCreeMixx) 3. DOD (Phoenixx remix) “Holy infected fuck!” [thats my vibe right now] North Star After an EMP attack, an unlikely leader becomes a guide to a group of survivors to find the way northward to Alaska. Festival Trip Chava Hoffs- A Voluptuous Dark-Skinned Alaska Native-Black Mixed fashionista who (to her disdain) earns a living as a correctional officer in a juvenile detention facility in Arctic Alaska, daydreaming her long nights away and stacking her money, saving up for an escape to someplace warm and sunny. She is bright and quick-witted, but sometimes awkward—truly a ball of energy, whether good or bad. Sala Emilio (Stax) A tall, olive skinned hottie from Utah of Native American and Mexican decent who works as head chef in a gourmet Chinese food restaurant—a phenomenally functional alcoholic with a free spirit, questionable morals, good values, a loving heart—and a dry sense of humor. Childhood best friends with Chava, I hope you're okay with the character I based off you. I'm not going to copy the story exactly (cause it's a movie, duh) so—I came up with the story that your character runs the kitchen of a classy gourmet 5-Star Chinese restaurant in Utah that has an all-Mexican staff of mostly illegals; my character is a CO at a youth correctional facility in remote Alaska—I felt like those two extremes would play funnier on camera than to replicate our actual situations. I also made them not parents, because I would rather take the whole issue of parenting and raving into a completely separate film idea, I'm thinking of calling it Festival Project A Film Saga by SupaCree Inspired by True Events Festival Trip- Two lifelong friends take a two-week-long trip across the country, to attend two major music festivals—one on the west coast (Among Aliens, in California), and one on the east (Ultimate Music Festival) The Epic Trip – After breaking up with both her ex-fiance and her best friend, a depressed and anxious Chava decides to take a last-minute trip to another one of her bucket list destinations: The Epic Music Festival in Las Vegas, Nevada. F*ckFest: The Origins (Prequel) 21-year-old Chava Hoffs, a longtime raver and lover of all things dance culture, finally convinces her bar-scene best friend to accompany her to a regional event in her area, ‘F*ckfest', Sala's first ever festival/rave where—to both her and Chava's surprise, she connects with other longtime friends she had no idea were immersed into the culture. Sala, having been “rave-retired” since entering her first serious relationship, becomes overly-excited and branches off on her own, reconnecting with her true self after spending too long in her own shell—she discovers her love for an up-and-coming new artist (‘Shluggy') who magnetizes her with a newly-created sound (‘PukeRock'—a play on “VomitStep”) Vibes [Mini Series]- A sequel-in-installments to the shenanigans following F*ckfest, where Chava returns to visit Sala and return to ‘one of her favorite venues', which now hosts Festival Trip II- After reconciling, Chava and Sala unite again to journey to uncharted territories—after Chava is invited along as a journalist to cover artists belonging to an up-and-coming record label based in Alaska, she invites Sala as a tag-along, knowing that her “weird hoe-magic” will attract—as always—even more interesting personalities and circumstances than she could dream to on her own. Chava Hoffs Sala Emillio Gunther Ross- The more than interesting circus-act of a plug/one of Sala's romantic interests, who just happens to be in the same place at the same time, once Sala and Chava arrive in California. Solomon Dominguez- Chava's “homie-lover-friend”, a DC native transplanted to LA who hustles and bustles the 3-job life to live the California dream—a surprisingly dedicated and loyal friend to Chava, who considers him the “king of fuckboys”—which, is not entirely untrue. Johnny McEntire- An eclectic and friendly photographer who stumbles upon Sala during a vulnerable moment—a sweet, humble, and vibrant personality, Chava mostly dismisses him as just another victim of Sala's constantly-inconstant romantic gestures and affiliations. Grace Williams (Chava's Super-Christian (but very sweet) Aunt) Billy Williams- Chava's very dorky, southern Baptist uncle who can't help but throw in a (praise-jesus) Krista DeVaunte- Bride-To-Be—Noah's Fiance Noah Williams- Chava's Cousin, the groom to be Naomi Williams- Chava's salty Cousin, and freinemy since birth—Noah's younger sister Sonny Johnson— Chava's ex-fiance Dustin Roberts—Sala's ex-boyfriend Juan Manuel Jose Melendez Gutierrez-Rodriguez—Sala's current boyfriend, with whom she lives & works with. Running Jokes: Speaking Spanish with a Mandarin-inflenced dialect—speaking/yelling in awful Spanish-soundingMandarin—speaking “Mandarish” or “Spandarin” Every time Chava mentions Sonny (her ex), Sala interjects with “Fuck Sonny!” Cop Jokes (due to Chava's occupation) ACT I- The Wedding Bashers/It's Festival Season “Save-The-Date” Inciting Incident—Plans to attend a destination wedding that Chava and her lifelong long distance best friend Sala, have been planning for almost a year are abruptly halted when Chava learns via a very eventful facetime call (‘Meet The Williams') that her +1 invitation had apparently only applied to her now-ex-fiance [whom her stuck-up family adored because of his abhorrent Christianity], and that the bride-to-be would not allow Sala to take his place on the guest list—as her vivid memories of Sala from Chava's engagement party are severly grotesque. Flashback: Chava + Sonny's engagement party. Chava: Yeah dude, they got all, mad-butthurt that I was bringing you instead of Sonny. Sala: Fuck Sonny! A remote, unnamed city in the Alaskan Arctic Circle. It is severely cold, even visually so. Ch ACT II- Sunny California ACT III- Sunny Florida Excerpt- Festival Trip I As chava blasts away, Sala and Johnny laugh hysterically Sala: Dat ass tho! Their laughter fades in the distance as she speeds up, other onlookers also commenting about her ass, as she blows past a group of men in black, she turns a man's head as she catches his attention. Man: Daaaaaamn. 3.31.19 —Later— The same man from earlier looks out the window of his high rise penthouse suite, across from Chava's hotel—and sees Chava levitating—he pauses, looks around, and raises his eyebrows, drunkenly and assumingly otherwise intoxicated in his appearance. Man: Daaaaamn. Chava is freaking out, remaining motionless as she floats above the bed—she looks out the side of her peripheral, afraid to move—looking up at the ceiling, her eyes widen. She blinks, and takes a deep breath. He questions what he is seeing, as he pours himself a drink. 4.1.2019 As Chava dances through the crowds, she connects and trades Kandi, moving to the beat with intricate motion and flare—people are loving her (a musical dance number)—from backstage, a man pouts and purses his lips, wondering why she is familiar—he is momentarily lost in thought, as he gazes at her and the crowd. Man: (under his breath) Daaamn... Lackey: c'mon man, let's get the fuck out of here Man: But— Lackey: don't worry, you know there's gon' be hoes at the spot. Man: ...but look at her viiibe...and that ass tho—damn! Lackey: eehhhh. You wanna ass, I got a specific folder in my contacts titled “fat ass” with 300 bitches in it— Man: *women* Lackey: whatever—look—I could get you an ass twice as fat, on a dime twice as fine—in 10 minutes flat. Man: (eyes shining, like domo) but look at her aura... Lackey: —I think I got an Aurora in here Man: No, like— Lackey: (pulling at him) let's *go*, the fuck is you trippin..? His eyes won't move away, but he is led by the lackey by his arm, confusededly pouting as he is dragged along. Man: Damn. He feels like he knows her. Cut back to: CHAVA'S ENTRY DANCE scene ACT 1: Wedding Bashers Here we meet Chava Hoffs and Sala Emillio; Two life-long long-distance best friends who love eachother--for the most part--for better or worse. Sala (Pinky) and Chala (The Brain) are planning a tropical mexican vacation to a destination wedding Chava's been invited to as an excuse to celebrate Chava's upcoming birthday (held the same weekend as the wedding) in style--However, when Chava's exclusively classist family alerts her that her plus-one invitation only extended to her on-again-off-again fiance and absolutely excludes Sala, they desperately search for another way to escape their mundane and excruciatingly boring circumstances. Chava internet-searches events around her birthday and finds that there are two music festivals within the same week--running the numbers, she concludes that this alternative plan would actually cost less than the original--”so why not?” The young women keep their escapade-to-be a complete secret, disguising all the preliminary details as “wedding planning” They plan to ‘meet in the middle', Los Angeles being centrally located to both their respective homes. They meet at LAX excitedly and reuinte in happy (and drunken) tears. ACT 2: Sunny California Chava wants to visit old friends and reminisce as a “wannabe tourist” in an all-too-familiar city, which she used to call home--she's built a list of things to do and prepared an itinerary for the week; Sala wants to get riddegy-wrecked sun-up to sundown; Worlds collide as somewhat by-the-book Chava nervously nativages around, typically babysitting Sala and often falling victim to being steered off-course by her shenanigans. Within their first few moments under the California moonlight, Sala's smartphone helps her discover that she has a nearby group of friends--conveniently banded-together by her circus act “master plug”, who is devastatingly in love with her. They spend night one of the first festival tracking him down--Sala finds herself already exhausted by Sala's timing and drunken unsubtlety (“My friend's a COP!”) They finally meet him at the end of the first day, they allow him to tag along--until he becomes almost-suddenly dysfunctionally inebriated and Chava must make a fight-or-flight decision to leave him behind, after he begins drawing attention to their vulnerable crew, and she is approached at random by a mysterious character in a gas station convenience store, where she appears to be the most sober person. On day two, after running at top-speed to catch the shuttle, Sala drunkenly makes friends with a group of young people (fresh out of high school), who to Chava are quite “wookish”, but she plays along anyway. However, by the time they exit the shuttle and Chava has finallybecome comfortable being invited into their squad; Chala decides to ditch them--unknowing that they will re-meet later in the night. Excerpt- Festival Trip I As chava blasts away, Sala and Johnny laugh hysterically Sala: Dat ass tho! Their laughter fades in the distance as she speeds up, other onlookers also commenting about her ass, as she blows past a group of men in black, she turns a man's head as she catches his attention. Man: Daaaaaamn. 3.31.19 —Later— The same man from earlier looks out the window of his high rise penthouse suite, across from Chava's hotel—and sees Chava levitating—he pauses, looks around, and raises his eyebrows, drunkenly and assumingly otherwise intoxicated in his appearance. Man: Daaaaamn. Chava is freaking out, remaining motionless as she floats above the bed—she looks out the side of her peripheral, afraid to move—looking up at the ceiling, her eyes widen. She blinks, and takes a deep breath. He questions what he is seeing, as he pours himself a drink. 4.1.2019 As Chava dances through the crowds, she connects and trades Kandi, moving to the beat with intricate motion and flare—people are loving her (a musical dance number)—from backstage, a man pouts and purses his lips, wondering why she is familiar—he is momentarily lost in thought, as he gazes at her and the crowd. Man: (under his breath) Daaamn... Lackey: c'mon man, let's get the fuck out of here Man: But— Lackey: don't worry, you know there's gon' be hoes at the spot. Man: ...but look at her viiibe...and that ass tho—damn! Lackey: eehhhh. You wanna ass, I got a specific folder in m

Festival Project A Saga S Ū P A © R E E ™ One World. | PEACE. LOVE. UNITY. RESPECT. | Lifelong friends navigate the infinitely incredible world of rave culture, journeying together (and sometimes, apart) into the PLUniveRse© in fantastical, philosophical, and third-eye-opening adventures--the likes of which have never been seen (or foretold.) Festival Project™ is a multi-genre, mystifying and magical cross-genre series, set against the backdrop of modern rave culture-- combined with historical and futuristic elements-- across expansions of space-and-time, unifying with The Universal Consciousness in a multidimensional and explorative ensemble of Films, Episodic Series, Music Videos, Extended Playlists, and Concept Albums. A perpetual symphony of artistic storytelling though a cavalcade of wonderful and whimsical characters along high-intensity, off-the-map adventures--showcased through Music, Film & Interactive Art Explorations--set upon the dreamlike actual reality of an unravelling fabric of time-and-space. Enter The Multiverse: Anything Is Possible. This explosive and expansive wave of enigmatic, chaos-colliding, charismatic [ and often comedic] kinetic energy, reflects a shared experience throughout all time in human connection; Journey beyond the unknown, to Worlds Within--and Without. Everything is Everything. The Festival Project Saga is a multi-media Music, Film and Television saga that offers a new perspective on the ever-changing and recently popularized culture of dance music; it touches on the history of the culture as a whole, as well as a variety of other societal issues this generation faces—friendship, connectivity, communication—the dawn of social media, America's education system and justice system, immigration, and emerging mental health and drug crisis—while also taking a look at a history of counter culture as a derivative of the rapidly evolving technology of today's society. Through its characters and storylines, we dive deeply into a conglomerate of generational growth and exponentially educational topics, lightheartedly touching tales of friendship, family through blood and through bond, and exploring fields, of Astrology, Philosophy. Festival Trip- Two lifelong friends take a two-week-long trip across the country, to attend two major music festivals—one on the west coast (Among Aliens, in California), and one on the east (Ultimate Music Festival) Chava Hoffs Sala Emillio Gunther Ross- The more than interesting circus-act of a plug/one of Sala's romantic interests, who just happens to be in the same place at the same time, once Sala and Chava arrive in California. Solomon Dominguez- Chava's “homie-lover-friend”, a DC native transplanted to LA who hustles and bustles the 3-job life to live the California dream—a surprisingly dedicated and loyal friend to Chava, who considers him the “king of fuckboys”—which, is not entirely untrue. Johnny McEntire- An eclectic and friendly photographer who stumbles upon Sala during a vulnerable moment—a sweet, humble, and vibrant personality, Chava mostly dismisses him as just another victim of Sala's constantly-inconstant romantic gestures and affiliations. Grace Williams (Chava's Super-Christian (but very sweet) Aunt) Billy Williams- Chava's very dorky, southern Baptist uncle who can't help but throw in a (praise-jesus) Krista DeVaunte- Bride-To-Be—Noah's Fiance Noah Williams- Chava's Cousin, the groom to be Naomi Williams- Chava's salty Cousin, and freinemy since birth—Noah's younger sister Sonny Johnson— Chava's ex-fiance Dustin Roberts—Sala's ex-boyfriend Juan Manuel Jose Melendez Gutierrez-Rodriguez—Sala's current boyfriend, with whom she lives & works with. Running Jokes: -Ridiculous DJ names and Absurd Fictional Festivals -Speaking Spanish with a Mandarin-inflenced dialect—speaking/yelling in awful Spanish-sounding-Mandarin—speaking “Mandarish” or “Spandarin” -Every time Chava mentions Sonny (her ex), Sala interjects with “Fuck Sonny!” -Cop Jokes (due to Chava's occupation) “Go climb broke-bitch mountain!” ACT I- The Wedding Bashers/It's Festival Season “Save-The-Date” Inciting Incident—Plans to attend a destination wedding that Chava and her lifelong. long- distance best friend Sala, have been planning for almost a year are abruptly halted when Chava learns via a very eventful FaceTime call (‘Meet The Williams') that her +1 invitation had apparently only applied to her now-ex-fiance [whom her stuck-up family adored because of his abhorrent Christianity], and that the bride-to-be would not allow Sala to take his place on the guest list—as her vivid memories of Sala from Chava's engagement party are severely grotesque. Flashback: Chava + Sonny's engagement party. Chava: Yeah dude, they got all, mad-butthurt that I was bringing you instead of Sonny. Sala: Fuck Sonny! [The Break-Up] Sala: FUCK YOUR BIRTHDAY! CHAVA: I'M SURE YOU WOULD IF YOU COULD, IF MY BIRTHDAY HAD A PENIS. Sala: YOUR BIRTHDAY DOES HAVE A PENIS—IT'S YOU, DICK. CHAVA: THEN SUCK ME, SALLY MAE. SALA: YOU WISH, WANDA. CHAVA: Can't make a wish with no fucking candles, Kandace. SALA: Huh. I would have thought there were candles just judging by hard you fucking BLOW, Bonnie! CHAVA: Then drive off cliff, Clyde. A remote, unnamed city near the North Pole, in the Alaskan Arctic Circle. It is severely cold, even visually so. ACT II- Sunny California ACT III- Sunny Florida In the scene where random ravers find Sala's backpack in the parking lot, debut Rave Dora [Backpack SupaCreeMixx] “I'm a backpack loaded up with things and Knick-knacks too—anything that you might need, I got inside for you...” Festival Trip One-Liners/ Slang/ Phrases Keep up, Kassandra Hold Up, Heather Be back, Becky Back up, Barbra Shut up, Susan/ Shut Up Sandra/ Shut Up Sharon/ Sit Down, Sally Shove It, Shelly Stop It, Stella Chill, Chelsea Cheer Up, Charlie (a reference to Willy Wonka) Get out my biz, Liz Really Billy? Excerpt, Act III Chava: Dude, your energy is killing me. Sala: So. Chava: Soo, fix it. Sala: What do I look like—Bob the Builder? Chava: More like Wreck-It-Ralphed-All-Over-Yourself Sala: Fuck you. Chava: Off limits. I'm the last person on earth you haven't fucked. Sala: Jealous? Chava: Of the super-massive black-hole that is your vagina? No. I just wish my camera had a better low-light filter so I had actual photographic proof of an 8th world wonder. Sala: …fuck you. Chava: ‘No' Means ‘No'. [blows whistle] Get up. Sala: Ahhhhh—Get fucked! Chava: I was—and you ruined it being a hoe—but I'm willing to look past that, because its a beautiful fucking day in Miami and we're about to get lit. C'mon. S'day one. Sala: Day 1 of rave 2, I'm over it. Chava: Hoe, I'm over you. Sala: Get over me, then, bitch— Chava: I already said I am. Get with it. Sala: Get with this dick. Chava: What's a dick without some balls, bro? Pussy. Sala: … Chava: You mad? Sala: I been mad. Chava: Stay mad, then. Sala: How about I just stay here. Chava: Pay here, stay here, bitch—this trip ain't free. Sala: This trip ain't me. Raves are your thing. I'm not a “festival chick.” Chava: You are for the next three days. Sala: …Three…?! Chava: And counting. Get. Some. Motherfuckin' balls. Here, have some Jesus Juice. [She extends her arm, holding the bottle in front of Sala] Sala: Ughhh. Chava: Come on, man. I'm tryna see Cow Turds. Sala: You're engaged to one. Chava: Shut the fuck up and drink. Here, I'll have one with you. The Epic Trip – ‘Girl—Meet World'. After breaking up with both her ex-fiance and her best friend, a depressed and anxious Chava decides to take a last-minute trip to another one of her bucket list destinations: The Epic Music Festival in Las Vegas, Nevada. F*ckFest: The Origins (Prequel) 21-year-old Chava Hoffs, a longtime raver and lover of all things dance culture, finally convinces her bar-scene best friend to accompany her to a regional event in her area, ‘F*ckfest', Sala's first ever festival/rave where—to both her and Chava's surprise, she connects with other longtime friends she had no idea were immersed into the culture. Sala, having been “rave-retired” since entering her first serious relationship, becomes overly-excited and branches off on her own, reconnecting with her true self after spending too long in her own shell—she discovers her love for an up-and-coming new artist (‘Shluggy') who magnetizes her with a newly-created sound (‘PukeRock'—a play on “VomitStep”) Vibes [Mini Series, Prequel]- A sequel-in-installments to the shenanigans following F*ckfest, where Chava returns to visit Sala and return to ‘one of her favorite venues', which now hosts GoF*ckYourself (GFY), the biggest summertime festival in the region. Festival Trip II [First Sequel ]- It's been a magical year and the breakup is over; A 20-something's imaginary friend returns, a decade after disappearing, just as she finds herself on the brink of ‘real adulthood', and has settled into the mundane and mediocre—as he leads her on a journey of self-discovery, she internally struggles with whether to tell her therapist—after deciding (or rather, being convinced) she shouldn't, she begins a desperate search for answers in what seems like a downward spiral into (Use- I'm on my way to heaven, for trailer.) A group of friends decide to form their own society after discovering an “uncharted” island—what they don't know [understand] is that the world government is observing at every angle—and as their population increases, they struggle as the popularity of their culture and lifestyle explode— Craig's world- an ensemble about the good old days of craigslist Ū [Amnesia/Working Title] Miami (Ami) A fashion designer and music enthusiast who attends festivals in her spare time, seeking inspiration for her fashion and design blog; she shares an apartment with her lesbian best friend from college, who works as a freelance writer and photographer. Crystal (Chrys) A short-haired-yet-feminine gender-non-conforming lovable with a dry sense of humor and an eye for art; Music lover and fan of festivals, Miami's “convert” into the rave world. Serra- A high-matinence instagram model who supports herself through social media promotion and influencing, modeling Miami's fashion line and sugar-babying/arm-candying to make her way through life, usually attending festivals as someone's date or just to take pictures/show face. Samuel/Donnie- Sensei Samurai: An award-winning world-renowned music artist and specialty DJ, the soul-headliner of ‘Magic's Mountain art and Music Festival' Daz- Sam/Donnie's Manager- (Antagonist) Lazers, pyrotechnics, strobes, and confetti light the night sky as Sensei Samurai, a medium-build white guy sporting two long braids and a samurai cut (his signature style), dances atop the table which supports a state-of-the-art DJ set-up; The stage is massive, the crowd is wild--but he is at home--or rather, at work, and at the top of his game. He jumps down from the table, drinking from a red solo cup, before he picks up the microphone to speak to his audience: Samuel: LET ME SEE YOU FUCKING JUMP. He dances around, flailing his arms to gesture to the crowd, drinking again from his red solo cup . He moves to the beat of the music as he focuses to adjust the mixer, structuring a build-up. His manager watches from backstage, carefully eying his every move. Samuel: --ARE YOU GUYS READY? [He lights a ciggarette, sips from his cup again as he continues to mix. He nods along to the beat, grooving as he plots his next move, looking into the crowd with hunger in his eye.] Dez: (speaking into a earpiece) Sammy, take it easy... [He glances stage left, to where Dez is situated and watching him like a hawk; He nonchalantly shrugs, blowing out a plume of smoke into the air, decisively irritated with the instruction.] Dez: (Cont'd): I mean it, chill. [Samuel sticks his finger into his ear, wiggling it profusely--and dislodges the hidden inner-earpiece, eyeing Dez as he pulls up his headphones, deep in the mix; He takes a long drag from his ciggarette, master-minding as he feverously twists the knobs and dials of the mixer.] Samuel (over the mic) NO CHILL MOTHERFUCKERS. [The music speeds as he prepares for the drop.] Dez: (forgetting momentarily that he will not be heard) Sam, don't--! [Too late. Samuel Drops the bass so hard, it hurts, ripping off his headphones and running straight into the crowd, head first to crowd surf. The crowd goes massively, insanely wild.] Through the lens of Crystal's camera, we see a series of still photos, capturing Sam's wild plunge into the crowd, just off-center in the front row. Miami looks to her right, giving her a nod of approval; Crystal shoots her a hand signal for “ok”. Miami looks to her left, lifting an eyebrow and smirking at Serra, who bounces off-beat against a tall wooky gentleman who has his arms around her through the sleeves of a spirit hood, tilting her head from side to side as she poses for selfies. Miami happily sways to the motion of the music, putting one hand over the rail and pulling up her mask with the other, as she watches Samuel be lifted back onto the stage and take his place behind the decks. The set continues, the crowd, the lazers, and the effects go wild: The backdrop reads ‘SENSEI SAMURAI' His backup dancers are acrobatic ninjas. Samuel: Thank you Magical Mountain, I Love You Guys!! The crowd goes wild as Samuel exits the stage, ignoring Dez as he breezes past him. Dez: (following after him) I thought I said, “No more crowd surfing, no more stage diving.” Samuel: I thought you said that, too. Dez: Do you recall “OhMyLanta?” Samuel: (sarcastically) Oh, you mean that festival in Atlanta? Dez: Yes. Samuel: How creative. Dez: ‘Creative' would describe the legal team's very expensive, very strenuous tactical strategy which weaseled you out of a very serious lawsuit. Samuel: What? When was this? Dez: This was when you decided to stage dive wearing goth-pants and your chains got stuck in that kid's earholes Samuel: They're called Tripp pants. Dez: Oh yeah...what do you call them after mutilating a teenager with them? Samuel: Tripp pants I can sell on eBay. I made that kid a star. Dez: You made him a cripple. Samuel: --we still talk. [EXT. A FARAWAY FOREST] Bass blasts through the christmas-lit forest, a festival set in the meadow against the lush and natural forest scenery; Attendees come-and-go to-and-from the lines of tents and out into the festival grounds, where DJs headline stages, dancers and performers interact with spectators, vendors practice their unique salesmanship, and the wild and true nature of ravers is unleashed. Frozen breath leaks from the laughing mouths of three young individuals, running through the forest; Twigs crush and leaves crackle underfoot of their prancing and galloping feet, clad in combat boots, tennis shoes, and platforms, respectively. Ripped fishnets hug the thighs that sweep together rapidly, swooshing as the legs that bare them race forward; a pashmina trails behind one's back, acting as a cape of sorts. A thud, in the darkness of the forest. Crystal and Serra continue forward, unaware their friend has fallen for a few short moments, leaving Miami behind. Miami confusedly looks for the obstruction which caused her to trip, discovering under a pile of brush and leaves, a man (Samuel) lying face down on the ground; her eyes widen and she draws slightly back, frightened, before squinting and leaning in to get a closer look; She turns on a glow toy for added light, she pants heavily under her breath, shaking slightly as she brushes away debris and leaves, uncovering his head and shoulders, revealing he is wearing a mask. She examines him. His glasses are broken, lying on the ground under his face--His hair is wet; he appears dead. Crystal: ...I told you not to wear those. Miami: Yo… Crystal: Yo--*gasps* (she grabs Serra by the shoulder, holding her back.) Serra: (She notices the body, under her pashmina, spirit hood, and glasses) Ohwhatthefuck. (she takes a few steps back) Crystal: Don't move. Serra: Yeah, fuck that. Fuck this. (she wraps the pashmina tightly around her face) [muffled] Fuck this. Crystal: ...Ami, we should get out of here. Miami: We should help him. Crystal: He may be beyond help, honey. Serra: He's fucking dead. Whatthefuck. Fuck this! Crystal: ...Is he dead? Miami: (she looks at him closely, there are no signs of life. she checks for breathing with her hand.) ...I don't know. (she checks again, leaning in closer. she grabs his wrist to check a pulse) Serra: Don't touch it! Miami: Shut up, I'm trying to get a pulse (beat) ...he's super cold. Serra: He's super dead! Miam: No, no...I don't think so. Crystal, come here--help me turn him over. Crystal: Are you sure? What if he--wakes up and tries to--?? Miami: (urgently) What if it was you? Crystal fishes for a flashlight and switchblade in her fanny pack, places the flashlight in her mouth and positioning the knife under her kandi cuffs. She cautiously inches forward. Crystal: Serra, try to get some cell service so we can call for help. The girls carefully turn him onto his back, wide eyed and bewildered. He is completely lifeless, clamy and pale--covered with dirt, and forestry. Miami continues to check for a pulse, shaking her head as he continues to appear dead. Crystal: Do you feel anything? Miami: …(shaking her head) I can't...he's like…(as she pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie and notices a familiar tattoo. she pauses for a moment, thinks, and then looks towards his head) Do you still have my mirror in your fanny pack?) Crystal returns to her fanny pack, digging for the mirror. Miami carefuly leans in towards the man, examining him once more; she notices a necklace, also familiar--she thinks, as she moves to remove first the excess hair, and then the mask from his face, very carefully. She peels off his mask, immidiately shocked as she reckognizes his face--It is Samuel, who she knows as Sensai Samurai. She yeeps (imploded gasp, making Crystal look up; she, too recognizes him; she gasps. They look at eachother, then at him--then back to eachother.) Miami: ...Give me your mirror. Crystal: Dude, is this…? Miami: Your mirror. (she holds the mirror under his nose--a subtle cloud of fog appears; he is, in fact, alive.) Crystal: Oh, my God. Miami: He's breathing. Serra! Crystal: ...This is Sensai Samurai. Miami: (trying to convince herself) It probably just looks like him…. Crystal: I just took one-hundred close-up photos, dude--like, less than an hour ago-- Miami: Shhhhh! (she frantically begins to check his pockets) He's gotta have a wallet. Crystal: What, you were going to save him--now you wanna roll him? Miami: An ID. He's got to have an ID. (she frantically searches him) Hey Serra! (Crystal lifts the other sleeve of his sweater, revealing a brightly colored wristband, and one singular kandi bracelet, which reads “Sensai” Simoltaneously, Miami has found something in one of the pockets--she produces a small box from one of the pockets of his cargo pants) Crystal: Holy fuck. Look. (she gestures the wrist band and bracelet.) Miami: ...Artist's wristband. Fuck. It is him. Crystal: [Samuel is slumped lifelessly over both Crystal and Miami's shoulders, head hanging downward and hair flailing and dangling in his face as the girls struggle to support him. His oversized light-up sunglasses begin slipping, almost revealing his eyes.] Girl:(looking over, concerned) ...Is your friend okay? [He is clearly not. Serra slides her finger up his nose to adjust his glasses, eyeing the girl suspiciously.] Crystal: [flatly] Yes. [Samuel's dead-weight pulls him towards the ground, as he slips; the girls struggle to readjust; he seems heavier by the minute. They all three stare back at the girl, awkwardly; Miami fakes an ‘everything's fine' smile, while Crystal stares blankly through her sunglasses and Serra shoots a look of dissatisfaction. [INT. KITCHEN. DAY.] The three girls gaze in awe of Donnie, multitasking busily in the kitchen, hair pinned neatly atop his head with chopsticks, wearing a neatly-pressed (as in, freshly ironed) apron, as he removes one baking mit with his mouth and works about, happily consumed and bouncily, humming. -...He's so...domestic. Crystal -You'd think he'd carry a better tune. Miami- Cause you'd be belting melodies after waking up out of a drug-induced coma? Crystal- No--I guess I'd open a bake shop in some random girls' kitchen. Miami: Donnie? Donnie: Hmm, yes? Miami: We...we have some news for you. Donnie: Oooh! Is it celebrity news? Miami:...sort of. Donnie: I hope it's juicy gossip. Crystal: Believe me--it'll be the talk of the town. Donnie: This town? Crystal: Any town. [ She refills her wine glass first, then prepares two more, never breaking eye contact with donnie; His lighthearted excitement turns to slight confusion, as he furrows his brows,] Miami: (sighs, taking his hand) Here, lets sit down. Donnie: But, the macaroons-- Serra-What? That's what you're making? [Donnie nods.] Serra-...(to the side) maybe we should let him finish the macaroons, first...what if this like, fucks him all up. Miami: No, it's time. I feel like we've already waited too long. Serra-...I feel like he makes really good macaroons. Miami: Yeah? Like grammy-award-winning macaroons? -If by ‘Grammy', you mean my Grandmother would approve… Miami: Your grandmother died of complications from diabetes. Serra-...and you think macaroons had absolutely nothing to do with that? [Crystal has already finished her first glass of wine, and begins to reach for the second glass, when Miami, out of the corner of her eye, catches her, snatching the glass from her gracefully, as she floats it to Donnie, sitting beside him, crossing her legs.] Donnie: Before noon? Crystal- Oh, so you know that rule? Donnie: I know some things. A 20-something's imaginary friend returns, a decade after disappearing, just as she finds herself on the brink of ‘real adulthood', and has settled into the mundane and mediocre—as he leads her on a journey of self-discovery, she internally struggles with whether to tell her therapist—after deciding (or rather, being convinced) she shouldn't, she begins a desperate search for answers in what seems like a downward spiral into A group of friends decide to form their own society after discovering an “uncharted” island—what they don't know [understand] is that the world government is observing at every angle—and as their population increases, they struggle as the popularity of their culture and lifestyle explode— Craig's world- an ensemble about the good old days of craigslist Blue Story A wayward security officer drunkenly fills out an application to join the police academy, and is accepted—both to his surprise, and dismay. #SQUAD OUT!- A Mockumentary-Style Comedy following several “tribes”, “squads”, “rave families”, and even solo-ravers surrounding a large group of ravers and friends. Ū [Amnesia/Working Title] Amnesia [Working Title] Three girls at a camping festival find an incapacitated man in the woods and take him back to their campsite for safety—when one of the girls discovers that she recognizes the mysterious man, actually a headliner at the festival they're attending—two of the girls keep it a secret from their friend who would certainly take advantage of the situation. After discovering a “butt-load” of mind-altering substances on his person, Miami, the ring leader, makes a ‘judgement call' not to call the authorities, deciding instead to attempt to take him back to his trailer—however—when the girls haul him back to his campsite, they discover his manager, Dez, rifling through his belongings. When Samuel awakens, he has no memory of himself—and so a journey begins: a test of friendship, and a race against the clock. Miami (Ami) A fashion designer and music enthusiast who attends festivals in her spare time, seeking inspiration for her fashion and design blog; she shares an apartment with her lesbian best friend from college, who works as a freelance writer and photographer. Crystal (Chrys) A short-haired-yet-feminine gender-non-conforming lovable with a dry sense of humor and an eye for art; Music lover and fan of festivals, Miami's “convert” into the rave world. Shane- A high-matinence instagram model who supports herself through social media promotion and influencing, modeling Miami's fashion line and sugar-babying/arm-candying to make her way through life, usually attending festivals as someone's date or just to take pictures/show face. DONNIE “*giggles* what's a rave?” Miami (takes a deep breath) Crystal (facepalm) Shane (purses her lips) C-Is Giving drugs to somebody with amnesia bad? M-I don't know what's bad for amnesia S-Well maybe, it's not giving it to him that would be bad—like, they were already in his system, probably wouldn't he go like, into withdraw or something. You're probably right S-(I'm probably not) Samuel/Donnie- Sensei Samurai: An award-winning world-renowned music artist and specialty DJ, the soul-headliner of ‘Magic's Mountain art and Music Festival' Daz- Sam/Donnie's Manager- (Antagonist-) Lazers, pyrotechnics, strobes, and confetti light the night sky as Sensei Samurai, a medium-build white guy sporting two long braids and a samurai cut (his signature style), dances atop the table which supports a state-of-the-art DJ set-up; The stage is massive, the crowd is wild--but he is at home--or rather, at work, and at the top of his game. He jumps down from the table, drinking from a red solo cup, before he picks up the microphone to speak to his audience: Samuel: LET ME SEE YOU FUCKING JUMP. He dances around, flailing his arms to gesture to the crowd, drinking again from his red solo cup . He moves to the beat of the music as he focuses to adjust the mixer, structuring a build-up. His manager watches from backstage, carefully eying his every move. Samuel: --ARE YOU GUYS READY? [He lights a ciggarette, sips from his cup again as he continues to mix. He nods along to the beat, grooving as he plots his next move, looking into the crowd with hunger in his eye.] Dez: (speaking into a earpiece) Sammy, take it easy... [He glances stage left, to where Dez is situated and watching him like a hawk; He nonchalantly shrugs, blowing out a plume of smoke into the air, decisively irritated with the instruction.] Dez: (Cont'd): I mean it, chill. [Samuel sticks his finger into his ear, wiggling it profusely--and dislodges the hidden inner-earpiece, eyeing Dez as he pulls up his headphones, deep in the mix; He takes a long drag from his ciggarette, master-minding as he feverously twists the knobs and dials of the mixer.] Samuel (over the mic) NO CHILL MOTHERFUCKERS. [The music speeds as he prepares for the drop.] Dez: (forgetting momentarily that he will not be heard) Sam, don't--! [Too late. Samuel Drops the bass so hard, it hurts, ripping off his headphones and running straight into the crowd, head first to crowd surf. The crowd goes massively, insanely wild.] Through the lens of Crystal's camera, we see a series of still photos, capturing Sam's wild plunge into the crowd, just off-center in the front row. Miami looks to her right, giving her a nod of approval; Crystal shoots her a hand signal for “ok”. Miami looks to her left, lifting an eyebrow and smirking at Serra, who bounces off-beat against a tall wooky gentleman who has his arms around her through the sleeves of a spirit hood, tilting her head from side to side as she poses for selfies. Miami happily sways to the motion of the music, putting one hand over the rail and pulling up her mask with the other, as she watches Samuel be lifted back onto the stage and take his place behind the decks. The set continues, the crowd, the lazers, and the effects go wild: The backdrop reads ‘SENSEI SAMURAI' His backup dancers are acrobatic ninjas. Samuel: Thank you Magical Mountain, I Love You Guys!! The crowd goes wild as Samuel exits the stage, ignoring Dez as he breezes past him. Dez: (following after him) I thought I said, “No more crowd surfing, no more stage diving.” Samuel: I thought you said that, too. Dez: Do you recall “OhMyLanta?” Samuel: (sarcastically) Oh, you mean that festival in Atlanta? Dez: Yes. Samuel: How creative. Dez: ‘Creative' would describe the legal team's very expensive, very strenuous tactical strategy which weaseled you out of a very serious lawsuit. Samuel: Law-Suit? I've never worn one of those. Black-Label? Dez: More like ‘black-book' with your name written on and in it. It took me weeks clean up. Samuel: When was this? Dez: When you decided to stage dive wearing goth-pants and one of your chains got stuck in that kid's earhole. Samuel: They're called ‘Tripp' pants. Dez: Oh yeah...what do you call them after mutilating a teenager with them? Samuel: Tripp pants I can sell on eBay. Dez: You made him a cripple. Samuel: --we still talk. Bass blasts through the christmas-lit forest, a festival set in the meadow against the lush and natural forest scenery; Attendees come-and-go to-and-from the lines of tents and out into the festival grounds, where DJs headline stages, dancers and performers interact with spectators, vendors practice their unique salesmanship, and the wild and true nature of ravers is unleashed. Frozen breath leaks from the laughing mouths of three young individuals, running through the forest; Twigs crush and leaves crackle underfoot of their prancing and galloping feet, clad in combat boots, tennis shoes, and platforms, respectively. Ripped fishnets hug the thighs that sweep together rapidly, swooshing as the legs that bare them race forward; a pashmina trails behind one's back, acting as a cape of sorts. A thud, in the darkness of the forest. Crystal and Shane continue forward, unaware their friend has fallen for a few short moments, leaving Miami behind. Miami confusedly looks for the obstruction which caused her to trip, discovering under a pile of brush and leaves, a man (Samuel) lying face down on the ground; her eyes widen and she draws slightly back, frightened, before squinting and leaning in to get a closer look; She turns on a glow toy for added light, she pants heavily under her breath, shaking slightly as she brushes away debris and leaves, uncovering his head and shoulders, revealing he is wearing a mask. She examines him. His glasses are broken, lying on the ground under his face--His hair is wet; he appears dead. Miami is horrified, speechless, breathless. Crystal: ...I told you not to wear those. Miami: Yo… Crystal: Yo--*gasps* (she grabs Shane by the shoulder, holding her back.) Shane: (She notices the body, under her pashmina, spirit hood, and glasses) Ohwhatthefuck. (she takes a few steps back) Crystal: Don't move. Serra: Yeah, fuck that. Fuck this. (she wraps the pashmina tightly around her face) [muffled] Fuck this. Crystal: ...Ami, we should get out of here. Miami: We should help him. Crystal: He may be beyond help, honey. Shane: He's fucking dead. Whatthefuck. Cystal: ...Is he dead? Miami: (she looks at him closely, there are no signs of life. she checks for breathing with her hand.) ...I don't know. (she checks again, leaning in closer. she grabs his wrist to check a pulse) Shane: Don't touch it! Miami: Shut up, I'm trying to get a pulse (beat) ...he's super cold. Shane: He's super dead! Miam: No, no...I don't think so. Crystal, come here--help me turn him over. Crystal: Are you sure? What if he--wakes up and tries to--?? Miami: (urgently) What if it was you? Crystal fishes for a flashlight and switchblade in her fanny pack, places the flashlight in her mouth and positioning the knife under her kandi cuffs. She cautiously inches forward. Crystal: Shane, try to get some cell service so we can call for help. The girls carefully turn him onto his back, wide eyed and bewildered. He is completely lifeless, clamy and pale--covered with dirt, and forestry. Miami continues to check for a pulse, shaking her head as he continues to appear dead. Crystal: Do you feel anything? Miami: …(shaking her head) I can't...he's like…(as she pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie and notices a familiar tattoo. she pauses for a moment, thinks, and then looks towards his head) Do you still have my mirror in your fanny pack?) Crystal returns to her fanny pack, digging for the mirror. Miami carefuly leans in towards the man, examining him once more; she notices a necklace, also familiar--she thinks, as she moves to remove first the excess hair, and then the mask from his face, very carefully. She peels off his mask, immidiately shocked as she reckognizes his face--It is Samuel, who she knows as Sensai Samurai. She yeeps (imploded gasp, making Crystal look up; she, too recognizes him; she gasps. They look at eachother, then at him--then back to eachother.) Miami: ...Give me your mirror. Crystal: Dude, is this…? Miami: Your mirror. (she holds the mirror under his nose--a subtle cloud of fog appears; he is, in fact, alive.) Crystal: Oh, my God. Miami: He's breathing. Shane! Crystal: ...This is Sensai Samurai. Miami: (trying to convince herself) It probably just looks like him…. Crystal: I just took one-hundred close-up photos, dude--like, less than an hour ago-- Miami: Shhhhh! (she frantically begins to check his pockets) He's gotta have a wallet. Crystal: What, you were going to save him--now you wanna roll him? Miami: An ID. He's got to have an ID. (she frantically searches him) Hey Shane! (Crystal lifts the other sleeve of his sweater, revealing a brightly colored wristband, and one singular kandi bracelet, which reads “Sensai” Simultaneously, Miami has found something in one of the pockets--she produces a small box from one of the pockets of his cargo pants) Crystal: Holy fuck. Look. (she gestures the wrist band and bracelet.) Miami: ...Artist's wristband. Fuck. It is him. Crystal: [Samuel is slumped lifelessly over both Crystal and Miami's shoulders, head hanging downward and hair flailing and dangling in his face as the girls struggle to support him. His oversized light-up sunglasses begin slipping, almost revealing his eyes.] Girl:(looking over, concerned) ...Is your friend okay? [He is clearly not. Serra slides her finger up his nose to adjust his glasses, eyeing the girl suspiciously.] Crystal: [flatly] Yes. [Samuel's dead-weight pulls him towards the ground, as he slips; the girls struggle to readjust; he seems heavier by the minute. They all three stare back at the girl, awkwardly; Miami fakes an ‘everything's fine' smile, while Crystal stares blankly through her sunglasses and Serra shoots a look of dissatisfaction. [INT. KITCHEN. DAY.] The three girls gaze in awe of Donnie, multitasking busily in the kitchen, hair pinned neatly atop his head with chopsticks, wearing a neatly-pressed (as in, freshly ironed) apron, as he removes one baking mit with his mouth and works about, happily consumed and bouncily, humming. -...He's so...domestic. Crystal -You'd think he'd carry a better tune. Miami- Cause you'd be belting melodies after waking up out of a drug-induced coma? Crystal- No--I guess I'd open a bake shop in some random girls' kitchen. Miami: Donnie? Donnie: Hmm, yes? Miami: We...we have some news for you. Donnie: Oooh! Is it celebrity news? Miami:...sort of. Donnie: I hope it's juicy gossip. Crystal: Believe me--it'll be the talk of the town. Donnie: This town? Crystal: Any town. [ She refills her wine glass first, then prepares two more, never breaking eye contact with donnie; His lighthearted excitement turns to slight confusion, as he furrows his brows,] Miami: (sighs, taking his hand) Here, lets sit down. Donnie: But, the macaroons-- Serra-What? That's what you're making? [Donnie nods.] Serra-...(to the side) maybe we should let him finish the macaroons, first...what if this like, fucks him all up. Miami: No, it's time. I feel like we've already waited too long. Serra-...I feel like he makes really good macaroons. Miami: Yeah? Like grammy-award-winning macaroons? -If by ‘Grammy', you mean my Grandmother would approve… Miami: Your grandmother died of complications from diabetes. Serra-...and you think macaroons had absolutely nothing to do with that? [Crystal has already finished her first glass of wine, and begins to reach for the second glass, when Miami, out of the corner of her eye, catches her, snatching the glass from her gracefully, as she floats it to Donnie, sitting beside him, crossing her legs.] Donnie: Before noon? Crystal- Oh, so you know that rule? Donnie: I know some things. Under The Mask —A superstar DJ and his best friend embark on a series of festivals under cover as non-celebrity citizens to first-handedly experience the other side of his world. Grandma's Girl- A funeral turns into an accidentally epic week-long house party, after the ‘favorite grand child' becomes disappointed in the traditional send-off given by the family; While grieving and going through her late-grandmothers belongings, Serra discovers journals and an old phonebook, containing the life and times of her wildly adventurous grandma and her close friends—when she realizes that none of the people from her grandmother's life ‘before the family' are in attendance of her funeral (or even aware of her passing), she links up with her best friends to organize a ‘proper goodbye'. All heaven breaks loose, when ‘ravers of old' begin showing up to pay their respects to Silvia—things get a little out-of-hand when the gathering explodes due-to-word of mouth, as it turns out Grandma Silvia had a few more connections than expected—and they've all come from near-and-far to say their goodbyes. Deathwish—A series about a woman who makes a death wish—but the stakes are raised wen all her wildest dreams come true, and death lurks just around the corner at every turn. ((M3))- A collection of silent films, by SupaCree Enter: World of Music Ascension- Set in a parallel universe, Father TIme and Mother Nature are reconnected on Earth, as the dawn of a new-era arises at the peak of mankind's evolutionary journey. Series is set in a parralell universe, a seperate realm where humans have met faced dark ages, technological or technological setbacks they live harmoniously and peacefully within— live spiritually and intuitively with the planet, and can gain/ strengthen certain abilities through higher learning, strength training, conditionig, and meditation; We begin at the dawn of a new age, where beings ('God Bodies' [working])acended from higher plains of conciousness walk amongst the living in 'humanform', guided and led to higher forms of being through teachings of the Acended sorcerers and masters belonging to the universal collective conciousness of light; Also amongst the living, in 'humanform', Costumes: Modern-Futuristic da ‘Thieo' makes his final wish (for his truest and ever lasting love) to his appointed Acceded Sorcerer; but there are trials he must endure and obstacles to be met before his wish come true— C'Esmett— A warrior princess raised to rule is on on the brink of going rouge, after she is betrayed by her betrothed —her calling to become queen is imminent; yet she must overcome boundaries set by tradition, facing the powers-that-be to strengthen and master her own. Her ancient knowledge, ascended sorcery, and intrinsic healing mysticism— amongst other gifts of nature (a seer, fortune of truths; being of light) “I'm sorry, but it's out of my control.” “NOTHING Is out of your control." "--Except for you." She scorns him, and turns away swiftly, as her cape sweeps across the floor, as it flutters and whips behind her “I'm sorry, but it's out of my control.” “NOTHING Is out of your control." "--Except for you." She scorns him, and turns away swiftly, as her cape sweeps across the floor, as it flutters and whips behind her--she turns again, eyeing him directly, pointing to him with dismay as she takes in a breath; catching herself in anger, she deflates, keeping eye contact (though her gaze suddenly softens as she arrives ‘ACENSION' Ascension- Set in a parallel universe, Father TIme and Mother Nature are reconnected on Earth, as the dawn of a new-era arises at the peak of mankind's evolutionary journey. CHARACTERS Thïeo {Petrutheïo} Godform Spiritclad Cross-Bodied sorcerer; Humanborn earthbound in his most recent incarnation to rule in the new age…(t b c) C'Esmétt {Ch'Esmett X'oxįl Nazari is the most powerful being on planet Earth, and throughout multiple dimensions, through which she presides over, in various forms and figures; She possesses the universe's oldest Soul. a Godform Spiritclad Ascended Sorceress who possesses rare “Creation Energy”—the ability to form and shape matter, bend and travel through time, and control aspects of reality; Youthful and fiery, she is praised as a God of Light; Supporting: Kï'yara—Fireborn, Earthbound Rai'ayn—Loveborn, Multi-Dimentional Onyyxx—Rooted, Tri-Dimentiinal The elements: Love Matter Earth -Of Ground -Of Water -Of Fire -Of Air ...there are more but I'm tired right now. The realms: Now Then (points in the past to which time bending bodies may access) The past (inaccessible points on past timelines to those in human form or bound to earth, besides Godform; even so, the process is strenuous and dangerous. Love Self (to self, to travel inward and reflect a physical presence of the world within, outwardly; true self exists freely and ideally—you are able to converse with self as others see you [appearing as an identical twin with ideal aspects. Light therapy Frequencies Vibrationally energizing Body waves are Paralyzing Lines of Broken harmonies Inside of me. Crying on the clock; Rocking back and forth Stocking full of coal Greetings from the North Pole If Santa Clause is real Maybe we can make a deal; If my heart is made of steel You can't steal it—I can feel it Winter is here The world is money hungry (So am I) The world is simply starving (So am I) The world is so alarming (So am I) The world is just evolving. (So I am.) Cause I've been going crazy Stuck inside myself And I've been feeling lazy Just beside myself And I've been thinking lately That just maybe, someday maybe I'll be It's all connected— The reason we disconnect Is we're neglected I wonder what you'd expect You can't express it Just repress it. Repression syndrome— Came up too fast; Compression syndrome Suck it in Suck it up, You stupid fuck Dive deeper Ū (EP) 1. Thank U 2. I'm Sorry 3. I Love U 4. I miss U I like your vibe Come join my squad Curiosity killed the cat Carbohydrates killed the queen Don't cry “I'll try...” 50 Shades of Blue Don't pick up the phone Don't pick up the phone Don't pick up the phone Don't pick up the phone And here you are: 8 years later, With a baby on your back and— Bills to pay You have to decide (What the fuck) what the world is all about today. Don't want to be Cree For a really long time I just need I just need I just need a whole mind I was me the whole time I never left And yet There I was—looking at myself from above, All the love in the world; Just a lonely little girl Trapped in her Head Never got out of bed, that day: But I went away somewhere, And there I was—looking at myself from above, All the love in the world, Just a lonely little girl Trapped in her Head And I said “why are you waking me up?” But I wasn't asleep— I just wanted to fuck And sometimes, it's too much Too much is, never enough I've never been in love (with me) But I've always been in love (with you) And if you had seen it It wouldn't have been the death of me. Deeper I'll go: Deeper to find How I crossed white lines To become Colorblind How did you find me, here My deer? How did you know Where to go? How did you know, I would Follow you there, Once you finally showed me the road? I've seen both the frog, and the toad; You've already left me exposed, And I'm frozen in time Just to find Just to find Paradise— I tried. But love is a blind bat, Diving into a vat of Darkness; a hat is only a hat, If only there was more— And there is. There always is more— You just have to live more, And once you've been through the cycles, you could be Recycled. Ruined. Rebuilt. Guilt is only ever, Created after pleasure... With immense imploding pressure - [ ] You were born EP-GA [2K19] Mother Earth and Father Time are Making love right By the fire You are motion— I am sickness I am goddess; Be my witness. And I'll probably run for President— Just like I tend to run from everything; not because I want to do it, but because I have to... And just as I run from everything, I run to everything— As is the vicious cycle of life, unrepeated. I should have seen it coming, when he kicked my puppy—I didn't, but my mother did, and it might have been the same day. If not, it was definitely on the same porch—the same porch where...my adolescence began, and ended. There is no cure When your spirit is broken There is no cure—when you suffer in silence There is no cure— When you've seen all the violence It's only you. Breadcrumbs— I'm not dumb, I'm just muted. The dragon I'm chasing is me, And I just... Set the world on fire— I just—need to— I just—adjust. Translucent and transparent I am the thing that happens when you Parent your own parents. And I just I been waking up randomly, Panicking— Wishing I was dancing In the moonlight I'm vanishing without a trace And maybe I just hate this place, Maybe I'm just displaced I hate this I been waking up randomly Filling the void Avoiding my eyes in reflections I fell in love at a festival She came to dance, she was solo oh-oh ...took my hand, sack let's go- oh—oh-oh She didn't care She didn't care I'm a tax write-off I'm a meal ticket I'm a grasshopper; Or maybe, a cricket— Ricochet rabbit Why am I like this? “Why do you fight this?” I was not invited to mingle This ‘tingle' I get is more than A threat—I regretted, The moments I never forget The secrets you keep The stories you never will tell— This is hell, you're not dreaming It's only a nightmare. Too much to think about So I don't Dissociative, I associate everything Within—without I reflect everything I've been about, Stuck beside myself I am just a clone, A lone shadow of my Own All alone, and— I never planned to leave this planet But I have. You're out of my league Out of my league Why can't you see that It's so hard to be Paying the price for this Quarter-life crisis I don't mean to write this So bad, but I can't trust myself anymore I can't trust this world anymore Life is just Too complicated I'm jaded—I'm faded out Phased out, going about in this Town like I'm drowning in Insecurity Or rather, a diamond in the rough I've got enough stuff I just need love. You're out of my league I can see that I can't be that, thing What you want is perfection I just like who you are and thats— Never enough. I have nothing but love to give, love So forgive this: I didn't think I'd live this long But I was wrong And it was longer than I thought Ago Life is just Too complicated I'm jaded—I'm faded out Phased out, going about in this Town like I'm drowning in Insecurity Do you wanna know what it's like to be lonely like me I can tell you better than show you Once I get to know you good luck AMNESIA NOTES Miami Wade Crystal Brooks Donder (Donny) “we'll just call you Donny” “Why?” Uhhh...Because...we found you in the woods. “What?” “You know, like—the wild thornberrys” “Sounds tasty” “Uhhh—wasn't Donny found in the Jungle” “Uhhh—isn't the jungle just a denser version of the woods?” “I guess. It's like an earth-remix” “What's a remix?” Miami wells up—Crystal jumps up excitedly “Awwwwri And I've been stuck on Abbot Kinney, Thinking about Will Rodgers and Thinking that I'm a dodgers fan— But I'm not, I just like crowds. And LA makes me proud Of everything I need to be: And if the world were watching me She'd think she was herself. I was never sleeping, I'm just here And I was never reading, I just Put the bookmark where I left off... I could drift off into, The taste of ink And as it dries in my palm— I know it won't take long until I'm Drifting back into—sifting back into Space—grains of sand. You'll know when you've reached the promised land. Hello, Good Friend: ‘It's time to fall in love...with yourself.' The world has the most to learn from its elders and it's youth—fever disrespect the sometimes even subtle wisdom of a child or your elders. A1 (Lost in the Sauce) Break beats Ruffneck Bass: That's what I like in my face Drop that shit, don't make me wait Make me dance off all this waste I like chocolate, give me cake Wednesday mornin' wake-n-bake Star Jones—Oprah—Ricky lake Which is real and which is fake? Pick the right one, no mistake River—ocean—crater lake “White girl: can I touch your hair? Is it fake??” Out of order— Order steak. [ Sample: The Epic Trip] [interlude- two friends at a festival//a phone call] “Where the fuck are you?” “I can't hear you!” “Hello?” “BRO. Where are you?” “I'm by the—WAIT—hello?!” “WHAT? ” “HELLO?” [the call drops] “Yo. Where the fuck is she?” “I don't know man, probably lost in the sauce...” Sample Lost In The jungle//Kendrick Boo Boo Friends that say that they “gotchu” and then don't Ain't your friends— they're enemies Keep them close Nobody gives a fuck about you— Except you— Remember that. And if you can't remember Make a habit of forgetting Cause you're just another member of society With social anxiety Your sense of propriety Probably shouldn't be Anything I'd give anything Just to take back all my fucks Put them in a bucket, Throw it over my shoulder And wish the world “Good fucking luck” I'm so done with it This is the last chance you get So have fun with it There's no pleasure, no smiles— No love in it I'm just driving for miles Above the shit Transitions- Silent Film/EP Kandi moves to a new city from far, far away—and finds herself lost trying to find her own vibe. ❤️ 1. The Bus Song 2. Pretty Girls (SupaCreeMixx) 3. DOD (Phoenixx remix) “Holy infected fuck!” [thats my vibe right now] North Star After an EMP attack, an unlikely leader becomes a guide to a group of survivors to find the way northward to Alaska. Festival Trip Chava Hoffs- A Voluptuous Dark-Skinned Alaska Native-Black Mixed fashionista who (to her disdain) earns a living as a correctional officer in a juvenile detention facility in Arctic Alaska, daydreaming her long nights away and stacking her money, saving up for an escape to someplace warm and sunny. She is bright and quick-witted, but sometimes awkward—truly a ball of energy, whether good or bad. Sala Emilio (Stax) A tall, olive skinned hottie from Utah of Native American and Mexican decent who works as head chef in a gourmet Chinese food restaurant—a phenomenally functional alcoholic with a free spirit, questionable morals, good values, a loving heart—and a dry sense of humor. Childhood best friends with Chava, I hope you're okay with the character I based off you. I'm not going to copy the story exactly (cause it's a movie, duh) so—I came up with the story that your character runs the kitchen of a classy gourmet 5-Star Chinese restaurant in Utah that has an all-Mexican staff of mostly illegals; my character is a CO at a youth correctional facility in remote Alaska—I felt like those two extremes would play funnier on camera than to replicate our actual situations. I also made them not parents, because I would rather take the whole issue of parenting and raving into a completely separate film idea, I'm thinking of calling it Festival Project A Film Saga by SupaCree Inspired by True Events Festival Trip- Two lifelong friends take a two-week-long trip across the country, to attend two major music festivals—one on the west coast (Among Aliens, in California), and one on the east (Ultimate Music Festival) The Epic Trip – After breaking up with both her ex-fiance and her best friend, a depressed and anxious Chava decides to take a last-minute trip to another one of her bucket list destinations: The Epic Music Festival in Las Vegas, Nevada. F*ckFest: The Origins (Prequel) 21-year-old Chava Hoffs, a longtime raver and lover of all things dance culture, finally convinces her bar-scene best friend to accompany her to a regional event in her area, ‘F*ckfest', Sala's first ever festival/rave where—to both her and Chava's surprise, she connects with other longtime friends she had no idea were immersed into the culture. Sala, having been “rave-retired” since entering her first serious relationship, becomes overly-excited and branches off on her own, reconnecting with her true self after spending too long in her own shell—she discovers her love for an up-and-coming new artist (‘Shluggy') who magnetizes her with a newly-created sound (‘PukeRock'—a play on “VomitStep”) Vibes [Mini Series]- A sequel-in-installments to the shenanigans following F*ckfest, where Chava returns to visit Sala and return to ‘one of her favorite venues', which now hosts Festival Trip II- After reconciling, Chava and Sala unite again to journey to uncharted territories—after Chava is invited along as a journalist to cover artists belonging to an up-and-coming record label based in Alaska, she invites Sala as a tag-along, knowing that her “weird hoe-magic” will attract—as always—even more interesting personalities and circumstances than she could dream to on her own. Chava Hoffs Sala Emillio Gunther Ross- The more than interesting circus-act of a plug/one of Sala's romantic interests, who just happens to be in the same place at the same time, once Sala and Chava arrive in California. Solomon Dominguez- Chava's “homie-lover-friend”, a DC native transplanted to LA who hustles and bustles the 3-job life to live the California dream—a surprisingly dedicated and loyal friend to Chava, who considers him the “king of fuckboys”—which, is not entirely untrue. Johnny McEntire- An eclectic and friendly photographer who stumbles upon Sala during a vulnerable moment—a sweet, humble, and vibrant personality, Chava mostly dismisses him as just another victim of Sala's constantly-inconstant romantic gestures and affiliations. Grace Williams (Chava's Super-Christian (but very sweet) Aunt) Billy Williams- Chava's very dorky, southern Baptist uncle who can't help but throw in a (praise-jesus) Krista DeVaunte- Bride-To-Be—Noah's Fiance Noah Williams- Chava's Cousin, the groom to be Naomi Williams- Chava's salty Cousin, and freinemy since birth—Noah's younger sister Sonny Johnson— Chava's ex-fiance Dustin Roberts—Sala's ex-boyfriend Juan Manuel Jose Melendez Gutierrez-Rodriguez—Sala's current boyfriend, with whom she lives & works with. Running Jokes: Speaking Spanish with a Mandarin-inflenced dialect—speaking/yelling in awful Spanish-soundingMandarin—speaking “Mandarish” or “Spandarin” Every time Chava mentions Sonny (her ex), Sala interjects with “Fuck Sonny!” Cop Jokes (due to Chava's occupation) ACT I- The Wedding Bashers/It's Festival Season “Save-The-Date” Inciting Incident—Plans to attend a destination wedding that Chava and her lifelong long distance best friend Sala, have been planning for almost a year are abruptly halted when Chava learns via a very eventful facetime call (‘Meet The Williams') that her +1 invitation had apparently only applied to her now-ex-fiance [whom her stuck-up family adored because of his abhorrent Christianity], and that the bride-to-be would not allow Sala to take his place on the guest list—as her vivid memories of Sala from Chava's engagement party are severly grotesque. Flashback: Chava + Sonny's engagement party. Chava: Yeah dude, they got all, mad-butthurt that I was bringing you instead of Sonny. Sala: Fuck Sonny! A remote, unnamed city in the Alaskan Arctic Circle. It is severely cold, even visually so. Ch ACT II- Sunny California ACT III- Sunny Florida Excerpt- Festival Trip I As chava blasts away, Sala and Johnny laugh hysterically Sala: Dat ass tho! Their laughter fades in the distance as she speeds up, other onlookers also commenting about her ass, as she blows past a group of men in black, she turns a man's head as she catches his attention. Man: Daaaaaamn. 3.31.19 —Later— The same man from earlier looks out the window of his high rise penthouse suite, across from Chava's hotel—and sees Chava levitating—he pauses, looks around, and raises his eyebrows, drunkenly and assumingly otherwise intoxicated in his appearance. Man: Daaaaamn. Chava is freaking out, remaining motionless as she floats above the bed—she looks out the side of her peripheral, afraid to move—looking up at the ceiling, her eyes widen. She blinks, and takes a deep breath. He questions what he is seeing, as he pours himself a drink. 4.1.2019 As Chava dances through the crowds, she connects and trades Kandi, moving to the beat with intricate motion and flare—people are loving her (a musical dance number)—from backstage, a man pouts and purses his lips, wondering why she is familiar—he is momentarily lost in thought, as he gazes at her and the crowd. Man: (under his breath) Daaamn... Lackey: c'mon man, let's get the fuck out of here Man: But— Lackey: don't worry, you know there's gon' be hoes at the spot. Man: ...but look at her viiibe...and that ass tho—damn! Lackey: eehhhh. You wanna ass, I got a specific folder in my contacts titled “fat ass” with 300 bitches in it— Man: *women* Lackey: whatever—look—I could get you an ass twice as fat, on a dime twice as fine—in 10 minutes flat. Man: (eyes shining, like domo) but look at her aura... Lackey: —I think I got an Aurora in here Man: No, like— Lackey: (pulling at him) let's *go*, the fuck is you trippin..? His eyes won't move away, but he is led by the lackey by his arm, confusededly pouting as he is dragged along. Man: Damn. He feels like he knows her. Cut back to: CHAVA'S ENTRY DANCE scene ACT 1: Wedding Bashers Here we meet Chava Hoffs and Sala Emillio; Two life-long long-distance best friends who love eachother--for the most part--for better or worse. Sala (Pinky) and Chala (The Brain) are planning a tropical mexican vacation to a destination wedding Chava's been invited to as an excuse to celebrate Chava's upcoming birthday (held the same weekend as the wedding) in style--However, when Chava's exclusively classist family alerts her that her plus-one invitation only extended to her on-again-off-again fiance and absolutely excludes Sala, they desperately search for another way to escape their mundane and excruciatingly boring circumstances. Chava internet-searches events around her birthday and finds that there are two music festivals within the same week--running the numbers, she concludes that this alternative plan would actually cost less than the original--”so why not?” The young women keep their escapade-to-be a complete secret, disguising all the preliminary details as “wedding planning” They plan to ‘meet in the middle', Los Angeles being centrally located to both their respective homes. They meet at LAX excitedly and reuinte in happy (and drunken) tears. ACT 2: Sunny California Chava wants to visit old friends and reminisce as a “wannabe tourist” in an all-too-familiar city, which she used to call home--she's built a list of things to do and prepared an itinerary for the week; Sala wants to get riddegy-wrecked sun-up to sundown; Worlds collide as somewhat by-the-book Chava nervously nativages around, typically babysitting Sala and often falling victim to being steered off-course by her shenanigans. Within their first few moments under the California moonlight, Sala's smartphone helps her discover that she has a nearby group of friends--conveniently banded-together by her circus act “master plug”, who is devastatingly in love with her. They spend night one of the first festival tracking him down--Sala finds herself already exhausted by Sala's timing and drunken unsubtlety (“My friend's a COP!”) They finally meet him at the end of the first day, they allow him to tag along--until he becomes almost-suddenly dysfunctionally inebriated and Chava must make a fight-or-flight decision to leave him behind, after he begins drawing attention to their vulnerable crew, and she is approached at random by a mysterious character in a gas station convenience store, where she appears to be the most sober person. On day two, after running at top-speed to catch the shuttle, Sala drunkenly makes friends with a group of young people (fresh out of high school), who to Chava are quite “wookish”, but she plays along anyway. However, by the time they exit the shuttle and Chava has finallybecome comfortable being invited into their squad; Chala decides to ditch them--unknowing that they will re-meet later in the night. Excerpt- Festival Trip I As chava blasts away, Sala and Johnny laugh hysterically Sala: Dat ass tho! Their laughter fades in the distance as she speeds up, other onlookers also commenting about her ass, as she blows past a group of men in black, she turns a man's head as she catches his attention. Man: Daaaaaamn. 3.31.19 —Later— The same man from earlier looks out the window of his high rise penthouse suite, across from Chava's hotel—and sees Chava levitating—he pauses, looks around, and raises his eyebrows, drunkenly and assumingly otherwise intoxicated in his appearance. Man: Daaaaamn. Chava is freaking out, remaining motionless as she floats above the bed—she looks out the side of her peripheral, afraid to move—looking up at the ceiling, her eyes widen. She blinks, and takes a deep breath. He questions what he is seeing, as he pours himself a drink. 4.1.2019 As Chava dances through the crowds, she connects and trades Kandi, moving to the beat with intricate motion and flare—people are loving her (a musical dance number)—from backstage, a man pouts and purses his lips, wondering why she is familiar—he is momentarily lost in thought, as he gazes at her and the crowd. Man: (under his breath) Daaamn... Lackey: c'mon man, let's get the fuck out of here Man: But— Lackey: don't worry, you know there's gon' be hoes at the spot. Man: ...but look at her viiibe...and that ass tho—damn! Lackey: eehhhh. You wanna ass, I got a specific folder in m

Festival Project A Saga S Ū P A © R E E ™ One World. | PEACE. LOVE. UNITY. RESPECT. | Lifelong friends navigate the infinitely incredible world of rave culture, journeying together (and sometimes, apart) into the PLUniveRse© in fantastical, philosophical, and third-eye-opening adventures--the likes of which have never been seen (or foretold.) Festival Project™ is a multi-genre, mystifying and magical cross-genre series, set against the backdrop of modern rave culture-- combined with historical and futuristic elements-- across expansions of space-and-time, unifying with The Universal Consciousness in a multidimensional and explorative ensemble of Films, Episodic Series, Music Videos, Extended Playlists, and Concept Albums. A perpetual symphony of artistic storytelling though a cavalcade of wonderful and whimsical characters along high-intensity, off-the-map adventures--showcased through Music, Film & Interactive Art Explorations--set upon the dreamlike actual reality of an unravelling fabric of time-and-space. Enter The Multiverse: Anything Is Possible. This explosive and expansive wave of enigmatic, chaos-colliding, charismatic [ and often comedic] kinetic energy, reflects a shared experience throughout all time in human connection; Journey beyond the unknown, to Worlds Within--and Without. Everything is Everything. The Festival Project Saga is a multi-media Music, Film and Television saga that offers a new perspective on the ever-changing and recently popularized culture of dance music; it touches on the history of the culture as a whole, as well as a variety of other societal issues this generation faces—friendship, connectivity, communication—the dawn of social media, America's education system and justice system, immigration, and emerging mental health and drug crisis—while also taking a look at a history of counter culture as a derivative of the rapidly evolving technology of today's society. Through its characters and storylines, we dive deeply into a conglomerate of generational growth and exponentially educational topics, lightheartedly touching tales of friendship, family through blood and through bond, and exploring fields, of Astrology, Philosophy. Festival Trip- Two lifelong friends take a two-week-long trip across the country, to attend two major music festivals—one on the west coast (Among Aliens, in California), and one on the east (Ultimate Music Festival) Chava Hoffs Sala Emillio Gunther Ross- The more than interesting circus-act of a plug/one of Sala's romantic interests, who just happens to be in the same place at the same time, once Sala and Chava arrive in California. Solomon Dominguez- Chava's “homie-lover-friend”, a DC native transplanted to LA who hustles and bustles the 3-job life to live the California dream—a surprisingly dedicated and loyal friend to Chava, who considers him the “king of fuckboys”—which, is not entirely untrue. Johnny McEntire- An eclectic and friendly photographer who stumbles upon Sala during a vulnerable moment—a sweet, humble, and vibrant personality, Chava mostly dismisses him as just another victim of Sala's constantly-inconstant romantic gestures and affiliations. Grace Williams (Chava's Super-Christian (but very sweet) Aunt) Billy Williams- Chava's very dorky, southern Baptist uncle who can't help but throw in a (praise-jesus) Krista DeVaunte- Bride-To-Be—Noah's Fiance Noah Williams- Chava's Cousin, the groom to be Naomi Williams- Chava's salty Cousin, and freinemy since birth—Noah's younger sister Sonny Johnson— Chava's ex-fiance Dustin Roberts—Sala's ex-boyfriend Juan Manuel Jose Melendez Gutierrez-Rodriguez—Sala's current boyfriend, with whom she lives & works with. Running Jokes: -Ridiculous DJ names and Absurd Fictional Festivals -Speaking Spanish with a Mandarin-inflenced dialect—speaking/yelling in awful Spanish-sounding-Mandarin—speaking “Mandarish” or “Spandarin” -Every time Chava mentions Sonny (her ex), Sala interjects with “Fuck Sonny!” -Cop Jokes (due to Chava's occupation) “Go climb broke-bitch mountain!” ACT I- The Wedding Bashers/It's Festival Season “Save-The-Date” Inciting Incident—Plans to attend a destination wedding that Chava and her lifelong. long- distance best friend Sala, have been planning for almost a year are abruptly halted when Chava learns via a very eventful FaceTime call (‘Meet The Williams') that her +1 invitation had apparently only applied to her now-ex-fiance [whom her stuck-up family adored because of his abhorrent Christianity], and that the bride-to-be would not allow Sala to take his place on the guest list—as her vivid memories of Sala from Chava's engagement party are severely grotesque. Flashback: Chava + Sonny's engagement party. Chava: Yeah dude, they got all, mad-butthurt that I was bringing you instead of Sonny. Sala: Fuck Sonny! [The Break-Up] Sala: FUCK YOUR BIRTHDAY! CHAVA: I'M SURE YOU WOULD IF YOU COULD, IF MY BIRTHDAY HAD A PENIS. Sala: YOUR BIRTHDAY DOES HAVE A PENIS—IT'S YOU, DICK. CHAVA: THEN SUCK ME, SALLY MAE. SALA: YOU WISH, WANDA. CHAVA: Can't make a wish with no fucking candles, Kandace. SALA: Huh. I would have thought there were candles just judging by hard you fucking BLOW, Bonnie! CHAVA: Then drive off cliff, Clyde. A remote, unnamed city near the North Pole, in the Alaskan Arctic Circle. It is severely cold, even visually so. ACT II- Sunny California ACT III- Sunny Florida In the scene where random ravers find Sala's backpack in the parking lot, debut Rave Dora [Backpack SupaCreeMixx] “I'm a backpack loaded up with things and Knick-knacks too—anything that you might need, I got inside for you...” Festival Trip One-Liners/ Slang/ Phrases Keep up, Kassandra Hold Up, Heather Be back, Becky Back up, Barbra Shut up, Susan/ Shut Up Sandra/ Shut Up Sharon/ Sit Down, Sally Shove It, Shelly Stop It, Stella Chill, Chelsea Cheer Up, Charlie (a reference to Willy Wonka) Get out my biz, Liz Really Billy? Excerpt, Act III Chava: Dude, your energy is killing me. Sala: So. Chava: Soo, fix it. Sala: What do I look like—Bob the Builder? Chava: More like Wreck-It-Ralphed-All-Over-Yourself Sala: Fuck you. Chava: Off limits. I'm the last person on earth you haven't fucked. Sala: Jealous? Chava: Of the super-massive black-hole that is your vagina? No. I just wish my camera had a better low-light filter so I had actual photographic proof of an 8th world wonder. Sala: …fuck you. Chava: ‘No' Means ‘No'. [blows whistle] Get up. Sala: Ahhhhh—Get fucked! Chava: I was—and you ruined it being a hoe—but I'm willing to look past that, because its a beautiful fucking day in Miami and we're about to get lit. C'mon. S'day one. Sala: Day 1 of rave 2, I'm over it. Chava: Hoe, I'm over you. Sala: Get over me, then, bitch— Chava: I already said I am. Get with it. Sala: Get with this dick. Chava: What's a dick without some balls, bro? Pussy. Sala: … Chava: You mad? Sala: I been mad. Chava: Stay mad, then. Sala: How about I just stay here. Chava: Pay here, stay here, bitch—this trip ain't free. Sala: This trip ain't me. Raves are your thing. I'm not a “festival chick.” Chava: You are for the next three days. Sala: …Three…?! Chava: And counting. Get. Some. Motherfuckin' balls. Here, have some Jesus Juice. [She extends her arm, holding the bottle in front of Sala] Sala: Ughhh. Chava: Come on, man. I'm tryna see Cow Turds. Sala: You're engaged to one. Chava: Shut the fuck up and drink. Here, I'll have one with you. The Epic Trip – ‘Girl—Meet World'. After breaking up with both her ex-fiance and her best friend, a depressed and anxious Chava decides to take a last-minute trip to another one of her bucket list destinations: The Epic Music Festival in Las Vegas, Nevada. F*ckFest: The Origins (Prequel) 21-year-old Chava Hoffs, a longtime raver and lover of all things dance culture, finally convinces her bar-scene best friend to accompany her to a regional event in her area, ‘F*ckfest', Sala's first ever festival/rave where—to both her and Chava's surprise, she connects with other longtime friends she had no idea were immersed into the culture. Sala, having been “rave-retired” since entering her first serious relationship, becomes overly-excited and branches off on her own, reconnecting with her true self after spending too long in her own shell—she discovers her love for an up-and-coming new artist (‘Shluggy') who magnetizes her with a newly-created sound (‘PukeRock'—a play on “VomitStep”) Vibes [Mini Series, Prequel]- A sequel-in-installments to the shenanigans following F*ckfest, where Chava returns to visit Sala and return to ‘one of her favorite venues', which now hosts GoF*ckYourself (GFY), the biggest summertime festival in the region. Festival Trip II [First Sequel ]- It's been a magical year and the breakup is over; A 20-something's imaginary friend returns, a decade after disappearing, just as she finds herself on the brink of ‘real adulthood', and has settled into the mundane and mediocre—as he leads her on a journey of self-discovery, she internally struggles with whether to tell her therapist—after deciding (or rather, being convinced) she shouldn't, she begins a desperate search for answers in what seems like a downward spiral into (Use- I'm on my way to heaven, for trailer.) A group of friends decide to form their own society after discovering an “uncharted” island—what they don't know [understand] is that the world government is observing at every angle—and as their population increases, they struggle as the popularity of their culture and lifestyle explode— Craig's world- an ensemble about the good old days of craigslist Ū [Amnesia/Working Title] Miami (Ami) A fashion designer and music enthusiast who attends festivals in her spare time, seeking inspiration for her fashion and design blog; she shares an apartment with her lesbian best friend from college, who works as a freelance writer and photographer. Crystal (Chrys) A short-haired-yet-feminine gender-non-conforming lovable with a dry sense of humor and an eye for art; Music lover and fan of festivals, Miami's “convert” into the rave world. Serra- A high-matinence instagram model who supports herself through social media promotion and influencing, modeling Miami's fashion line and sugar-babying/arm-candying to make her way through life, usually attending festivals as someone's date or just to take pictures/show face. Samuel/Donnie- Sensei Samurai: An award-winning world-renowned music artist and specialty DJ, the soul-headliner of ‘Magic's Mountain art and Music Festival' Daz- Sam/Donnie's Manager- (Antagonist) Lazers, pyrotechnics, strobes, and confetti light the night sky as Sensei Samurai, a medium-build white guy sporting two long braids and a samurai cut (his signature style), dances atop the table which supports a state-of-the-art DJ set-up; The stage is massive, the crowd is wild--but he is at home--or rather, at work, and at the top of his game. He jumps down from the table, drinking from a red solo cup, before he picks up the microphone to speak to his audience: Samuel: LET ME SEE YOU FUCKING JUMP. He dances around, flailing his arms to gesture to the crowd, drinking again from his red solo cup . He moves to the beat of the music as he focuses to adjust the mixer, structuring a build-up. His manager watches from backstage, carefully eying his every move. Samuel: --ARE YOU GUYS READY? [He lights a ciggarette, sips from his cup again as he continues to mix. He nods along to the beat, grooving as he plots his next move, looking into the crowd with hunger in his eye.] Dez: (speaking into a earpiece) Sammy, take it easy... [He glances stage left, to where Dez is situated and watching him like a hawk; He nonchalantly shrugs, blowing out a plume of smoke into the air, decisively irritated with the instruction.] Dez: (Cont'd): I mean it, chill. [Samuel sticks his finger into his ear, wiggling it profusely--and dislodges the hidden inner-earpiece, eyeing Dez as he pulls up his headphones, deep in the mix; He takes a long drag from his ciggarette, master-minding as he feverously twists the knobs and dials of the mixer.] Samuel (over the mic) NO CHILL MOTHERFUCKERS. [The music speeds as he prepares for the drop.] Dez: (forgetting momentarily that he will not be heard) Sam, don't--! [Too late. Samuel Drops the bass so hard, it hurts, ripping off his headphones and running straight into the crowd, head first to crowd surf. The crowd goes massively, insanely wild.] Through the lens of Crystal's camera, we see a series of still photos, capturing Sam's wild plunge into the crowd, just off-center in the front row. Miami looks to her right, giving her a nod of approval; Crystal shoots her a hand signal for “ok”. Miami looks to her left, lifting an eyebrow and smirking at Serra, who bounces off-beat against a tall wooky gentleman who has his arms around her through the sleeves of a spirit hood, tilting her head from side to side as she poses for selfies. Miami happily sways to the motion of the music, putting one hand over the rail and pulling up her mask with the other, as she watches Samuel be lifted back onto the stage and take his place behind the decks. The set continues, the crowd, the lazers, and the effects go wild: The backdrop reads ‘SENSEI SAMURAI' His backup dancers are acrobatic ninjas. Samuel: Thank you Magical Mountain, I Love You Guys!! The crowd goes wild as Samuel exits the stage, ignoring Dez as he breezes past him. Dez: (following after him) I thought I said, “No more crowd surfing, no more stage diving.” Samuel: I thought you said that, too. Dez: Do you recall “OhMyLanta?” Samuel: (sarcastically) Oh, you mean that festival in Atlanta? Dez: Yes. Samuel: How creative. Dez: ‘Creative' would describe the legal team's very expensive, very strenuous tactical strategy which weaseled you out of a very serious lawsuit. Samuel: What? When was this? Dez: This was when you decided to stage dive wearing goth-pants and your chains got stuck in that kid's earholes Samuel: They're called Tripp pants. Dez: Oh yeah...what do you call them after mutilating a teenager with them? Samuel: Tripp pants I can sell on eBay. I made that kid a star. Dez: You made him a cripple. Samuel: --we still talk. [EXT. A FARAWAY FOREST] Bass blasts through the christmas-lit forest, a festival set in the meadow against the lush and natural forest scenery; Attendees come-and-go to-and-from the lines of tents and out into the festival grounds, where DJs headline stages, dancers and performers interact with spectators, vendors practice their unique salesmanship, and the wild and true nature of ravers is unleashed. Frozen breath leaks from the laughing mouths of three young individuals, running through the forest; Twigs crush and leaves crackle underfoot of their prancing and galloping feet, clad in combat boots, tennis shoes, and platforms, respectively. Ripped fishnets hug the thighs that sweep together rapidly, swooshing as the legs that bare them race forward; a pashmina trails behind one's back, acting as a cape of sorts. A thud, in the darkness of the forest. Crystal and Serra continue forward, unaware their friend has fallen for a few short moments, leaving Miami behind. Miami confusedly looks for the obstruction which caused her to trip, discovering under a pile of brush and leaves, a man (Samuel) lying face down on the ground; her eyes widen and she draws slightly back, frightened, before squinting and leaning in to get a closer look; She turns on a glow toy for added light, she pants heavily under her breath, shaking slightly as she brushes away debris and leaves, uncovering his head and shoulders, revealing he is wearing a mask. She examines him. His glasses are broken, lying on the ground under his face--His hair is wet; he appears dead. Crystal: ...I told you not to wear those. Miami: Yo… Crystal: Yo--*gasps* (she grabs Serra by the shoulder, holding her back.) Serra: (She notices the body, under her pashmina, spirit hood, and glasses) Ohwhatthefuck. (she takes a few steps back) Crystal: Don't move. Serra: Yeah, fuck that. Fuck this. (she wraps the pashmina tightly around her face) [muffled] Fuck this. Crystal: ...Ami, we should get out of here. Miami: We should help him. Crystal: He may be beyond help, honey. Serra: He's fucking dead. Whatthefuck. Fuck this! Crystal: ...Is he dead? Miami: (she looks at him closely, there are no signs of life. she checks for breathing with her hand.) ...I don't know. (she checks again, leaning in closer. she grabs his wrist to check a pulse) Serra: Don't touch it! Miami: Shut up, I'm trying to get a pulse (beat) ...he's super cold. Serra: He's super dead! Miam: No, no...I don't think so. Crystal, come here--help me turn him over. Crystal: Are you sure? What if he--wakes up and tries to--?? Miami: (urgently) What if it was you? Crystal fishes for a flashlight and switchblade in her fanny pack, places the flashlight in her mouth and positioning the knife under her kandi cuffs. She cautiously inches forward. Crystal: Serra, try to get some cell service so we can call for help. The girls carefully turn him onto his back, wide eyed and bewildered. He is completely lifeless, clamy and pale--covered with dirt, and forestry. Miami continues to check for a pulse, shaking her head as he continues to appear dead. Crystal: Do you feel anything? Miami: …(shaking her head) I can't...he's like…(as she pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie and notices a familiar tattoo. she pauses for a moment, thinks, and then looks towards his head) Do you still have my mirror in your fanny pack?) Crystal returns to her fanny pack, digging for the mirror. Miami carefuly leans in towards the man, examining him once more; she notices a necklace, also familiar--she thinks, as she moves to remove first the excess hair, and then the mask from his face, very carefully. She peels off his mask, immidiately shocked as she reckognizes his face--It is Samuel, who she knows as Sensai Samurai. She yeeps (imploded gasp, making Crystal look up; she, too recognizes him; she gasps. They look at eachother, then at him--then back to eachother.) Miami: ...Give me your mirror. Crystal: Dude, is this…? Miami: Your mirror. (she holds the mirror under his nose--a subtle cloud of fog appears; he is, in fact, alive.) Crystal: Oh, my God. Miami: He's breathing. Serra! Crystal: ...This is Sensai Samurai. Miami: (trying to convince herself) It probably just looks like him…. Crystal: I just took one-hundred close-up photos, dude--like, less than an hour ago-- Miami: Shhhhh! (she frantically begins to check his pockets) He's gotta have a wallet. Crystal: What, you were going to save him--now you wanna roll him? Miami: An ID. He's got to have an ID. (she frantically searches him) Hey Serra! (Crystal lifts the other sleeve of his sweater, revealing a brightly colored wristband, and one singular kandi bracelet, which reads “Sensai” Simoltaneously, Miami has found something in one of the pockets--she produces a small box from one of the pockets of his cargo pants) Crystal: Holy fuck. Look. (she gestures the wrist band and bracelet.) Miami: ...Artist's wristband. Fuck. It is him. Crystal: [Samuel is slumped lifelessly over both Crystal and Miami's shoulders, head hanging downward and hair flailing and dangling in his face as the girls struggle to support him. His oversized light-up sunglasses begin slipping, almost revealing his eyes.] Girl:(looking over, concerned) ...Is your friend okay? [He is clearly not. Serra slides her finger up his nose to adjust his glasses, eyeing the girl suspiciously.] Crystal: [flatly] Yes. [Samuel's dead-weight pulls him towards the ground, as he slips; the girls struggle to readjust; he seems heavier by the minute. They all three stare back at the girl, awkwardly; Miami fakes an ‘everything's fine' smile, while Crystal stares blankly through her sunglasses and Serra shoots a look of dissatisfaction. [INT. KITCHEN. DAY.] The three girls gaze in awe of Donnie, multitasking busily in the kitchen, hair pinned neatly atop his head with chopsticks, wearing a neatly-pressed (as in, freshly ironed) apron, as he removes one baking mit with his mouth and works about, happily consumed and bouncily, humming. -...He's so...domestic. Crystal -You'd think he'd carry a better tune. Miami- Cause you'd be belting melodies after waking up out of a drug-induced coma? Crystal- No--I guess I'd open a bake shop in some random girls' kitchen. Miami: Donnie? Donnie: Hmm, yes? Miami: We...we have some news for you. Donnie: Oooh! Is it celebrity news? Miami:...sort of. Donnie: I hope it's juicy gossip. Crystal: Believe me--it'll be the talk of the town. Donnie: This town? Crystal: Any town. [ She refills her wine glass first, then prepares two more, never breaking eye contact with donnie; His lighthearted excitement turns to slight confusion, as he furrows his brows,] Miami: (sighs, taking his hand) Here, lets sit down. Donnie: But, the macaroons-- Serra-What? That's what you're making? [Donnie nods.] Serra-...(to the side) maybe we should let him finish the macaroons, first...what if this like, fucks him all up. Miami: No, it's time. I feel like we've already waited too long. Serra-...I feel like he makes really good macaroons. Miami: Yeah? Like grammy-award-winning macaroons? -If by ‘Grammy', you mean my Grandmother would approve… Miami: Your grandmother died of complications from diabetes. Serra-...and you think macaroons had absolutely nothing to do with that? [Crystal has already finished her first glass of wine, and begins to reach for the second glass, when Miami, out of the corner of her eye, catches her, snatching the glass from her gracefully, as she floats it to Donnie, sitting beside him, crossing her legs.] Donnie: Before noon? Crystal- Oh, so you know that rule? Donnie: I know some things. A 20-something's imaginary friend returns, a decade after disappearing, just as she finds herself on the brink of ‘real adulthood', and has settled into the mundane and mediocre—as he leads her on a journey of self-discovery, she internally struggles with whether to tell her therapist—after deciding (or rather, being convinced) she shouldn't, she begins a desperate search for answers in what seems like a downward spiral into A group of friends decide to form their own society after discovering an “uncharted” island—what they don't know [understand] is that the world government is observing at every angle—and as their population increases, they struggle as the popularity of their culture and lifestyle explode— Craig's world- an ensemble about the good old days of craigslist Blue Story A wayward security officer drunkenly fills out an application to join the police academy, and is accepted—both to his surprise, and dismay. #SQUAD OUT!- A Mockumentary-Style Comedy following several “tribes”, “squads”, “rave families”, and even solo-ravers surrounding a large group of ravers and friends. Ū [Amnesia/Working Title] Amnesia [Working Title] Three girls at a camping festival find an incapacitated man in the woods and take him back to their campsite for safety—when one of the girls discovers that she recognizes the mysterious man, actually a headliner at the festival they're attending—two of the girls keep it a secret from their friend who would certainly take advantage of the situation. After discovering a “butt-load” of mind-altering substances on his person, Miami, the ring leader, makes a ‘judgement call' not to call the authorities, deciding instead to attempt to take him back to his trailer—however—when the girls haul him back to his campsite, they discover his manager, Dez, rifling through his belongings. When Samuel awakens, he has no memory of himself—and so a journey begins: a test of friendship, and a race against the clock. Miami (Ami) A fashion designer and music enthusiast who attends festivals in her spare time, seeking inspiration for her fashion and design blog; she shares an apartment with her lesbian best friend from college, who works as a freelance writer and photographer. Crystal (Chrys) A short-haired-yet-feminine gender-non-conforming lovable with a dry sense of humor and an eye for art; Music lover and fan of festivals, Miami's “convert” into the rave world. Shane- A high-matinence instagram model who supports herself through social media promotion and influencing, modeling Miami's fashion line and sugar-babying/arm-candying to make her way through life, usually attending festivals as someone's date or just to take pictures/show face. DONNIE “*giggles* what's a rave?” Miami (takes a deep breath) Crystal (facepalm) Shane (purses her lips) C-Is Giving drugs to somebody with amnesia bad? M-I don't know what's bad for amnesia S-Well maybe, it's not giving it to him that would be bad—like, they were already in his system, probably wouldn't he go like, into withdraw or something. You're probably right S-(I'm probably not) Samuel/Donnie- Sensei Samurai: An award-winning world-renowned music artist and specialty DJ, the soul-headliner of ‘Magic's Mountain art and Music Festival' Daz- Sam/Donnie's Manager- (Antagonist-) Lazers, pyrotechnics, strobes, and confetti light the night sky as Sensei Samurai, a medium-build white guy sporting two long braids and a samurai cut (his signature style), dances atop the table which supports a state-of-the-art DJ set-up; The stage is massive, the crowd is wild--but he is at home--or rather, at work, and at the top of his game. He jumps down from the table, drinking from a red solo cup, before he picks up the microphone to speak to his audience: Samuel: LET ME SEE YOU FUCKING JUMP. He dances around, flailing his arms to gesture to the crowd, drinking again from his red solo cup . He moves to the beat of the music as he focuses to adjust the mixer, structuring a build-up. His manager watches from backstage, carefully eying his every move. Samuel: --ARE YOU GUYS READY? [He lights a ciggarette, sips from his cup again as he continues to mix. He nods along to the beat, grooving as he plots his next move, looking into the crowd with hunger in his eye.] Dez: (speaking into a earpiece) Sammy, take it easy... [He glances stage left, to where Dez is situated and watching him like a hawk; He nonchalantly shrugs, blowing out a plume of smoke into the air, decisively irritated with the instruction.] Dez: (Cont'd): I mean it, chill. [Samuel sticks his finger into his ear, wiggling it profusely--and dislodges the hidden inner-earpiece, eyeing Dez as he pulls up his headphones, deep in the mix; He takes a long drag from his ciggarette, master-minding as he feverously twists the knobs and dials of the mixer.] Samuel (over the mic) NO CHILL MOTHERFUCKERS. [The music speeds as he prepares for the drop.] Dez: (forgetting momentarily that he will not be heard) Sam, don't--! [Too late. Samuel Drops the bass so hard, it hurts, ripping off his headphones and running straight into the crowd, head first to crowd surf. The crowd goes massively, insanely wild.] Through the lens of Crystal's camera, we see a series of still photos, capturing Sam's wild plunge into the crowd, just off-center in the front row. Miami looks to her right, giving her a nod of approval; Crystal shoots her a hand signal for “ok”. Miami looks to her left, lifting an eyebrow and smirking at Serra, who bounces off-beat against a tall wooky gentleman who has his arms around her through the sleeves of a spirit hood, tilting her head from side to side as she poses for selfies. Miami happily sways to the motion of the music, putting one hand over the rail and pulling up her mask with the other, as she watches Samuel be lifted back onto the stage and take his place behind the decks. The set continues, the crowd, the lazers, and the effects go wild: The backdrop reads ‘SENSEI SAMURAI' His backup dancers are acrobatic ninjas. Samuel: Thank you Magical Mountain, I Love You Guys!! The crowd goes wild as Samuel exits the stage, ignoring Dez as he breezes past him. Dez: (following after him) I thought I said, “No more crowd surfing, no more stage diving.” Samuel: I thought you said that, too. Dez: Do you recall “OhMyLanta?” Samuel: (sarcastically) Oh, you mean that festival in Atlanta? Dez: Yes. Samuel: How creative. Dez: ‘Creative' would describe the legal team's very expensive, very strenuous tactical strategy which weaseled you out of a very serious lawsuit. Samuel: Law-Suit? I've never worn one of those. Black-Label? Dez: More like ‘black-book' with your name written on and in it. It took me weeks clean up. Samuel: When was this? Dez: When you decided to stage dive wearing goth-pants and one of your chains got stuck in that kid's earhole. Samuel: They're called ‘Tripp' pants. Dez: Oh yeah...what do you call them after mutilating a teenager with them? Samuel: Tripp pants I can sell on eBay. Dez: You made him a cripple. Samuel: --we still talk. Bass blasts through the christmas-lit forest, a festival set in the meadow against the lush and natural forest scenery; Attendees come-and-go to-and-from the lines of tents and out into the festival grounds, where DJs headline stages, dancers and performers interact with spectators, vendors practice their unique salesmanship, and the wild and true nature of ravers is unleashed. Frozen breath leaks from the laughing mouths of three young individuals, running through the forest; Twigs crush and leaves crackle underfoot of their prancing and galloping feet, clad in combat boots, tennis shoes, and platforms, respectively. Ripped fishnets hug the thighs that sweep together rapidly, swooshing as the legs that bare them race forward; a pashmina trails behind one's back, acting as a cape of sorts. A thud, in the darkness of the forest. Crystal and Shane continue forward, unaware their friend has fallen for a few short moments, leaving Miami behind. Miami confusedly looks for the obstruction which caused her to trip, discovering under a pile of brush and leaves, a man (Samuel) lying face down on the ground; her eyes widen and she draws slightly back, frightened, before squinting and leaning in to get a closer look; She turns on a glow toy for added light, she pants heavily under her breath, shaking slightly as she brushes away debris and leaves, uncovering his head and shoulders, revealing he is wearing a mask. She examines him. His glasses are broken, lying on the ground under his face--His hair is wet; he appears dead. Miami is horrified, speechless, breathless. Crystal: ...I told you not to wear those. Miami: Yo… Crystal: Yo--*gasps* (she grabs Shane by the shoulder, holding her back.) Shane: (She notices the body, under her pashmina, spirit hood, and glasses) Ohwhatthefuck. (she takes a few steps back) Crystal: Don't move. Serra: Yeah, fuck that. Fuck this. (she wraps the pashmina tightly around her face) [muffled] Fuck this. Crystal: ...Ami, we should get out of here. Miami: We should help him. Crystal: He may be beyond help, honey. Shane: He's fucking dead. Whatthefuck. Cystal: ...Is he dead? Miami: (she looks at him closely, there are no signs of life. she checks for breathing with her hand.) ...I don't know. (she checks again, leaning in closer. she grabs his wrist to check a pulse) Shane: Don't touch it! Miami: Shut up, I'm trying to get a pulse (beat) ...he's super cold. Shane: He's super dead! Miam: No, no...I don't think so. Crystal, come here--help me turn him over. Crystal: Are you sure? What if he--wakes up and tries to--?? Miami: (urgently) What if it was you? Crystal fishes for a flashlight and switchblade in her fanny pack, places the flashlight in her mouth and positioning the knife under her kandi cuffs. She cautiously inches forward. Crystal: Shane, try to get some cell service so we can call for help. The girls carefully turn him onto his back, wide eyed and bewildered. He is completely lifeless, clamy and pale--covered with dirt, and forestry. Miami continues to check for a pulse, shaking her head as he continues to appear dead. Crystal: Do you feel anything? Miami: …(shaking her head) I can't...he's like…(as she pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie and notices a familiar tattoo. she pauses for a moment, thinks, and then looks towards his head) Do you still have my mirror in your fanny pack?) Crystal returns to her fanny pack, digging for the mirror. Miami carefuly leans in towards the man, examining him once more; she notices a necklace, also familiar--she thinks, as she moves to remove first the excess hair, and then the mask from his face, very carefully. She peels off his mask, immidiately shocked as she reckognizes his face--It is Samuel, who she knows as Sensai Samurai. She yeeps (imploded gasp, making Crystal look up; she, too recognizes him; she gasps. They look at eachother, then at him--then back to eachother.) Miami: ...Give me your mirror. Crystal: Dude, is this…? Miami: Your mirror. (she holds the mirror under his nose--a subtle cloud of fog appears; he is, in fact, alive.) Crystal: Oh, my God. Miami: He's breathing. Shane! Crystal: ...This is Sensai Samurai. Miami: (trying to convince herself) It probably just looks like him…. Crystal: I just took one-hundred close-up photos, dude--like, less than an hour ago-- Miami: Shhhhh! (she frantically begins to check his pockets) He's gotta have a wallet. Crystal: What, you were going to save him--now you wanna roll him? Miami: An ID. He's got to have an ID. (she frantically searches him) Hey Shane! (Crystal lifts the other sleeve of his sweater, revealing a brightly colored wristband, and one singular kandi bracelet, which reads “Sensai” Simultaneously, Miami has found something in one of the pockets--she produces a small box from one of the pockets of his cargo pants) Crystal: Holy fuck. Look. (she gestures the wrist band and bracelet.) Miami: ...Artist's wristband. Fuck. It is him. Crystal: [Samuel is slumped lifelessly over both Crystal and Miami's shoulders, head hanging downward and hair flailing and dangling in his face as the girls struggle to support him. His oversized light-up sunglasses begin slipping, almost revealing his eyes.] Girl:(looking over, concerned) ...Is your friend okay? [He is clearly not. Serra slides her finger up his nose to adjust his glasses, eyeing the girl suspiciously.] Crystal: [flatly] Yes. [Samuel's dead-weight pulls him towards the ground, as he slips; the girls struggle to readjust; he seems heavier by the minute. They all three stare back at the girl, awkwardly; Miami fakes an ‘everything's fine' smile, while Crystal stares blankly through her sunglasses and Serra shoots a look of dissatisfaction. [INT. KITCHEN. DAY.] The three girls gaze in awe of Donnie, multitasking busily in the kitchen, hair pinned neatly atop his head with chopsticks, wearing a neatly-pressed (as in, freshly ironed) apron, as he removes one baking mit with his mouth and works about, happily consumed and bouncily, humming. -...He's so...domestic. Crystal -You'd think he'd carry a better tune. Miami- Cause you'd be belting melodies after waking up out of a drug-induced coma? Crystal- No--I guess I'd open a bake shop in some random girls' kitchen. Miami: Donnie? Donnie: Hmm, yes? Miami: We...we have some news for you. Donnie: Oooh! Is it celebrity news? Miami:...sort of. Donnie: I hope it's juicy gossip. Crystal: Believe me--it'll be the talk of the town. Donnie: This town? Crystal: Any town. [ She refills her wine glass first, then prepares two more, never breaking eye contact with donnie; His lighthearted excitement turns to slight confusion, as he furrows his brows,] Miami: (sighs, taking his hand) Here, lets sit down. Donnie: But, the macaroons-- Serra-What? That's what you're making? [Donnie nods.] Serra-...(to the side) maybe we should let him finish the macaroons, first...what if this like, fucks him all up. Miami: No, it's time. I feel like we've already waited too long. Serra-...I feel like he makes really good macaroons. Miami: Yeah? Like grammy-award-winning macaroons? -If by ‘Grammy', you mean my Grandmother would approve… Miami: Your grandmother died of complications from diabetes. Serra-...and you think macaroons had absolutely nothing to do with that? [Crystal has already finished her first glass of wine, and begins to reach for the second glass, when Miami, out of the corner of her eye, catches her, snatching the glass from her gracefully, as she floats it to Donnie, sitting beside him, crossing her legs.] Donnie: Before noon? Crystal- Oh, so you know that rule? Donnie: I know some things. Under The Mask —A superstar DJ and his best friend embark on a series of festivals under cover as non-celebrity citizens to first-handedly experience the other side of his world. Grandma's Girl- A funeral turns into an accidentally epic week-long house party, after the ‘favorite grand child' becomes disappointed in the traditional send-off given by the family; While grieving and going through her late-grandmothers belongings, Serra discovers journals and an old phonebook, containing the life and times of her wildly adventurous grandma and her close friends—when she realizes that none of the people from her grandmother's life ‘before the family' are in attendance of her funeral (or even aware of her passing), she links up with her best friends to organize a ‘proper goodbye'. All heaven breaks loose, when ‘ravers of old' begin showing up to pay their respects to Silvia—things get a little out-of-hand when the gathering explodes due-to-word of mouth, as it turns out Grandma Silvia had a few more connections than expected—and they've all come from near-and-far to say their goodbyes. Deathwish—A series about a woman who makes a death wish—but the stakes are raised wen all her wildest dreams come true, and death lurks just around the corner at every turn. ((M3))- A collection of silent films, by SupaCree Enter: World of Music Ascension- Set in a parallel universe, Father TIme and Mother Nature are reconnected on Earth, as the dawn of a new-era arises at the peak of mankind's evolutionary journey. Series is set in a parralell universe, a seperate realm where humans have met faced dark ages, technological or technological setbacks they live harmoniously and peacefully within— live spiritually and intuitively with the planet, and can gain/ strengthen certain abilities through higher learning, strength training, conditionig, and meditation; We begin at the dawn of a new age, where beings ('God Bodies' [working])acended from higher plains of conciousness walk amongst the living in 'humanform', guided and led to higher forms of being through teachings of the Acended sorcerers and masters belonging to the universal collective conciousness of light; Also amongst the living, in 'humanform', Costumes: Modern-Futuristic da ‘Thieo' makes his final wish (for his truest and ever lasting love) to his appointed Acceded Sorcerer; but there are trials he must endure and obstacles to be met before his wish come true— C'Esmett— A warrior princess raised to rule is on on the brink of going rouge, after she is betrayed by her betrothed —her calling to become queen is imminent; yet she must overcome boundaries set by tradition, facing the powers-that-be to strengthen and master her own. Her ancient knowledge, ascended sorcery, and intrinsic healing mysticism— amongst other gifts of nature (a seer, fortune of truths; being of light) “I'm sorry, but it's out of my control.” “NOTHING Is out of your control." "--Except for you." She scorns him, and turns away swiftly, as her cape sweeps across the floor, as it flutters and whips behind her “I'm sorry, but it's out of my control.” “NOTHING Is out of your control." "--Except for you." She scorns him, and turns away swiftly, as her cape sweeps across the floor, as it flutters and whips behind her--she turns again, eyeing him directly, pointing to him with dismay as she takes in a breath; catching herself in anger, she deflates, keeping eye contact (though her gaze suddenly softens as she arrives ‘ACENSION' Ascension- Set in a parallel universe, Father TIme and Mother Nature are reconnected on Earth, as the dawn of a new-era arises at the peak of mankind's evolutionary journey. CHARACTERS Thïeo {Petrutheïo} Godform Spiritclad Cross-Bodied sorcerer; Humanborn earthbound in his most recent incarnation to rule in the new age…(t b c) C'Esmétt {Ch'Esmett X'oxįl Nazari is the most powerful being on planet Earth, and throughout multiple dimensions, through which she presides over, in various forms and figures; She possesses the universe's oldest Soul. a Godform Spiritclad Ascended Sorceress who possesses rare “Creation Energy”—the ability to form and shape matter, bend and travel through time, and control aspects of reality; Youthful and fiery, she is praised as a God of Light; Supporting: Kï'yara—Fireborn, Earthbound Rai'ayn—Loveborn, Multi-Dimentional Onyyxx—Rooted, Tri-Dimentiinal The elements: Love Matter Earth -Of Ground -Of Water -Of Fire -Of Air ...there are more but I'm tired right now. The realms: Now Then (points in the past to which time bending bodies may access) The past (inaccessible points on past timelines to those in human form or bound to earth, besides Godform; even so, the process is strenuous and dangerous. Love Self (to self, to travel inward and reflect a physical presence of the world within, outwardly; true self exists freely and ideally—you are able to converse with self as others see you [appearing as an identical twin with ideal aspects. Light therapy Frequencies Vibrationally energizing Body waves are Paralyzing Lines of Broken harmonies Inside of me. Crying on the clock; Rocking back and forth Stocking full of coal Greetings from the North Pole If Santa Clause is real Maybe we can make a deal; If my heart is made of steel You can't steal it—I can feel it Winter is here The world is money hungry (So am I) The world is simply starving (So am I) The world is so alarming (So am I) The world is just evolving. (So I am.) Cause I've been going crazy Stuck inside myself And I've been feeling lazy Just beside myself And I've been thinking lately That just maybe, someday maybe I'll be It's all connected— The reason we disconnect Is we're neglected I wonder what you'd expect You can't express it Just repress it. Repression syndrome— Came up too fast; Compression syndrome Suck it in Suck it up, You stupid fuck Dive deeper Ū (EP) 1. Thank U 2. I'm Sorry 3. I Love U 4. I miss U I like your vibe Come join my squad Curiosity killed the cat Carbohydrates killed the queen Don't cry “I'll try...” 50 Shades of Blue Don't pick up the phone Don't pick up the phone Don't pick up the phone Don't pick up the phone And here you are: 8 years later, With a baby on your back and— Bills to pay You have to decide (What the fuck) what the world is all about today. Don't want to be Cree For a really long time I just need I just need I just need a whole mind I was me the whole time I never left And yet There I was—looking at myself from above, All the love in the world; Just a lonely little girl Trapped in her Head Never got out of bed, that day: But I went away somewhere, And there I was—looking at myself from above, All the love in the world, Just a lonely little girl Trapped in her Head And I said “why are you waking me up?” But I wasn't asleep— I just wanted to fuck And sometimes, it's too much Too much is, never enough I've never been in love (with me) But I've always been in love (with you) And if you had seen it It wouldn't have been the death of me. Deeper I'll go: Deeper to find How I crossed white lines To become Colorblind How did you find me, here My deer? How did you know Where to go? How did you know, I would Follow you there, Once you finally showed me the road? I've seen both the frog, and the toad; You've already left me exposed, And I'm frozen in time Just to find Just to find Paradise— I tried. But love is a blind bat, Diving into a vat of Darkness; a hat is only a hat, If only there was more— And there is. There always is more— You just have to live more, And once you've been through the cycles, you could be Recycled. Ruined. Rebuilt. Guilt is only ever, Created after pleasure... With immense imploding pressure - [ ] You were born EP-GA [2K19] Mother Earth and Father Time are Making love right By the fire You are motion— I am sickness I am goddess; Be my witness. And I'll probably run for President— Just like I tend to run from everything; not because I want to do it, but because I have to... And just as I run from everything, I run to everything— As is the vicious cycle of life, unrepeated. I should have seen it coming, when he kicked my puppy—I didn't, but my mother did, and it might have been the same day. If not, it was definitely on the same porch—the same porch where...my adolescence began, and ended. There is no cure When your spirit is broken There is no cure—when you suffer in silence There is no cure— When you've seen all the violence It's only you. Breadcrumbs— I'm not dumb, I'm just muted. The dragon I'm chasing is me, And I just... Set the world on fire— I just—need to— I just—adjust. Translucent and transparent I am the thing that happens when you Parent your own parents. And I just I been waking up randomly, Panicking— Wishing I was dancing In the moonlight I'm vanishing without a trace And maybe I just hate this place, Maybe I'm just displaced I hate this I been waking up randomly Filling the void Avoiding my eyes in reflections I fell in love at a festival She came to dance, she was solo oh-oh ...took my hand, sack let's go- oh—oh-oh She didn't care She didn't care I'm a tax write-off I'm a meal ticket I'm a grasshopper; Or maybe, a cricket— Ricochet rabbit Why am I like this? “Why do you fight this?” I was not invited to mingle This ‘tingle' I get is more than A threat—I regretted, The moments I never forget The secrets you keep The stories you never will tell— This is hell, you're not dreaming It's only a nightmare. Too much to think about So I don't Dissociative, I associate everything Within—without I reflect everything I've been about, Stuck beside myself I am just a clone, A lone shadow of my Own All alone, and— I never planned to leave this planet But I have. You're out of my league Out of my league Why can't you see that It's so hard to be Paying the price for this Quarter-life crisis I don't mean to write this So bad, but I can't trust myself anymore I can't trust this world anymore Life is just Too complicated I'm jaded—I'm faded out Phased out, going about in this Town like I'm drowning in Insecurity Or rather, a diamond in the rough I've got enough stuff I just need love. You're out of my league I can see that I can't be that, thing What you want is perfection I just like who you are and thats— Never enough. I have nothing but love to give, love So forgive this: I didn't think I'd live this long But I was wrong And it was longer than I thought Ago Life is just Too complicated I'm jaded—I'm faded out Phased out, going about in this Town like I'm drowning in Insecurity Do you wanna know what it's like to be lonely like me I can tell you better than show you Once I get to know you good luck AMNESIA NOTES Miami Wade Crystal Brooks Donder (Donny) “we'll just call you Donny” “Why?” Uhhh...Because...we found you in the woods. “What?” “You know, like—the wild thornberrys” “Sounds tasty” “Uhhh—wasn't Donny found in the Jungle” “Uhhh—isn't the jungle just a denser version of the woods?” “I guess. It's like an earth-remix” “What's a remix?” Miami wells up—Crystal jumps up excitedly “Awwwwri And I've been stuck on Abbot Kinney, Thinking about Will Rodgers and Thinking that I'm a dodgers fan— But I'm not, I just like crowds. And LA makes me proud Of everything I need to be: And if the world were watching me She'd think she was herself. I was never sleeping, I'm just here And I was never reading, I just Put the bookmark where I left off... I could drift off into, The taste of ink And as it dries in my palm— I know it won't take long until I'm Drifting back into—sifting back into Space—grains of sand. You'll know when you've reached the promised land. Hello, Good Friend: ‘It's time to fall in love...with yourself.' The world has the most to learn from its elders and it's youth—fever disrespect the sometimes even subtle wisdom of a child or your elders. A1 (Lost in the Sauce) Break beats Ruffneck Bass: That's what I like in my face Drop that shit, don't make me wait Make me dance off all this waste I like chocolate, give me cake Wednesday mornin' wake-n-bake Star Jones—Oprah—Ricky lake Which is real and which is fake? Pick the right one, no mistake River—ocean—crater lake “White girl: can I touch your hair? Is it fake??” Out of order— Order steak. [ Sample: The Epic Trip] [interlude- two friends at a festival//a phone call] “Where the fuck are you?” “I can't hear you!” “Hello?” “BRO. Where are you?” “I'm by the—WAIT—hello?!” “WHAT? ” “HELLO?” [the call drops] “Yo. Where the fuck is she?” “I don't know man, probably lost in the sauce...” Sample Lost In The jungle//Kendrick Boo Boo Friends that say that they “gotchu” and then don't Ain't your friends— they're enemies Keep them close Nobody gives a fuck about you— Except you— Remember that. And if you can't remember Make a habit of forgetting Cause you're just another member of society With social anxiety Your sense of propriety Probably shouldn't be Anything I'd give anything Just to take back all my fucks Put them in a bucket, Throw it over my shoulder And wish the world “Good fucking luck” I'm so done with it This is the last chance you get So have fun with it There's no pleasure, no smiles— No love in it I'm just driving for miles Above the shit Transitions- Silent Film/EP Kandi moves to a new city from far, far away—and finds herself lost trying to find her own vibe. ❤️ 1. The Bus Song 2. Pretty Girls (SupaCreeMixx) 3. DOD (Phoenixx remix) “Holy infected fuck!” [thats my vibe right now] North Star After an EMP attack, an unlikely leader becomes a guide to a group of survivors to find the way northward to Alaska. Festival Trip Chava Hoffs- A Voluptuous Dark-Skinned Alaska Native-Black Mixed fashionista who (to her disdain) earns a living as a correctional officer in a juvenile detention facility in Arctic Alaska, daydreaming her long nights away and stacking her money, saving up for an escape to someplace warm and sunny. She is bright and quick-witted, but sometimes awkward—truly a ball of energy, whether good or bad. Sala Emilio (Stax) A tall, olive skinned hottie from Utah of Native American and Mexican decent who works as head chef in a gourmet Chinese food restaurant—a phenomenally functional alcoholic with a free spirit, questionable morals, good values, a loving heart—and a dry sense of humor. Childhood best friends with Chava, I hope you're okay with the character I based off you. I'm not going to copy the story exactly (cause it's a movie, duh) so—I came up with the story that your character runs the kitchen of a classy gourmet 5-Star Chinese restaurant in Utah that has an all-Mexican staff of mostly illegals; my character is a CO at a youth correctional facility in remote Alaska—I felt like those two extremes would play funnier on camera than to replicate our actual situations. I also made them not parents, because I would rather take the whole issue of parenting and raving into a completely separate film idea, I'm thinking of calling it Festival Project A Film Saga by SupaCree Inspired by True Events Festival Trip- Two lifelong friends take a two-week-long trip across the country, to attend two major music festivals—one on the west coast (Among Aliens, in California), and one on the east (Ultimate Music Festival) The Epic Trip – After breaking up with both her ex-fiance and her best friend, a depressed and anxious Chava decides to take a last-minute trip to another one of her bucket list destinations: The Epic Music Festival in Las Vegas, Nevada. F*ckFest: The Origins (Prequel) 21-year-old Chava Hoffs, a longtime raver and lover of all things dance culture, finally convinces her bar-scene best friend to accompany her to a regional event in her area, ‘F*ckfest', Sala's first ever festival/rave where—to both her and Chava's surprise, she connects with other longtime friends she had no idea were immersed into the culture. Sala, having been “rave-retired” since entering her first serious relationship, becomes overly-excited and branches off on her own, reconnecting with her true self after spending too long in her own shell—she discovers her love for an up-and-coming new artist (‘Shluggy') who magnetizes her with a newly-created sound (‘PukeRock'—a play on “VomitStep”) Vibes [Mini Series]- A sequel-in-installments to the shenanigans following F*ckfest, where Chava returns to visit Sala and return to ‘one of her favorite venues', which now hosts Festival Trip II- After reconciling, Chava and Sala unite again to journey to uncharted territories—after Chava is invited along as a journalist to cover artists belonging to an up-and-coming record label based in Alaska, she invites Sala as a tag-along, knowing that her “weird hoe-magic” will attract—as always—even more interesting personalities and circumstances than she could dream to on her own. Chava Hoffs Sala Emillio Gunther Ross- The more than interesting circus-act of a plug/one of Sala's romantic interests, who just happens to be in the same place at the same time, once Sala and Chava arrive in California. Solomon Dominguez- Chava's “homie-lover-friend”, a DC native transplanted to LA who hustles and bustles the 3-job life to live the California dream—a surprisingly dedicated and loyal friend to Chava, who considers him the “king of fuckboys”—which, is not entirely untrue. Johnny McEntire- An eclectic and friendly photographer who stumbles upon Sala during a vulnerable moment—a sweet, humble, and vibrant personality, Chava mostly dismisses him as just another victim of Sala's constantly-inconstant romantic gestures and affiliations. Grace Williams (Chava's Super-Christian (but very sweet) Aunt) Billy Williams- Chava's very dorky, southern Baptist uncle who can't help but throw in a (praise-jesus) Krista DeVaunte- Bride-To-Be—Noah's Fiance Noah Williams- Chava's Cousin, the groom to be Naomi Williams- Chava's salty Cousin, and freinemy since birth—Noah's younger sister Sonny Johnson— Chava's ex-fiance Dustin Roberts—Sala's ex-boyfriend Juan Manuel Jose Melendez Gutierrez-Rodriguez—Sala's current boyfriend, with whom she lives & works with. Running Jokes: Speaking Spanish with a Mandarin-inflenced dialect—speaking/yelling in awful Spanish-soundingMandarin—speaking “Mandarish” or “Spandarin” Every time Chava mentions Sonny (her ex), Sala interjects with “Fuck Sonny!” Cop Jokes (due to Chava's occupation) ACT I- The Wedding Bashers/It's Festival Season “Save-The-Date” Inciting Incident—Plans to attend a destination wedding that Chava and her lifelong long distance best friend Sala, have been planning for almost a year are abruptly halted when Chava learns via a very eventful facetime call (‘Meet The Williams') that her +1 invitation had apparently only applied to her now-ex-fiance [whom her stuck-up family adored because of his abhorrent Christianity], and that the bride-to-be would not allow Sala to take his place on the guest list—as her vivid memories of Sala from Chava's engagement party are severly grotesque. Flashback: Chava + Sonny's engagement party. Chava: Yeah dude, they got all, mad-butthurt that I was bringing you instead of Sonny. Sala: Fuck Sonny! A remote, unnamed city in the Alaskan Arctic Circle. It is severely cold, even visually so. Ch ACT II- Sunny California ACT III- Sunny Florida Excerpt- Festival Trip I As chava blasts away, Sala and Johnny laugh hysterically Sala: Dat ass tho! Their laughter fades in the distance as she speeds up, other onlookers also commenting about her ass, as she blows past a group of men in black, she turns a man's head as she catches his attention. Man: Daaaaaamn. 3.31.19 —Later— The same man from earlier looks out the window of his high rise penthouse suite, across from Chava's hotel—and sees Chava levitating—he pauses, looks around, and raises his eyebrows, drunkenly and assumingly otherwise intoxicated in his appearance. Man: Daaaaamn. Chava is freaking out, remaining motionless as she floats above the bed—she looks out the side of her peripheral, afraid to move—looking up at the ceiling, her eyes widen. She blinks, and takes a deep breath. He questions what he is seeing, as he pours himself a drink. 4.1.2019 As Chava dances through the crowds, she connects and trades Kandi, moving to the beat with intricate motion and flare—people are loving her (a musical dance number)—from backstage, a man pouts and purses his lips, wondering why she is familiar—he is momentarily lost in thought, as he gazes at her and the crowd. Man: (under his breath) Daaamn... Lackey: c'mon man, let's get the fuck out of here Man: But— Lackey: don't worry, you know there's gon' be hoes at the spot. Man: ...but look at her viiibe...and that ass tho—damn! Lackey: eehhhh. You wanna ass, I got a specific folder in my contacts titled “fat ass” with 300 bitches in it— Man: *women* Lackey: whatever—look—I could get you an ass twice as fat, on a dime twice as fine—in 10 minutes flat. Man: (eyes shining, like domo) but look at her aura... Lackey: —I think I got an Aurora in here Man: No, like— Lackey: (pulling at him) let's *go*, the fuck is you trippin..? His eyes won't move away, but he is led by the lackey by his arm, confusededly pouting as he is dragged along. Man: Damn. He feels like he knows her. Cut back to: CHAVA'S ENTRY DANCE scene ACT 1: Wedding Bashers Here we meet Chava Hoffs and Sala Emillio; Two life-long long-distance best friends who love eachother--for the most part--for better or worse. Sala (Pinky) and Chala (The Brain) are planning a tropical mexican vacation to a destination wedding Chava's been invited to as an excuse to celebrate Chava's upcoming birthday (held the same weekend as the wedding) in style--However, when Chava's exclusively classist family alerts her that her plus-one invitation only extended to her on-again-off-again fiance and absolutely excludes Sala, they desperately search for another way to escape their mundane and excruciatingly boring circumstances. Chava internet-searches events around her birthday and finds that there are two music festivals within the same week--running the numbers, she concludes that this alternative plan would actually cost less than the original--”so why not?” The young women keep their escapade-to-be a complete secret, disguising all the preliminary details as “wedding planning” They plan to ‘meet in the middle', Los Angeles being centrally located to both their respective homes. They meet at LAX excitedly and reuinte in happy (and drunken) tears. ACT 2: Sunny California Chava wants to visit old friends and reminisce as a “wannabe tourist” in an all-too-familiar city, which she used to call home--she's built a list of things to do and prepared an itinerary for the week; Sala wants to get riddegy-wrecked sun-up to sundown; Worlds collide as somewhat by-the-book Chava nervously nativages around, typically babysitting Sala and often falling victim to being steered off-course by her shenanigans. Within their first few moments under the California moonlight, Sala's smartphone helps her discover that she has a nearby group of friends--conveniently banded-together by her circus act “master plug”, who is devastatingly in love with her. They spend night one of the first festival tracking him down--Sala finds herself already exhausted by Sala's timing and drunken unsubtlety (“My friend's a COP!”) They finally meet him at the end of the first day, they allow him to tag along--until he becomes almost-suddenly dysfunctionally inebriated and Chava must make a fight-or-flight decision to leave him behind, after he begins drawing attention to their vulnerable crew, and she is approached at random by a mysterious character in a gas station convenience store, where she appears to be the most sober person. On day two, after running at top-speed to catch the shuttle, Sala drunkenly makes friends with a group of young people (fresh out of high school), who to Chava are quite “wookish”, but she plays along anyway. However, by the time they exit the shuttle and Chava has finallybecome comfortable being invited into their squad; Chala decides to ditch them--unknowing that they will re-meet later in the night. Excerpt- Festival Trip I As chava blasts away, Sala and Johnny laugh hysterically Sala: Dat ass tho! Their laughter fades in the distance as she speeds up, other onlookers also commenting about her ass, as she blows past a group of men in black, she turns a man's head as she catches his attention. Man: Daaaaaamn. 3.31.19 —Later— The same man from earlier looks out the window of his high rise penthouse suite, across from Chava's hotel—and sees Chava levitating—he pauses, looks around, and raises his eyebrows, drunkenly and assumingly otherwise intoxicated in his appearance. Man: Daaaaamn. Chava is freaking out, remaining motionless as she floats above the bed—she looks out the side of her peripheral, afraid to move—looking up at the ceiling, her eyes widen. She blinks, and takes a deep breath. He questions what he is seeing, as he pours himself a drink. 4.1.2019 As Chava dances through the crowds, she connects and trades Kandi, moving to the beat with intricate motion and flare—people are loving her (a musical dance number)—from backstage, a man pouts and purses his lips, wondering why she is familiar—he is momentarily lost in thought, as he gazes at her and the crowd. Man: (under his breath) Daaamn... Lackey: c'mon man, let's get the fuck out of here Man: But— Lackey: don't worry, you know there's gon' be hoes at the spot. Man: ...but look at her viiibe...and that ass tho—damn! Lackey: eehhhh. You wanna ass, I got a specific folder in m

Festival Project A Saga S Ū P A © R E E ™ One World. | PEACE. LOVE. UNITY. RESPECT. | Lifelong friends navigate the infinitely incredible world of rave culture, journeying together (and sometimes, apart) into the PLUniveRse© in fantastical, philosophical, and third-eye-opening adventures--the likes of which have never been seen (or foretold.) Festival Project™ is a multi-genre, mystifying and magical cross-genre series, set against the backdrop of modern rave culture-- combined with historical and futuristic elements-- across expansions of space-and-time, unifying with The Universal Consciousness in a multidimensional and explorative ensemble of Films, Episodic Series, Music Videos, Extended Playlists, and Concept Albums. A perpetual symphony of artistic storytelling though a cavalcade of wonderful and whimsical characters along high-intensity, off-the-map adventures--showcased through Music, Film & Interactive Art Explorations--set upon the dreamlike actual reality of an unravelling fabric of time-and-space. Enter The Multiverse: Anything Is Possible. This explosive and expansive wave of enigmatic, chaos-colliding, charismatic [ and often comedic] kinetic energy, reflects a shared experience throughout all time in human connection; Journey beyond the unknown, to Worlds Within--and Without. Everything is Everything. The Festival Project Saga is a multi-media Music, Film and Television saga that offers a new perspective on the ever-changing and recently popularized culture of dance music; it touches on the history of the culture as a whole, as well as a variety of other societal issues this generation faces—friendship, connectivity, communication—the dawn of social media, America's education system and justice system, immigration, and emerging mental health and drug crisis—while also taking a look at a history of counter culture as a derivative of the rapidly evolving technology of today's society. Through its characters and storylines, we dive deeply into a conglomerate of generational growth and exponentially educational topics, lightheartedly touching tales of friendship, family through blood and through bond, and exploring fields, of Astrology, Philosophy. Festival Trip- Two lifelong friends take a two-week-long trip across the country, to attend two major music festivals—one on the west coast (Among Aliens, in California), and one on the east (Ultimate Music Festival) Chava Hoffs Sala Emillio Gunther Ross- The more than interesting circus-act of a plug/one of Sala's romantic interests, who just happens to be in the same place at the same time, once Sala and Chava arrive in California. Solomon Dominguez- Chava's “homie-lover-friend”, a DC native transplanted to LA who hustles and bustles the 3-job life to live the California dream—a surprisingly dedicated and loyal friend to Chava, who considers him the “king of fuckboys”—which, is not entirely untrue. Johnny McEntire- An eclectic and friendly photographer who stumbles upon Sala during a vulnerable moment—a sweet, humble, and vibrant personality, Chava mostly dismisses him as just another victim of Sala's constantly-inconstant romantic gestures and affiliations. Grace Williams (Chava's Super-Christian (but very sweet) Aunt) Billy Williams- Chava's very dorky, southern Baptist uncle who can't help but throw in a (praise-jesus) Krista DeVaunte- Bride-To-Be—Noah's Fiance Noah Williams- Chava's Cousin, the groom to be Naomi Williams- Chava's salty Cousin, and freinemy since birth—Noah's younger sister Sonny Johnson— Chava's ex-fiance Dustin Roberts—Sala's ex-boyfriend Juan Manuel Jose Melendez Gutierrez-Rodriguez—Sala's current boyfriend, with whom she lives & works with. Running Jokes: -Ridiculous DJ names and Absurd Fictional Festivals -Speaking Spanish with a Mandarin-inflenced dialect—speaking/yelling in awful Spanish-sounding-Mandarin—speaking “Mandarish” or “Spandarin” -Every time Chava mentions Sonny (her ex), Sala interjects with “Fuck Sonny!” -Cop Jokes (due to Chava's occupation) “Go climb broke-bitch mountain!” ACT I- The Wedding Bashers/It's Festival Season “Save-The-Date” Inciting Incident—Plans to attend a destination wedding that Chava and her lifelong. long- distance best friend Sala, have been planning for almost a year are abruptly halted when Chava learns via a very eventful FaceTime call (‘Meet The Williams') that her +1 invitation had apparently only applied to her now-ex-fiance [whom her stuck-up family adored because of his abhorrent Christianity], and that the bride-to-be would not allow Sala to take his place on the guest list—as her vivid memories of Sala from Chava's engagement party are severely grotesque. Flashback: Chava + Sonny's engagement party. Chava: Yeah dude, they got all, mad-butthurt that I was bringing you instead of Sonny. Sala: Fuck Sonny! [The Break-Up] Sala: FUCK YOUR BIRTHDAY! CHAVA: I'M SURE YOU WOULD IF YOU COULD, IF MY BIRTHDAY HAD A PENIS. Sala: YOUR BIRTHDAY DOES HAVE A PENIS—IT'S YOU, DICK. CHAVA: THEN SUCK ME, SALLY MAE. SALA: YOU WISH, WANDA. CHAVA: Can't make a wish with no fucking candles, Kandace. SALA: Huh. I would have thought there were candles just judging by hard you fucking BLOW, Bonnie! CHAVA: Then drive off cliff, Clyde. A remote, unnamed city near the North Pole, in the Alaskan Arctic Circle. It is severely cold, even visually so. ACT II- Sunny California ACT III- Sunny Florida In the scene where random ravers find Sala's backpack in the parking lot, debut Rave Dora [Backpack SupaCreeMixx] “I'm a backpack loaded up with things and Knick-knacks too—anything that you might need, I got inside for you...” Festival Trip One-Liners/ Slang/ Phrases Keep up, Kassandra Hold Up, Heather Be back, Becky Back up, Barbra Shut up, Susan/ Shut Up Sandra/ Shut Up Sharon/ Sit Down, Sally Shove It, Shelly Stop It, Stella Chill, Chelsea Cheer Up, Charlie (a reference to Willy Wonka) Get out my biz, Liz Really Billy? Excerpt, Act III Chava: Dude, your energy is killing me. Sala: So. Chava: Soo, fix it. Sala: What do I look like—Bob the Builder? Chava: More like Wreck-It-Ralphed-All-Over-Yourself Sala: Fuck you. Chava: Off limits. I'm the last person on earth you haven't fucked. Sala: Jealous? Chava: Of the super-massive black-hole that is your vagina? No. I just wish my camera had a better low-light filter so I had actual photographic proof of an 8th world wonder. Sala: …fuck you. Chava: ‘No' Means ‘No'. [blows whistle] Get up. Sala: Ahhhhh—Get fucked! Chava: I was—and you ruined it being a hoe—but I'm willing to look past that, because its a beautiful fucking day in Miami and we're about to get lit. C'mon. S'day one. Sala: Day 1 of rave 2, I'm over it. Chava: Hoe, I'm over you. Sala: Get over me, then, bitch— Chava: I already said I am. Get with it. Sala: Get with this dick. Chava: What's a dick without some balls, bro? Pussy. Sala: … Chava: You mad? Sala: I been mad. Chava: Stay mad, then. Sala: How about I just stay here. Chava: Pay here, stay here, bitch—this trip ain't free. Sala: This trip ain't me. Raves are your thing. I'm not a “festival chick.” Chava: You are for the next three days. Sala: …Three…?! Chava: And counting. Get. Some. Motherfuckin' balls. Here, have some Jesus Juice. [She extends her arm, holding the bottle in front of Sala] Sala: Ughhh. Chava: Come on, man. I'm tryna see Cow Turds. Sala: You're engaged to one. Chava: Shut the fuck up and drink. Here, I'll have one with you. The Epic Trip – ‘Girl—Meet World'. After breaking up with both her ex-fiance and her best friend, a depressed and anxious Chava decides to take a last-minute trip to another one of her bucket list destinations: The Epic Music Festival in Las Vegas, Nevada. F*ckFest: The Origins (Prequel) 21-year-old Chava Hoffs, a longtime raver and lover of all things dance culture, finally convinces her bar-scene best friend to accompany her to a regional event in her area, ‘F*ckfest', Sala's first ever festival/rave where—to both her and Chava's surprise, she connects with other longtime friends she had no idea were immersed into the culture. Sala, having been “rave-retired” since entering her first serious relationship, becomes overly-excited and branches off on her own, reconnecting with her true self after spending too long in her own shell—she discovers her love for an up-and-coming new artist (‘Shluggy') who magnetizes her with a newly-created sound (‘PukeRock'—a play on “VomitStep”) Vibes [Mini Series, Prequel]- A sequel-in-installments to the shenanigans following F*ckfest, where Chava returns to visit Sala and return to ‘one of her favorite venues', which now hosts GoF*ckYourself (GFY), the biggest summertime festival in the region. Festival Trip II [First Sequel ]- It's been a magical year and the breakup is over; A 20-something's imaginary friend returns, a decade after disappearing, just as she finds herself on the brink of ‘real adulthood', and has settled into the mundane and mediocre—as he leads her on a journey of self-discovery, she internally struggles with whether to tell her therapist—after deciding (or rather, being convinced) she shouldn't, she begins a desperate search for answers in what seems like a downward spiral into (Use- I'm on my way to heaven, for trailer.) A group of friends decide to form their own society after discovering an “uncharted” island—what they don't know [understand] is that the world government is observing at every angle—and as their population increases, they struggle as the popularity of their culture and lifestyle explode— Craig's world- an ensemble about the good old days of craigslist Ū [Amnesia/Working Title] Miami (Ami) A fashion designer and music enthusiast who attends festivals in her spare time, seeking inspiration for her fashion and design blog; she shares an apartment with her lesbian best friend from college, who works as a freelance writer and photographer. Crystal (Chrys) A short-haired-yet-feminine gender-non-conforming lovable with a dry sense of humor and an eye for art; Music lover and fan of festivals, Miami's “convert” into the rave world. Serra- A high-matinence instagram model who supports herself through social media promotion and influencing, modeling Miami's fashion line and sugar-babying/arm-candying to make her way through life, usually attending festivals as someone's date or just to take pictures/show face. Samuel/Donnie- Sensei Samurai: An award-winning world-renowned music artist and specialty DJ, the soul-headliner of ‘Magic's Mountain art and Music Festival' Daz- Sam/Donnie's Manager- (Antagonist) Lazers, pyrotechnics, strobes, and confetti light the night sky as Sensei Samurai, a medium-build white guy sporting two long braids and a samurai cut (his signature style), dances atop the table which supports a state-of-the-art DJ set-up; The stage is massive, the crowd is wild--but he is at home--or rather, at work, and at the top of his game. He jumps down from the table, drinking from a red solo cup, before he picks up the microphone to speak to his audience: Samuel: LET ME SEE YOU FUCKING JUMP. He dances around, flailing his arms to gesture to the crowd, drinking again from his red solo cup . He moves to the beat of the music as he focuses to adjust the mixer, structuring a build-up. His manager watches from backstage, carefully eying his every move. Samuel: --ARE YOU GUYS READY? [He lights a ciggarette, sips from his cup again as he continues to mix. He nods along to the beat, grooving as he plots his next move, looking into the crowd with hunger in his eye.] Dez: (speaking into a earpiece) Sammy, take it easy... [He glances stage left, to where Dez is situated and watching him like a hawk; He nonchalantly shrugs, blowing out a plume of smoke into the air, decisively irritated with the instruction.] Dez: (Cont'd): I mean it, chill. [Samuel sticks his finger into his ear, wiggling it profusely--and dislodges the hidden inner-earpiece, eyeing Dez as he pulls up his headphones, deep in the mix; He takes a long drag from his ciggarette, master-minding as he feverously twists the knobs and dials of the mixer.] Samuel (over the mic) NO CHILL MOTHERFUCKERS. [The music speeds as he prepares for the drop.] Dez: (forgetting momentarily that he will not be heard) Sam, don't--! [Too late. Samuel Drops the bass so hard, it hurts, ripping off his headphones and running straight into the crowd, head first to crowd surf. The crowd goes massively, insanely wild.] Through the lens of Crystal's camera, we see a series of still photos, capturing Sam's wild plunge into the crowd, just off-center in the front row. Miami looks to her right, giving her a nod of approval; Crystal shoots her a hand signal for “ok”. Miami looks to her left, lifting an eyebrow and smirking at Serra, who bounces off-beat against a tall wooky gentleman who has his arms around her through the sleeves of a spirit hood, tilting her head from side to side as she poses for selfies. Miami happily sways to the motion of the music, putting one hand over the rail and pulling up her mask with the other, as she watches Samuel be lifted back onto the stage and take his place behind the decks. The set continues, the crowd, the lazers, and the effects go wild: The backdrop reads ‘SENSEI SAMURAI' His backup dancers are acrobatic ninjas. Samuel: Thank you Magical Mountain, I Love You Guys!! The crowd goes wild as Samuel exits the stage, ignoring Dez as he breezes past him. Dez: (following after him) I thought I said, “No more crowd surfing, no more stage diving.” Samuel: I thought you said that, too. Dez: Do you recall “OhMyLanta?” Samuel: (sarcastically) Oh, you mean that festival in Atlanta? Dez: Yes. Samuel: How creative. Dez: ‘Creative' would describe the legal team's very expensive, very strenuous tactical strategy which weaseled you out of a very serious lawsuit. Samuel: What? When was this? Dez: This was when you decided to stage dive wearing goth-pants and your chains got stuck in that kid's earholes Samuel: They're called Tripp pants. Dez: Oh yeah...what do you call them after mutilating a teenager with them? Samuel: Tripp pants I can sell on eBay. I made that kid a star. Dez: You made him a cripple. Samuel: --we still talk. [EXT. A FARAWAY FOREST] Bass blasts through the christmas-lit forest, a festival set in the meadow against the lush and natural forest scenery; Attendees come-and-go to-and-from the lines of tents and out into the festival grounds, where DJs headline stages, dancers and performers interact with spectators, vendors practice their unique salesmanship, and the wild and true nature of ravers is unleashed. Frozen breath leaks from the laughing mouths of three young individuals, running through the forest; Twigs crush and leaves crackle underfoot of their prancing and galloping feet, clad in combat boots, tennis shoes, and platforms, respectively. Ripped fishnets hug the thighs that sweep together rapidly, swooshing as the legs that bare them race forward; a pashmina trails behind one's back, acting as a cape of sorts. A thud, in the darkness of the forest. Crystal and Serra continue forward, unaware their friend has fallen for a few short moments, leaving Miami behind. Miami confusedly looks for the obstruction which caused her to trip, discovering under a pile of brush and leaves, a man (Samuel) lying face down on the ground; her eyes widen and she draws slightly back, frightened, before squinting and leaning in to get a closer look; She turns on a glow toy for added light, she pants heavily under her breath, shaking slightly as she brushes away debris and leaves, uncovering his head and shoulders, revealing he is wearing a mask. She examines him. His glasses are broken, lying on the ground under his face--His hair is wet; he appears dead. Crystal: ...I told you not to wear those. Miami: Yo… Crystal: Yo--*gasps* (she grabs Serra by the shoulder, holding her back.) Serra: (She notices the body, under her pashmina, spirit hood, and glasses) Ohwhatthefuck. (she takes a few steps back) Crystal: Don't move. Serra: Yeah, fuck that. Fuck this. (she wraps the pashmina tightly around her face) [muffled] Fuck this. Crystal: ...Ami, we should get out of here. Miami: We should help him. Crystal: He may be beyond help, honey. Serra: He's fucking dead. Whatthefuck. Fuck this! Crystal: ...Is he dead? Miami: (she looks at him closely, there are no signs of life. she checks for breathing with her hand.) ...I don't know. (she checks again, leaning in closer. she grabs his wrist to check a pulse) Serra: Don't touch it! Miami: Shut up, I'm trying to get a pulse (beat) ...he's super cold. Serra: He's super dead! Miam: No, no...I don't think so. Crystal, come here--help me turn him over. Crystal: Are you sure? What if he--wakes up and tries to--?? Miami: (urgently) What if it was you? Crystal fishes for a flashlight and switchblade in her fanny pack, places the flashlight in her mouth and positioning the knife under her kandi cuffs. She cautiously inches forward. Crystal: Serra, try to get some cell service so we can call for help. The girls carefully turn him onto his back, wide eyed and bewildered. He is completely lifeless, clamy and pale--covered with dirt, and forestry. Miami continues to check for a pulse, shaking her head as he continues to appear dead. Crystal: Do you feel anything? Miami: …(shaking her head) I can't...he's like…(as she pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie and notices a familiar tattoo. she pauses for a moment, thinks, and then looks towards his head) Do you still have my mirror in your fanny pack?) Crystal returns to her fanny pack, digging for the mirror. Miami carefuly leans in towards the man, examining him once more; she notices a necklace, also familiar--she thinks, as she moves to remove first the excess hair, and then the mask from his face, very carefully. She peels off his mask, immidiately shocked as she reckognizes his face--It is Samuel, who she knows as Sensai Samurai. She yeeps (imploded gasp, making Crystal look up; she, too recognizes him; she gasps. They look at eachother, then at him--then back to eachother.) Miami: ...Give me your mirror. Crystal: Dude, is this…? Miami: Your mirror. (she holds the mirror under his nose--a subtle cloud of fog appears; he is, in fact, alive.) Crystal: Oh, my God. Miami: He's breathing. Serra! Crystal: ...This is Sensai Samurai. Miami: (trying to convince herself) It probably just looks like him…. Crystal: I just took one-hundred close-up photos, dude--like, less than an hour ago-- Miami: Shhhhh! (she frantically begins to check his pockets) He's gotta have a wallet. Crystal: What, you were going to save him--now you wanna roll him? Miami: An ID. He's got to have an ID. (she frantically searches him) Hey Serra! (Crystal lifts the other sleeve of his sweater, revealing a brightly colored wristband, and one singular kandi bracelet, which reads “Sensai” Simoltaneously, Miami has found something in one of the pockets--she produces a small box from one of the pockets of his cargo pants) Crystal: Holy fuck. Look. (she gestures the wrist band and bracelet.) Miami: ...Artist's wristband. Fuck. It is him. Crystal: [Samuel is slumped lifelessly over both Crystal and Miami's shoulders, head hanging downward and hair flailing and dangling in his face as the girls struggle to support him. His oversized light-up sunglasses begin slipping, almost revealing his eyes.] Girl:(looking over, concerned) ...Is your friend okay? [He is clearly not. Serra slides her finger up his nose to adjust his glasses, eyeing the girl suspiciously.] Crystal: [flatly] Yes. [Samuel's dead-weight pulls him towards the ground, as he slips; the girls struggle to readjust; he seems heavier by the minute. They all three stare back at the girl, awkwardly; Miami fakes an ‘everything's fine' smile, while Crystal stares blankly through her sunglasses and Serra shoots a look of dissatisfaction. [INT. KITCHEN. DAY.] The three girls gaze in awe of Donnie, multitasking busily in the kitchen, hair pinned neatly atop his head with chopsticks, wearing a neatly-pressed (as in, freshly ironed) apron, as he removes one baking mit with his mouth and works about, happily consumed and bouncily, humming. -...He's so...domestic. Crystal -You'd think he'd carry a better tune. Miami- Cause you'd be belting melodies after waking up out of a drug-induced coma? Crystal- No--I guess I'd open a bake shop in some random girls' kitchen. Miami: Donnie? Donnie: Hmm, yes? Miami: We...we have some news for you. Donnie: Oooh! Is it celebrity news? Miami:...sort of. Donnie: I hope it's juicy gossip. Crystal: Believe me--it'll be the talk of the town. Donnie: This town? Crystal: Any town. [ She refills her wine glass first, then prepares two more, never breaking eye contact with donnie; His lighthearted excitement turns to slight confusion, as he furrows his brows,] Miami: (sighs, taking his hand) Here, lets sit down. Donnie: But, the macaroons-- Serra-What? That's what you're making? [Donnie nods.] Serra-...(to the side) maybe we should let him finish the macaroons, first...what if this like, fucks him all up. Miami: No, it's time. I feel like we've already waited too long. Serra-...I feel like he makes really good macaroons. Miami: Yeah? Like grammy-award-winning macaroons? -If by ‘Grammy', you mean my Grandmother would approve… Miami: Your grandmother died of complications from diabetes. Serra-...and you think macaroons had absolutely nothing to do with that? [Crystal has already finished her first glass of wine, and begins to reach for the second glass, when Miami, out of the corner of her eye, catches her, snatching the glass from her gracefully, as she floats it to Donnie, sitting beside him, crossing her legs.] Donnie: Before noon? Crystal- Oh, so you know that rule? Donnie: I know some things. A 20-something's imaginary friend returns, a decade after disappearing, just as she finds herself on the brink of ‘real adulthood', and has settled into the mundane and mediocre—as he leads her on a journey of self-discovery, she internally struggles with whether to tell her therapist—after deciding (or rather, being convinced) she shouldn't, she begins a desperate search for answers in what seems like a downward spiral into A group of friends decide to form their own society after discovering an “uncharted” island—what they don't know [understand] is that the world government is observing at every angle—and as their population increases, they struggle as the popularity of their culture and lifestyle explode— Craig's world- an ensemble about the good old days of craigslist Blue Story A wayward security officer drunkenly fills out an application to join the police academy, and is accepted—both to his surprise, and dismay. #SQUAD OUT!- A Mockumentary-Style Comedy following several “tribes”, “squads”, “rave families”, and even solo-ravers surrounding a large group of ravers and friends. Ū [Amnesia/Working Title] Amnesia [Working Title] Three girls at a camping festival find an incapacitated man in the woods and take him back to their campsite for safety—when one of the girls discovers that she recognizes the mysterious man, actually a headliner at the festival they're attending—two of the girls keep it a secret from their friend who would certainly take advantage of the situation. After discovering a “butt-load” of mind-altering substances on his person, Miami, the ring leader, makes a ‘judgement call' not to call the authorities, deciding instead to attempt to take him back to his trailer—however—when the girls haul him back to his campsite, they discover his manager, Dez, rifling through his belongings. When Samuel awakens, he has no memory of himself—and so a journey begins: a test of friendship, and a race against the clock. Miami (Ami) A fashion designer and music enthusiast who attends festivals in her spare time, seeking inspiration for her fashion and design blog; she shares an apartment with her lesbian best friend from college, who works as a freelance writer and photographer. Crystal (Chrys) A short-haired-yet-feminine gender-non-conforming lovable with a dry sense of humor and an eye for art; Music lover and fan of festivals, Miami's “convert” into the rave world. Shane- A high-matinence instagram model who supports herself through social media promotion and influencing, modeling Miami's fashion line and sugar-babying/arm-candying to make her way through life, usually attending festivals as someone's date or just to take pictures/show face. DONNIE “*giggles* what's a rave?” Miami (takes a deep breath) Crystal (facepalm) Shane (purses her lips) C-Is Giving drugs to somebody with amnesia bad? M-I don't know what's bad for amnesia S-Well maybe, it's not giving it to him that would be bad—like, they were already in his system, probably wouldn't he go like, into withdraw or something. You're probably right S-(I'm probably not) Samuel/Donnie- Sensei Samurai: An award-winning world-renowned music artist and specialty DJ, the soul-headliner of ‘Magic's Mountain art and Music Festival' Daz- Sam/Donnie's Manager- (Antagonist-) Lazers, pyrotechnics, strobes, and confetti light the night sky as Sensei Samurai, a medium-build white guy sporting two long braids and a samurai cut (his signature style), dances atop the table which supports a state-of-the-art DJ set-up; The stage is massive, the crowd is wild--but he is at home--or rather, at work, and at the top of his game. He jumps down from the table, drinking from a red solo cup, before he picks up the microphone to speak to his audience: Samuel: LET ME SEE YOU FUCKING JUMP. He dances around, flailing his arms to gesture to the crowd, drinking again from his red solo cup . He moves to the beat of the music as he focuses to adjust the mixer, structuring a build-up. His manager watches from backstage, carefully eying his every move. Samuel: --ARE YOU GUYS READY? [He lights a ciggarette, sips from his cup again as he continues to mix. He nods along to the beat, grooving as he plots his next move, looking into the crowd with hunger in his eye.] Dez: (speaking into a earpiece) Sammy, take it easy... [He glances stage left, to where Dez is situated and watching him like a hawk; He nonchalantly shrugs, blowing out a plume of smoke into the air, decisively irritated with the instruction.] Dez: (Cont'd): I mean it, chill. [Samuel sticks his finger into his ear, wiggling it profusely--and dislodges the hidden inner-earpiece, eyeing Dez as he pulls up his headphones, deep in the mix; He takes a long drag from his ciggarette, master-minding as he feverously twists the knobs and dials of the mixer.] Samuel (over the mic) NO CHILL MOTHERFUCKERS. [The music speeds as he prepares for the drop.] Dez: (forgetting momentarily that he will not be heard) Sam, don't--! [Too late. Samuel Drops the bass so hard, it hurts, ripping off his headphones and running straight into the crowd, head first to crowd surf. The crowd goes massively, insanely wild.] Through the lens of Crystal's camera, we see a series of still photos, capturing Sam's wild plunge into the crowd, just off-center in the front row. Miami looks to her right, giving her a nod of approval; Crystal shoots her a hand signal for “ok”. Miami looks to her left, lifting an eyebrow and smirking at Serra, who bounces off-beat against a tall wooky gentleman who has his arms around her through the sleeves of a spirit hood, tilting her head from side to side as she poses for selfies. Miami happily sways to the motion of the music, putting one hand over the rail and pulling up her mask with the other, as she watches Samuel be lifted back onto the stage and take his place behind the decks. The set continues, the crowd, the lazers, and the effects go wild: The backdrop reads ‘SENSEI SAMURAI' His backup dancers are acrobatic ninjas. Samuel: Thank you Magical Mountain, I Love You Guys!! The crowd goes wild as Samuel exits the stage, ignoring Dez as he breezes past him. Dez: (following after him) I thought I said, “No more crowd surfing, no more stage diving.” Samuel: I thought you said that, too. Dez: Do you recall “OhMyLanta?” Samuel: (sarcastically) Oh, you mean that festival in Atlanta? Dez: Yes. Samuel: How creative. Dez: ‘Creative' would describe the legal team's very expensive, very strenuous tactical strategy which weaseled you out of a very serious lawsuit. Samuel: Law-Suit? I've never worn one of those. Black-Label? Dez: More like ‘black-book' with your name written on and in it. It took me weeks clean up. Samuel: When was this? Dez: When you decided to stage dive wearing goth-pants and one of your chains got stuck in that kid's earhole. Samuel: They're called ‘Tripp' pants. Dez: Oh yeah...what do you call them after mutilating a teenager with them? Samuel: Tripp pants I can sell on eBay. Dez: You made him a cripple. Samuel: --we still talk. Bass blasts through the christmas-lit forest, a festival set in the meadow against the lush and natural forest scenery; Attendees come-and-go to-and-from the lines of tents and out into the festival grounds, where DJs headline stages, dancers and performers interact with spectators, vendors practice their unique salesmanship, and the wild and true nature of ravers is unleashed. Frozen breath leaks from the laughing mouths of three young individuals, running through the forest; Twigs crush and leaves crackle underfoot of their prancing and galloping feet, clad in combat boots, tennis shoes, and platforms, respectively. Ripped fishnets hug the thighs that sweep together rapidly, swooshing as the legs that bare them race forward; a pashmina trails behind one's back, acting as a cape of sorts. A thud, in the darkness of the forest. Crystal and Shane continue forward, unaware their friend has fallen for a few short moments, leaving Miami behind. Miami confusedly looks for the obstruction which caused her to trip, discovering under a pile of brush and leaves, a man (Samuel) lying face down on the ground; her eyes widen and she draws slightly back, frightened, before squinting and leaning in to get a closer look; She turns on a glow toy for added light, she pants heavily under her breath, shaking slightly as she brushes away debris and leaves, uncovering his head and shoulders, revealing he is wearing a mask. She examines him. His glasses are broken, lying on the ground under his face--His hair is wet; he appears dead. Miami is horrified, speechless, breathless. Crystal: ...I told you not to wear those. Miami: Yo… Crystal: Yo--*gasps* (she grabs Shane by the shoulder, holding her back.) Shane: (She notices the body, under her pashmina, spirit hood, and glasses) Ohwhatthefuck. (she takes a few steps back) Crystal: Don't move. Serra: Yeah, fuck that. Fuck this. (she wraps the pashmina tightly around her face) [muffled] Fuck this. Crystal: ...Ami, we should get out of here. Miami: We should help him. Crystal: He may be beyond help, honey. Shane: He's fucking dead. Whatthefuck. Cystal: ...Is he dead? Miami: (she looks at him closely, there are no signs of life. she checks for breathing with her hand.) ...I don't know. (she checks again, leaning in closer. she grabs his wrist to check a pulse) Shane: Don't touch it! Miami: Shut up, I'm trying to get a pulse (beat) ...he's super cold. Shane: He's super dead! Miam: No, no...I don't think so. Crystal, come here--help me turn him over. Crystal: Are you sure? What if he--wakes up and tries to--?? Miami: (urgently) What if it was you? Crystal fishes for a flashlight and switchblade in her fanny pack, places the flashlight in her mouth and positioning the knife under her kandi cuffs. She cautiously inches forward. Crystal: Shane, try to get some cell service so we can call for help. The girls carefully turn him onto his back, wide eyed and bewildered. He is completely lifeless, clamy and pale--covered with dirt, and forestry. Miami continues to check for a pulse, shaking her head as he continues to appear dead. Crystal: Do you feel anything? Miami: …(shaking her head) I can't...he's like…(as she pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie and notices a familiar tattoo. she pauses for a moment, thinks, and then looks towards his head) Do you still have my mirror in your fanny pack?) Crystal returns to her fanny pack, digging for the mirror. Miami carefuly leans in towards the man, examining him once more; she notices a necklace, also familiar--she thinks, as she moves to remove first the excess hair, and then the mask from his face, very carefully. She peels off his mask, immidiately shocked as she reckognizes his face--It is Samuel, who she knows as Sensai Samurai. She yeeps (imploded gasp, making Crystal look up; she, too recognizes him; she gasps. They look at eachother, then at him--then back to eachother.) Miami: ...Give me your mirror. Crystal: Dude, is this…? Miami: Your mirror. (she holds the mirror under his nose--a subtle cloud of fog appears; he is, in fact, alive.) Crystal: Oh, my God. Miami: He's breathing. Shane! Crystal: ...This is Sensai Samurai. Miami: (trying to convince herself) It probably just looks like him…. Crystal: I just took one-hundred close-up photos, dude--like, less than an hour ago-- Miami: Shhhhh! (she frantically begins to check his pockets) He's gotta have a wallet. Crystal: What, you were going to save him--now you wanna roll him? Miami: An ID. He's got to have an ID. (she frantically searches him) Hey Shane! (Crystal lifts the other sleeve of his sweater, revealing a brightly colored wristband, and one singular kandi bracelet, which reads “Sensai” Simultaneously, Miami has found something in one of the pockets--she produces a small box from one of the pockets of his cargo pants) Crystal: Holy fuck. Look. (she gestures the wrist band and bracelet.) Miami: ...Artist's wristband. Fuck. It is him. Crystal: [Samuel is slumped lifelessly over both Crystal and Miami's shoulders, head hanging downward and hair flailing and dangling in his face as the girls struggle to support him. His oversized light-up sunglasses begin slipping, almost revealing his eyes.] Girl:(looking over, concerned) ...Is your friend okay? [He is clearly not. Serra slides her finger up his nose to adjust his glasses, eyeing the girl suspiciously.] Crystal: [flatly] Yes. [Samuel's dead-weight pulls him towards the ground, as he slips; the girls struggle to readjust; he seems heavier by the minute. They all three stare back at the girl, awkwardly; Miami fakes an ‘everything's fine' smile, while Crystal stares blankly through her sunglasses and Serra shoots a look of dissatisfaction. [INT. KITCHEN. DAY.] The three girls gaze in awe of Donnie, multitasking busily in the kitchen, hair pinned neatly atop his head with chopsticks, wearing a neatly-pressed (as in, freshly ironed) apron, as he removes one baking mit with his mouth and works about, happily consumed and bouncily, humming. -...He's so...domestic. Crystal -You'd think he'd carry a better tune. Miami- Cause you'd be belting melodies after waking up out of a drug-induced coma? Crystal- No--I guess I'd open a bake shop in some random girls' kitchen. Miami: Donnie? Donnie: Hmm, yes? Miami: We...we have some news for you. Donnie: Oooh! Is it celebrity news? Miami:...sort of. Donnie: I hope it's juicy gossip. Crystal: Believe me--it'll be the talk of the town. Donnie: This town? Crystal: Any town. [ She refills her wine glass first, then prepares two more, never breaking eye contact with donnie; His lighthearted excitement turns to slight confusion, as he furrows his brows,] Miami: (sighs, taking his hand) Here, lets sit down. Donnie: But, the macaroons-- Serra-What? That's what you're making? [Donnie nods.] Serra-...(to the side) maybe we should let him finish the macaroons, first...what if this like, fucks him all up. Miami: No, it's time. I feel like we've already waited too long. Serra-...I feel like he makes really good macaroons. Miami: Yeah? Like grammy-award-winning macaroons? -If by ‘Grammy', you mean my Grandmother would approve… Miami: Your grandmother died of complications from diabetes. Serra-...and you think macaroons had absolutely nothing to do with that? [Crystal has already finished her first glass of wine, and begins to reach for the second glass, when Miami, out of the corner of her eye, catches her, snatching the glass from her gracefully, as she floats it to Donnie, sitting beside him, crossing her legs.] Donnie: Before noon? Crystal- Oh, so you know that rule? Donnie: I know some things. Under The Mask —A superstar DJ and his best friend embark on a series of festivals under cover as non-celebrity citizens to first-handedly experience the other side of his world. Grandma's Girl- A funeral turns into an accidentally epic week-long house party, after the ‘favorite grand child' becomes disappointed in the traditional send-off given by the family; While grieving and going through her late-grandmothers belongings, Serra discovers journals and an old phonebook, containing the life and times of her wildly adventurous grandma and her close friends—when she realizes that none of the people from her grandmother's life ‘before the family' are in attendance of her funeral (or even aware of her passing), she links up with her best friends to organize a ‘proper goodbye'. All heaven breaks loose, when ‘ravers of old' begin showing up to pay their respects to Silvia—things get a little out-of-hand when the gathering explodes due-to-word of mouth, as it turns out Grandma Silvia had a few more connections than expected—and they've all come from near-and-far to say their goodbyes. Deathwish—A series about a woman who makes a death wish—but the stakes are raised wen all her wildest dreams come true, and death lurks just around the corner at every turn. ((M3))- A collection of silent films, by SupaCree Enter: World of Music Ascension- Set in a parallel universe, Father TIme and Mother Nature are reconnected on Earth, as the dawn of a new-era arises at the peak of mankind's evolutionary journey. Series is set in a parralell universe, a seperate realm where humans have met faced dark ages, technological or technological setbacks they live harmoniously and peacefully within— live spiritually and intuitively with the planet, and can gain/ strengthen certain abilities through higher learning, strength training, conditionig, and meditation; We begin at the dawn of a new age, where beings ('God Bodies' [working])acended from higher plains of conciousness walk amongst the living in 'humanform', guided and led to higher forms of being through teachings of the Acended sorcerers and masters belonging to the universal collective conciousness of light; Also amongst the living, in 'humanform', Costumes: Modern-Futuristic da ‘Thieo' makes his final wish (for his truest and ever lasting love) to his appointed Acceded Sorcerer; but there are trials he must endure and obstacles to be met before his wish come true— C'Esmett— A warrior princess raised to rule is on on the brink of going rouge, after she is betrayed by her betrothed —her calling to become queen is imminent; yet she must overcome boundaries set by tradition, facing the powers-that-be to strengthen and master her own. Her ancient knowledge, ascended sorcery, and intrinsic healing mysticism— amongst other gifts of nature (a seer, fortune of truths; being of light) “I'm sorry, but it's out of my control.” “NOTHING Is out of your control." "--Except for you." She scorns him, and turns away swiftly, as her cape sweeps across the floor, as it flutters and whips behind her “I'm sorry, but it's out of my control.” “NOTHING Is out of your control." "--Except for you." She scorns him, and turns away swiftly, as her cape sweeps across the floor, as it flutters and whips behind her--she turns again, eyeing him directly, pointing to him with dismay as she takes in a breath; catching herself in anger, she deflates, keeping eye contact (though her gaze suddenly softens as she arrives ‘ACENSION' Ascension- Set in a parallel universe, Father TIme and Mother Nature are reconnected on Earth, as the dawn of a new-era arises at the peak of mankind's evolutionary journey. CHARACTERS Thïeo {Petrutheïo} Godform Spiritclad Cross-Bodied sorcerer; Humanborn earthbound in his most recent incarnation to rule in the new age…(t b c) C'Esmétt {Ch'Esmett X'oxįl Nazari is the most powerful being on planet Earth, and throughout multiple dimensions, through which she presides over, in various forms and figures; She possesses the universe's oldest Soul. a Godform Spiritclad Ascended Sorceress who possesses rare “Creation Energy”—the ability to form and shape matter, bend and travel through time, and control aspects of reality; Youthful and fiery, she is praised as a God of Light; Supporting: Kï'yara—Fireborn, Earthbound Rai'ayn—Loveborn, Multi-Dimentional Onyyxx—Rooted, Tri-Dimentiinal The elements: Love Matter Earth -Of Ground -Of Water -Of Fire -Of Air ...there are more but I'm tired right now. The realms: Now Then (points in the past to which time bending bodies may access) The past (inaccessible points on past timelines to those in human form or bound to earth, besides Godform; even so, the process is strenuous and dangerous. Love Self (to self, to travel inward and reflect a physical presence of the world within, outwardly; true self exists freely and ideally—you are able to converse with self as others see you [appearing as an identical twin with ideal aspects. Light therapy Frequencies Vibrationally energizing Body waves are Paralyzing Lines of Broken harmonies Inside of me. Crying on the clock; Rocking back and forth Stocking full of coal Greetings from the North Pole If Santa Clause is real Maybe we can make a deal; If my heart is made of steel You can't steal it—I can feel it Winter is here The world is money hungry (So am I) The world is simply starving (So am I) The world is so alarming (So am I) The world is just evolving. (So I am.) Cause I've been going crazy Stuck inside myself And I've been feeling lazy Just beside myself And I've been thinking lately That just maybe, someday maybe I'll be It's all connected— The reason we disconnect Is we're neglected I wonder what you'd expect You can't express it Just repress it. Repression syndrome— Came up too fast; Compression syndrome Suck it in Suck it up, You stupid fuck Dive deeper Ū (EP) 1. Thank U 2. I'm Sorry 3. I Love U 4. I miss U I like your vibe Come join my squad Curiosity killed the cat Carbohydrates killed the queen Don't cry “I'll try...” 50 Shades of Blue Don't pick up the phone Don't pick up the phone Don't pick up the phone Don't pick up the phone And here you are: 8 years later, With a baby on your back and— Bills to pay You have to decide (What the fuck) what the world is all about today. Don't want to be Cree For a really long time I just need I just need I just need a whole mind I was me the whole time I never left And yet There I was—looking at myself from above, All the love in the world; Just a lonely little girl Trapped in her Head Never got out of bed, that day: But I went away somewhere, And there I was—looking at myself from above, All the love in the world, Just a lonely little girl Trapped in her Head And I said “why are you waking me up?” But I wasn't asleep— I just wanted to fuck And sometimes, it's too much Too much is, never enough I've never been in love (with me) But I've always been in love (with you) And if you had seen it It wouldn't have been the death of me. Deeper I'll go: Deeper to find How I crossed white lines To become Colorblind How did you find me, here My deer? How did you know Where to go? How did you know, I would Follow you there, Once you finally showed me the road? I've seen both the frog, and the toad; You've already left me exposed, And I'm frozen in time Just to find Just to find Paradise— I tried. But love is a blind bat, Diving into a vat of Darkness; a hat is only a hat, If only there was more— And there is. There always is more— You just have to live more, And once you've been through the cycles, you could be Recycled. Ruined. Rebuilt. Guilt is only ever, Created after pleasure... With immense imploding pressure - [ ] You were born EP-GA [2K19] Mother Earth and Father Time are Making love right By the fire You are motion— I am sickness I am goddess; Be my witness. And I'll probably run for President— Just like I tend to run from everything; not because I want to do it, but because I have to... And just as I run from everything, I run to everything— As is the vicious cycle of life, unrepeated. I should have seen it coming, when he kicked my puppy—I didn't, but my mother did, and it might have been the same day. If not, it was definitely on the same porch—the same porch where...my adolescence began, and ended. There is no cure When your spirit is broken There is no cure—when you suffer in silence There is no cure— When you've seen all the violence It's only you. Breadcrumbs— I'm not dumb, I'm just muted. The dragon I'm chasing is me, And I just... Set the world on fire— I just—need to— I just—adjust. Translucent and transparent I am the thing that happens when you Parent your own parents. And I just I been waking up randomly, Panicking— Wishing I was dancing In the moonlight I'm vanishing without a trace And maybe I just hate this place, Maybe I'm just displaced I hate this I been waking up randomly Filling the void Avoiding my eyes in reflections I fell in love at a festival She came to dance, she was solo oh-oh ...took my hand, sack let's go- oh—oh-oh She didn't care She didn't care I'm a tax write-off I'm a meal ticket I'm a grasshopper; Or maybe, a cricket— Ricochet rabbit Why am I like this? “Why do you fight this?” I was not invited to mingle This ‘tingle' I get is more than A threat—I regretted, The moments I never forget The secrets you keep The stories you never will tell— This is hell, you're not dreaming It's only a nightmare. Too much to think about So I don't Dissociative, I associate everything Within—without I reflect everything I've been about, Stuck beside myself I am just a clone, A lone shadow of my Own All alone, and— I never planned to leave this planet But I have. You're out of my league Out of my league Why can't you see that It's so hard to be Paying the price for this Quarter-life crisis I don't mean to write this So bad, but I can't trust myself anymore I can't trust this world anymore Life is just Too complicated I'm jaded—I'm faded out Phased out, going about in this Town like I'm drowning in Insecurity Or rather, a diamond in the rough I've got enough stuff I just need love. You're out of my league I can see that I can't be that, thing What you want is perfection I just like who you are and thats— Never enough. I have nothing but love to give, love So forgive this: I didn't think I'd live this long But I was wrong And it was longer than I thought Ago Life is just Too complicated I'm jaded—I'm faded out Phased out, going about in this Town like I'm drowning in Insecurity Do you wanna know what it's like to be lonely like me I can tell you better than show you Once I get to know you good luck AMNESIA NOTES Miami Wade Crystal Brooks Donder (Donny) “we'll just call you Donny” “Why?” Uhhh...Because...we found you in the woods. “What?” “You know, like—the wild thornberrys” “Sounds tasty” “Uhhh—wasn't Donny found in the Jungle” “Uhhh—isn't the jungle just a denser version of the woods?” “I guess. It's like an earth-remix” “What's a remix?” Miami wells up—Crystal jumps up excitedly “Awwwwri And I've been stuck on Abbot Kinney, Thinking about Will Rodgers and Thinking that I'm a dodgers fan— But I'm not, I just like crowds. And LA makes me proud Of everything I need to be: And if the world were watching me She'd think she was herself. I was never sleeping, I'm just here And I was never reading, I just Put the bookmark where I left off... I could drift off into, The taste of ink And as it dries in my palm— I know it won't take long until I'm Drifting back into—sifting back into Space—grains of sand. You'll know when you've reached the promised land. Hello, Good Friend: ‘It's time to fall in love...with yourself.' The world has the most to learn from its elders and it's youth—fever disrespect the sometimes even subtle wisdom of a child or your elders. A1 (Lost in the Sauce) Break beats Ruffneck Bass: That's what I like in my face Drop that shit, don't make me wait Make me dance off all this waste I like chocolate, give me cake Wednesday mornin' wake-n-bake Star Jones—Oprah—Ricky lake Which is real and which is fake? Pick the right one, no mistake River—ocean—crater lake “White girl: can I touch your hair? Is it fake??” Out of order— Order steak. [ Sample: The Epic Trip] [interlude- two friends at a festival//a phone call] “Where the fuck are you?” “I can't hear you!” “Hello?” “BRO. Where are you?” “I'm by the—WAIT—hello?!” “WHAT? ” “HELLO?” [the call drops] “Yo. Where the fuck is she?” “I don't know man, probably lost in the sauce...” Sample Lost In The jungle//Kendrick Boo Boo Friends that say that they “gotchu” and then don't Ain't your friends— they're enemies Keep them close Nobody gives a fuck about you— Except you— Remember that. And if you can't remember Make a habit of forgetting Cause you're just another member of society With social anxiety Your sense of propriety Probably shouldn't be Anything I'd give anything Just to take back all my fucks Put them in a bucket, Throw it over my shoulder And wish the world “Good fucking luck” I'm so done with it This is the last chance you get So have fun with it There's no pleasure, no smiles— No love in it I'm just driving for miles Above the shit Transitions- Silent Film/EP Kandi moves to a new city from far, far away—and finds herself lost trying to find her own vibe. ❤️ 1. The Bus Song 2. Pretty Girls (SupaCreeMixx) 3. DOD (Phoenixx remix) “Holy infected fuck!” [thats my vibe right now] North Star After an EMP attack, an unlikely leader becomes a guide to a group of survivors to find the way northward to Alaska. Festival Trip Chava Hoffs- A Voluptuous Dark-Skinned Alaska Native-Black Mixed fashionista who (to her disdain) earns a living as a correctional officer in a juvenile detention facility in Arctic Alaska, daydreaming her long nights away and stacking her money, saving up for an escape to someplace warm and sunny. She is bright and quick-witted, but sometimes awkward—truly a ball of energy, whether good or bad. Sala Emilio (Stax) A tall, olive skinned hottie from Utah of Native American and Mexican decent who works as head chef in a gourmet Chinese food restaurant—a phenomenally functional alcoholic with a free spirit, questionable morals, good values, a loving heart—and a dry sense of humor. Childhood best friends with Chava, I hope you're okay with the character I based off you. I'm not going to copy the story exactly (cause it's a movie, duh) so—I came up with the story that your character runs the kitchen of a classy gourmet 5-Star Chinese restaurant in Utah that has an all-Mexican staff of mostly illegals; my character is a CO at a youth correctional facility in remote Alaska—I felt like those two extremes would play funnier on camera than to replicate our actual situations. I also made them not parents, because I would rather take the whole issue of parenting and raving into a completely separate film idea, I'm thinking of calling it Festival Project A Film Saga by SupaCree Inspired by True Events Festival Trip- Two lifelong friends take a two-week-long trip across the country, to attend two major music festivals—one on the west coast (Among Aliens, in California), and one on the east (Ultimate Music Festival) The Epic Trip – After breaking up with both her ex-fiance and her best friend, a depressed and anxious Chava decides to take a last-minute trip to another one of her bucket list destinations: The Epic Music Festival in Las Vegas, Nevada. F*ckFest: The Origins (Prequel) 21-year-old Chava Hoffs, a longtime raver and lover of all things dance culture, finally convinces her bar-scene best friend to accompany her to a regional event in her area, ‘F*ckfest', Sala's first ever festival/rave where—to both her and Chava's surprise, she connects with other longtime friends she had no idea were immersed into the culture. Sala, having been “rave-retired” since entering her first serious relationship, becomes overly-excited and branches off on her own, reconnecting with her true self after spending too long in her own shell—she discovers her love for an up-and-coming new artist (‘Shluggy') who magnetizes her with a newly-created sound (‘PukeRock'—a play on “VomitStep”) Vibes [Mini Series]- A sequel-in-installments to the shenanigans following F*ckfest, where Chava returns to visit Sala and return to ‘one of her favorite venues', which now hosts Festival Trip II- After reconciling, Chava and Sala unite again to journey to uncharted territories—after Chava is invited along as a journalist to cover artists belonging to an up-and-coming record label based in Alaska, she invites Sala as a tag-along, knowing that her “weird hoe-magic” will attract—as always—even more interesting personalities and circumstances than she could dream to on her own. Chava Hoffs Sala Emillio Gunther Ross- The more than interesting circus-act of a plug/one of Sala's romantic interests, who just happens to be in the same place at the same time, once Sala and Chava arrive in California. Solomon Dominguez- Chava's “homie-lover-friend”, a DC native transplanted to LA who hustles and bustles the 3-job life to live the California dream—a surprisingly dedicated and loyal friend to Chava, who considers him the “king of fuckboys”—which, is not entirely untrue. Johnny McEntire- An eclectic and friendly photographer who stumbles upon Sala during a vulnerable moment—a sweet, humble, and vibrant personality, Chava mostly dismisses him as just another victim of Sala's constantly-inconstant romantic gestures and affiliations. Grace Williams (Chava's Super-Christian (but very sweet) Aunt) Billy Williams- Chava's very dorky, southern Baptist uncle who can't help but throw in a (praise-jesus) Krista DeVaunte- Bride-To-Be—Noah's Fiance Noah Williams- Chava's Cousin, the groom to be Naomi Williams- Chava's salty Cousin, and freinemy since birth—Noah's younger sister Sonny Johnson— Chava's ex-fiance Dustin Roberts—Sala's ex-boyfriend Juan Manuel Jose Melendez Gutierrez-Rodriguez—Sala's current boyfriend, with whom she lives & works with. Running Jokes: Speaking Spanish with a Mandarin-inflenced dialect—speaking/yelling in awful Spanish-soundingMandarin—speaking “Mandarish” or “Spandarin” Every time Chava mentions Sonny (her ex), Sala interjects with “Fuck Sonny!” Cop Jokes (due to Chava's occupation) ACT I- The Wedding Bashers/It's Festival Season “Save-The-Date” Inciting Incident—Plans to attend a destination wedding that Chava and her lifelong long distance best friend Sala, have been planning for almost a year are abruptly halted when Chava learns via a very eventful facetime call (‘Meet The Williams') that her +1 invitation had apparently only applied to her now-ex-fiance [whom her stuck-up family adored because of his abhorrent Christianity], and that the bride-to-be would not allow Sala to take his place on the guest list—as her vivid memories of Sala from Chava's engagement party are severly grotesque. Flashback: Chava + Sonny's engagement party. Chava: Yeah dude, they got all, mad-butthurt that I was bringing you instead of Sonny. Sala: Fuck Sonny! A remote, unnamed city in the Alaskan Arctic Circle. It is severely cold, even visually so. Ch ACT II- Sunny California ACT III- Sunny Florida Excerpt- Festival Trip I As chava blasts away, Sala and Johnny laugh hysterically Sala: Dat ass tho! Their laughter fades in the distance as she speeds up, other onlookers also commenting about her ass, as she blows past a group of men in black, she turns a man's head as she catches his attention. Man: Daaaaaamn. 3.31.19 —Later— The same man from earlier looks out the window of his high rise penthouse suite, across from Chava's hotel—and sees Chava levitating—he pauses, looks around, and raises his eyebrows, drunkenly and assumingly otherwise intoxicated in his appearance. Man: Daaaaamn. Chava is freaking out, remaining motionless as she floats above the bed—she looks out the side of her peripheral, afraid to move—looking up at the ceiling, her eyes widen. She blinks, and takes a deep breath. He questions what he is seeing, as he pours himself a drink. 4.1.2019 As Chava dances through the crowds, she connects and trades Kandi, moving to the beat with intricate motion and flare—people are loving her (a musical dance number)—from backstage, a man pouts and purses his lips, wondering why she is familiar—he is momentarily lost in thought, as he gazes at her and the crowd. Man: (under his breath) Daaamn... Lackey: c'mon man, let's get the fuck out of here Man: But— Lackey: don't worry, you know there's gon' be hoes at the spot. Man: ...but look at her viiibe...and that ass tho—damn! Lackey: eehhhh. You wanna ass, I got a specific folder in my contacts titled “fat ass” with 300 bitches in it— Man: *women* Lackey: whatever—look—I could get you an ass twice as fat, on a dime twice as fine—in 10 minutes flat. Man: (eyes shining, like domo) but look at her aura... Lackey: —I think I got an Aurora in here Man: No, like— Lackey: (pulling at him) let's *go*, the fuck is you trippin..? His eyes won't move away, but he is led by the lackey by his arm, confusededly pouting as he is dragged along. Man: Damn. He feels like he knows her. Cut back to: CHAVA'S ENTRY DANCE scene ACT 1: Wedding Bashers Here we meet Chava Hoffs and Sala Emillio; Two life-long long-distance best friends who love eachother--for the most part--for better or worse. Sala (Pinky) and Chala (The Brain) are planning a tropical mexican vacation to a destination wedding Chava's been invited to as an excuse to celebrate Chava's upcoming birthday (held the same weekend as the wedding) in style--However, when Chava's exclusively classist family alerts her that her plus-one invitation only extended to her on-again-off-again fiance and absolutely excludes Sala, they desperately search for another way to escape their mundane and excruciatingly boring circumstances. Chava internet-searches events around her birthday and finds that there are two music festivals within the same week--running the numbers, she concludes that this alternative plan would actually cost less than the original--”so why not?” The young women keep their escapade-to-be a complete secret, disguising all the preliminary details as “wedding planning” They plan to ‘meet in the middle', Los Angeles being centrally located to both their respective homes. They meet at LAX excitedly and reuinte in happy (and drunken) tears. ACT 2: Sunny California Chava wants to visit old friends and reminisce as a “wannabe tourist” in an all-too-familiar city, which she used to call home--she's built a list of things to do and prepared an itinerary for the week; Sala wants to get riddegy-wrecked sun-up to sundown; Worlds collide as somewhat by-the-book Chava nervously nativages around, typically babysitting Sala and often falling victim to being steered off-course by her shenanigans. Within their first few moments under the California moonlight, Sala's smartphone helps her discover that she has a nearby group of friends--conveniently banded-together by her circus act “master plug”, who is devastatingly in love with her. They spend night one of the first festival tracking him down--Sala finds herself already exhausted by Sala's timing and drunken unsubtlety (“My friend's a COP!”) They finally meet him at the end of the first day, they allow him to tag along--until he becomes almost-suddenly dysfunctionally inebriated and Chava must make a fight-or-flight decision to leave him behind, after he begins drawing attention to their vulnerable crew, and she is approached at random by a mysterious character in a gas station convenience store, where she appears to be the most sober person. On day two, after running at top-speed to catch the shuttle, Sala drunkenly makes friends with a group of young people (fresh out of high school), who to Chava are quite “wookish”, but she plays along anyway. However, by the time they exit the shuttle and Chava has finallybecome comfortable being invited into their squad; Chala decides to ditch them--unknowing that they will re-meet later in the night. Excerpt- Festival Trip I As chava blasts away, Sala and Johnny laugh hysterically Sala: Dat ass tho! Their laughter fades in the distance as she speeds up, other onlookers also commenting about her ass, as she blows past a group of men in black, she turns a man's head as she catches his attention. Man: Daaaaaamn. 3.31.19 —Later— The same man from earlier looks out the window of his high rise penthouse suite, across from Chava's hotel—and sees Chava levitating—he pauses, looks around, and raises his eyebrows, drunkenly and assumingly otherwise intoxicated in his appearance. Man: Daaaaamn. Chava is freaking out, remaining motionless as she floats above the bed—she looks out the side of her peripheral, afraid to move—looking up at the ceiling, her eyes widen. She blinks, and takes a deep breath. He questions what he is seeing, as he pours himself a drink. 4.1.2019 As Chava dances through the crowds, she connects and trades Kandi, moving to the beat with intricate motion and flare—people are loving her (a musical dance number)—from backstage, a man pouts and purses his lips, wondering why she is familiar—he is momentarily lost in thought, as he gazes at her and the crowd. Man: (under his breath) Daaamn... Lackey: c'mon man, let's get the fuck out of here Man: But— Lackey: don't worry, you know there's gon' be hoes at the spot. Man: ...but look at her viiibe...and that ass tho—damn! Lackey: eehhhh. You wanna ass, I got a specific folder in m

this is a cringeworthy read, i'm sure of it. {THE TIME CAPSULE] Here lies everything I won't delete, but wouldn't dare to publish (as of yet), and therefore banish to the land and/or realm of impossibility, where everything entirely consists of unimaginable, unfathomable, inconceivable, never-ever-happened ( or will) unexistence. Nothing Here Exists. Amen. (I didn't write this.) The Colenel's Jounal. “Would he be mad reading this shit? “ I mean. I have to step back at this point and admit to reading this shit to myself at this point, that... I stumbled upon an interview with none other than The Great Mike Tyson--who--if coincidences actually existed--coincidentally dated my mother oh-way-back-when. I remember the shenanigans she went through to get him to sign a pair of boxing gloves for an auction she hosted, once, when I was younger. For that, I've always gotten a little chuckle, whenever I've randomly ended up watching something. Dude is funny. As for other dude? I'm so lost. It's almost like Insomniac (or whoever) can read my thoughts--or at the very least, my text messages. It's been a year of strangeness, and I'm now more lost than found. Why is Pasqualle so strangely familiar? What is this connection, i'm missing? Who am I, if not S U P A C R E E? I'm aware of my cosmic insignificance, my societal displacement. I am nothing useful that I know of, but it seems so that I've been being followed. So maybe he's not a white supremacist, after all...he seems to love as much as I do--if not more. So, that one's my fault, as everything is. I wonder if the window of opportunity has truly closed. I wonder what to make of all this, at all. I'm so, so confused, and so lost, and so… ...confused... First, I levitated. Still can't get over that (literally) Then....everything else. Literally everything else. From playing drums at Ruskos set, to weirdly making my way to Excision, just “following a vibe”--my failed suicide attempt, and running away to Bass Canyon where, everything in my reality officially shattered. Now, here I am...about to be homeless, jobless, and lost in love. I can't shake it off anymore, I can't let it go. My brain's wrapped around all of it, all the time. Prayers, Mantras, Methods. I'm driving myself crazy trying to wish away the pain. I need to be...need to be… … Needed. Bearr needs me. Sometimes, in all the pain--I fail to see that. But he does--and if I can't make it in show business...how are we meant to survive? There's no room for depression and poverty in motherhood. After losing the twins...I just can't. I can't be sad and parent at the same time. And, maybe that makes me weak. Maybe it makes me stupid. Maybe I've just had enough. But there's nothing I wouldn't give just to know that there's love, somewhere out there for me. Is it selfish that that's all I want? I think i'm a good person, but maybe i'm wrong. I can account for hundreds of premonitions, predictions, visions--outstanding sensitivity to energy...but how could I misread, and misjudge, so easily? Something inside me never really made it out of that tent. Then, going back--maybe it was all of me, that never made it out of that ambulance. Am I just the special kid in class--and it's obvious I've been left behind? When I hear myself speak aloudt, I wonder if I am retarded. I feel other people also wonder. Either way, how would anyone have known about my musical history so broadly, as it's been displayed? There's no going back from it. I can't go back to being a regular “Skrillex” fan. It's almost like...almost like I can't go back at all. And I miss that, a lot--just being able to be honest about what my taste in music is, who my favorite musician is…. I tense up when I hear the word “Skrillex”. In good company, I can shrug it off, I guess…. But on any regular day, it still feels deep. It doesn't leave my mind, ever. I can pretend to move on, but I can't unlove. I can't unlove. So, i'm two-for-two...three-for-three, if you count Josh Pan's video, where his face swells up and he turns into a reptile… I remember waking up for work with swollen eyes, and bulging, puffy skin...the way the spiral to insanity began...not with suicide, at all--at least, in the traditional sense. I was working 80 hours a week. I needed it--I needed out of my marriage. Pasqualle's sweater Sonny's Sweater, now falling apart--because, yes--I've worn it every day for nearly a year. A red, white, and blue blanket, reminding me of my presidential ambitions--which have since, not faded...but become realistically reflected with this sense that, I have much to fulfill between now-and-never. I'll only run for President if I can afford it. I can only afford it if I am successful in music. I found it heartwarming that Mike Tyson is so enamoured by the culture. To see him swell with joy, such as I have, upon discovering the world of raves. Apparently, there will be some kind of permanent Oasis, someday...I hope I live to see it. Better yet, I hope I live to play there. I want my chance on all the stages, as selfish as it may seem. To earn a place behind the decks, an unrealized dream. But, can I find it to become all that it takes? To read and move a room, to create and connect with people, live onstage. To inspire a crowd--telling a story with music. To give love, the best way that I can. I miss myself...but no I don't. I do miss never having to worry about whether I was too fat to be found attractive by someone I vehemently admire--but never thought about sexually, in all of the years i've loved watching him live. But, its a vibe. Much ado about Elon Musk. I'm not smart enough to become a rocket scientist--and it's too late for me to become an astronaut, as I once dreamed...but there's something in the space above us all, that seems to connect the space between us all--and it's almost as is the walls are caving in. Time and space continues to collapse upon itself. I might be broken forever...but then, I always was. Who'd have thought the Grand Prize for your third suicide attempt is a Skrillex? I'm cursed, in the way that...it won't fall off. My brain won't un-Sonny itself. I'm on default to give a fuck now, and there's no turning back. I guess this is what I get for hating on *fangirls*...now i am one. Problem is, I'm a lot less cute. How often does shit like this happen? There's hypnosis through music--and then there's losing your entire soul to something outside of yourself. Why and how am I so out of place, in this world? ‘You're too good for this world.' Nothing's been forgotten, it's just getting more suppressed. I can pretend to move on, but I won't. I just found the Holy Mecca of research for my weird, invasive project. Apparently DeadMau5 had some kind of comedy show, or something--called “coffee run” It seems to be about...2014, but haven't bothered to check yet--I'm sure, though that this predates the infamous ‘fued'. Blah blah blah--i'm learning too much about these people. People. Real people. ...was interrupted to watch the new episode of Rick and Morty; Lucky me. One half-hour and several belly-rolling laughs later, I'm back...with slightly more self confidence that, if The Heavens grant me whatever kind of combination of confidence and focus that it will take to bring the Festival Saga If nobody's sampled this video, I've stumbled upon a literal goldmine. Life imitates art--and music imitates music. “I love it when it's super sweaty.” (How do I resonate with this so well?) “ A Los Angeles Real Estate Guy In Torono”, says Dillon. “Yeah, there's a few of those.”, Joel recants, stoically. Now i'm watching people who never mattered on YouTube, in a finally “Sonny says…” If i can ever make my brain learn the magic that makes something like Ableton somehow turn into a banger. “Does he drive?!” I've wondered this myself. “I don't think he does.” I knew it. Dillon Francis' awkwardness is reminiscent of mine...again, here I am wondering...who I might be if I were born a white male--if nothing was changed, but the body. CRUSTPUNKS. How did I get here? Oh, yeah. I specifically opened an incognito window to...fuck it. I know what I'm here for. The thing is, I don't know what i'm blessed with. I don't know that i'm talented… It could all just be a Grand Delusion… Do I hate myself enough to try this? A movie where the entirety of the fabric of [my] universe is music, and the musicians that make it. A universe that already existed in the Multiverse of Rick and Morty, since it's strange inception into my being. Wait, how the fuck did I get here? I was already on a writing tangent Probably--I hate enough to “ i get to go home--not tomorrow, but the next day” This experience is becoming so humanizing. It is a job, this music shit--Touring takes you everywhere but home. What the fuck is ‘home?' Perhaps I am meant for this shit, after all. I don't have a home, anyway. I also don't have any music under my belt, but--with any luck, I can pump out the LP I promised my twins. Today Marks 5 years since Skyy passed away. May 23rd will be 2 years, since Phoenixx left us. It's not a good time of year, for grief. With no friends I can trust (Annie's Toxicity is again rearing its head), no family that loves me the way a family should...I find myself completely isolating from what Love is, almost forgetting what it might have felt like. “How often are you home?” “KAAAAHHHHHHHHHN” If i'm ever lucky enough to learn how to make Dupstep--that deserves to go before a fucking deadly drop. I've officially seen Skrillex more times in person than ever on video--which disincluded, of course, the tent incident--something I'm realizing that if I'm unable to catch up with myself in time, I'll have to live with forever. Can I answer my own prayers? At this point, i've given up any expectation of what it might be like to achieved enough to earn any kind of place in that world *their* world... 5/6/2020 Life is unfair sometimes. Like--do I want tacos, or divine inspiration? Do I put off fasting for yet another day, just for the temporary comfort and satisfaction of eating? Does limiting my eating to once every 24-hour-or-less suffice as enough of a self-sacrifice, that my prayers might be answered? I highly doubt that it is, but still--I often ride the line between just allowing myself to feel good when I can (and food does, make me feel so....so good) and remaining steady in my fasting. Then, it has been over 6 months of almost constant fasting and praying, all over someone I haven't properly met--all over myself. Because, the longer I stay in this mindset--the clearer it becomes that it is all the same. At the core, there's only really one thing in existence. Skyy will have passed away 5 years ago tomorrow. To think, I should have had 5-year-old twins. They would have been so beautiful; I've never quite imagined them so, umti now. I miss my babies so much. Will I ever be okay again? I thought to record a song for Skyy, but it would never be ready by tomorrow, in the perfect way that I would want it to be. I don't want to put out anything less than the best. I'm being as patient as I possibly can with teaching myself--but grow frustrated in my limitations. The only thing standing between me, and the tools I need to make the music I have...is me. (Really, it's money.) Lack of money is keeping me from being unstoppable. With unlimited money, I'd have a home--I could fully pay all 4-years of my tuition at UCLA….ny dream school. I'd study music, anthropology, astrology….maybe even engineering. I can't make myself prettier--but I can make myself smarter. Google University just isn't cutting it. I want to make a difference in the world by any means, and i'm trapped behind the gate of poverty. I just want a closet full of harem pants, chuck taylors, and T-shirts with stuff I like on them. I just want to wear my kandi every day. I just want to be behind the decks atop the stages of my favorite places… I want to be someone's favorite DJ. I want to be one of my favorite DJ's favorite DJ I, I, I… How selfish. What does the world need? Less people. Well, i'm honestly one-less, I guess, if I can;t make it in music, in art. If I can't make a decent living just by being myself...i'm not meant to live at all. That much is true--no life worth living includes waking up every day to go to a job I hate, that barely pays my bills. No life is worth living that Something strange happens to me when my favorite people go ‘live' on instagram Social Media, a young demon with whom I constantly evade, when I am not forcibly fighting to fit the status quo (which, I cannot.) Watching my social media right now is like the digital equivalent of “You can't sit with us.” I've grown attached to OWSLA like some sort of distant, imaginary family--only, I know this is something I've just embedded into my mind--the ultimate wishful thinking. Everything I do seems fragile, as if the grid I had discovered not only exists in the outer world, but also my inner--that everything I do, think, say, sing, speak makes a difference in what will happen moving forward. Reawakening my center has been difficult, saying the very least--I am almost paralyzed by negativity--made catatonic through senses with which I cannot control; My ‘home' life has become a hell where i'll-spirits and pitiful thoughts are cast about me--in reality, I have no home. In truth, I'm unsure that I have any purpose, either. It's all been bothering me… Now it's something that just hurts, like everything else. Add to the pain, subtract from willingness to live. Add to the trauma, subtract from the motivation to succeed. How much of my fault is this? Who did it? What is it for? Amongst the most otherworldly of theories, the possibility that extraterrestrials had actual involvement in removing Sonny from wherever he was supposed to be (Burning Man, albeit) and placing him where I was. I've wondered how else the dancing shadows cast against the canvas of the tent were so perfectly made-- ancient egyptian prophecies foretold as a light show, in the moments leading up to the one where the entirety of my being was shifted, in an instant. I dreamed of a B2B with Skrillex, and instead got a face-to-face with Sonny Moore. One, apparently, does not quite equal the other. Eight (or so) months later, and I've filtered through all the stages of grief--for all of the ways I had to lose him--as much as one could be lost, without actually dying. But, perhaps I am dead. My soul and spirit at least, are trapped, and tainted torturously from all I've come to gather. Running into the night, like a bat fresh out of hell, away from the visions I was forced to have from our exchange-- I can only imagine, had I acted any differently and stayed, rather than fled what else I may have seen. In only the few short moments we shared together...I was able to see more of his life than for anyone I've ever ‘seen' for, besides myself. To have, after only a few moments--seen both backwards into his past--and forwards into a seemingly shared future of some sort. I don't know what else to call this creepy psychic shit, other than “seeing”. To even call myself a “seer” would be a heavy title, I'd be too uncomfortable to claim. Still, vivid memories of the dude's past--and chilling premonitions of the future, have left me disgustingly sick with a concern that wholly did not exist, beforehand. But, when faced with the question: “What would it be like to actually lose him?” I fucking lost it. I've never taken well to celebrity deaths--perhaps, overly sensitive in ways that suite absolutely nobody--I just so happen to have fallen apart numerous times, upon learning of the passing of those i've long cherished. I collapsed fully at Michael Jackson's passing, scrolling through the African TV channels in disbelief, as I desperately searched for a News Channel in English to confirm that it was indeed, true. This was, of course, a couple years after I cried for hours with Back to Black on repeat in the wake of Amy Winehouses' death--going even further back, I can recall arguing with a classmate that Steve Erwin, another hero, was brave--rather than ‘stupid', and undeserving of his untimeley demise. A special place lies in my heart for the day I remember losing Robin Williams-- a weird memory which collides in the now, with my affinity for Skrillex music and the strange outer connectivity my emotions seem to have in the passing of those I wholeheartedly admire; I've shed tears for Whitney Houston, Prince--I've shed tears for all of them. But none so much as for Skrillex, who is [surprisingly] still alive… And I'm mad about it. I'm mad about it, because I was [partially] happy in my place, as a fan. I wasn't even the best fan, or the biggest fan (metaphorically speaking--physically, though--I probably hold a record of some sort.) I wasn't following his social media--I wasn't following his anything, honestly. I was just crossing my fingers that with every lineup released, I might find the name “Skrillex” plastered to the top of it, or standing out broadly against the other ‘S' names, if alphabetically presented. I'm mad about it, because I hate myself. I've been hating myself my entire life. But i've never hated that I loved Skrillex--in fact, I've always been quite proud, having watched the project skyrocket, as EDM penetrated pop-culture in the years following my college endeavors. Never really thought to think that at any point, we might be equals. We're not--outwardly, anyway. Inwardly, though? Fuck me. It's like I'm bound to it by the roots of the Tree of Life. Like something in my DNA was activated by an overabundance of Skrillex. I've undoubtedly, and by far crossed the threshold of having listened to 10,000 Hours of Skrillex, guaranteed. No calculations needed. Still, there are perhaps millions of others who share the same affinity--and at least a few thousands who are more outwardly obsessive than in. It works, when I need to know something I'd rather just ask Sonny myself, but can't--there's always a kid in the fan pool who has been quick to find whatever information I'm looking for, long, long before I've come to look for it. Poor guy. For almost an entire year, that's all I've really been able to think. ‘Poor guy.' Because, if the roles were reversed--and for whatever reason I decided to make my way into someone's tent at a music festival (I wouldn't) and I scared them into a shock, resulting in them fleeing away from me--I'd feel like shit. And, if I had been touring my entire life and watched the culture grow and morph into the nearly unmanageable able monster it has become--i'd feel like shit. If I had to watch an ambulance cart away someone in the crowd during one of my sets, I'd feel like shit. If I had to do a live set while I felt like shit, I'd feel like shit. and ...if some random fan fell head over heels in love with me, simply because I crawled into her tent, or made really good music, or made her feel some kind of way… I'd feel like shit. And that shit probably happens all the time. It's been 10 long years for me, with Skrillex-- but I can't imagine how long the last 10 years have been, as Skrillex. Now I think about all the shit DJs go through, being DJs….what's more, I've had to give in-depth thought to what it means to be a celebrity at all--what it might be like to have someone grow an obsession over you--unprovokingly. Although my ‘obsession' for this particular person can't technically be considered ‘unprovoked' (I was minding my own business, after all--and Skrillex was not on the lineup.) I can't help but feel for those in the limelight whose charisma and talent combined attract every type of creeper imaginable. I'm just the kind of creeper that wants to make music; any previous searches as an attempt to ‘get to know' Skrillex, previous to last August, originated in attempting to comprehend how to create such organic sounds--exploring and studying how intricately layered and carefully arranged each of my favorite sounds and songs were made. Piecing together how exactly an artist like such, had become as such. Now, i'm just entangled in self-doubt, as it seems the entire next generation is equipped with whatever skillset it takes to become an electronic musician. Self-doubt, as I fear that my body weight intimidated him as much as his presence intimidated me. Again: All me. All bad. I've nowhere to turn to to unleash this shit--it has to be a secret-- and even letting it slip to Annie in the isolation of the aftermath has felt like a mistake, since I allowed it to happen. Can I keep a secret? Ha. There are things that only I know, certainly. The premonition I did subtly speak of, I refused to unearth in detail, even to Annie. The other visions I was made to have, still my own secret; I've begun to wonder if, upon meeting Sonny, I would keep it to myself; I suppose that would depend on nature and context. But, I think about it every day. It is my first thought upon waking up, my final thought before coming to rest--it has permeated into the only dreams I ever have anymore--crowds my semi-waking thoughts as I toss-and-turn throughout the night; the amount of energy exchanged, the amount of concern that consumes me....lets me know that it is all apart of something far beyond my comprehension, far beyond my senses...far beyond any understanding of the universe that I may have. And, it hurts. As bad as it is for me, it's probably worse for him--IF he remembers any of it. Then, probably a seasoned drinker (lol, “probably”) There's a good chance that, well-- he does remember. Oh God no. If I could motion to be erased, I would. I've been trying to erase myself for the better part of a year, including and certainly not limited to August 4th--an attempt I can stand to think I had not fully recovered from by the time it all happened. What the fuck did happen? Though it can't be denied that each of us possesses some kind of magic--the origins of mine can be traced back, at least on one side. Powers I was ‘born with', as told by my father--something I only believed until I was old enough that it didn't make sense--and something I was forced to recognize once I was old enough that it did. I want to know what exactly it is that ties us... Where this love--which is what it is, undeniably-- originates. I've spent the better part of the last year praying and meditating, and attempting to loosen the knots in my stomach enough to self-soothe enough to settle that, at worst-- Sonny was just being a pretty white boy, looking for a good time--and I just became a victim by knowing how to have one. Alternately--how fuck fuck would he even know I exist? As i've stated, I was the epitome of a silent Skrillex fan, prior to all these spectacular occurrences. I may have, at some point online--said something about Skrillex being my Spirit Animal… (still true) But can't imagine what else might have been garnered in my attainable, tangible history, which would alert him of my existence at all. Then, with all the money in the world, you truly can do anything… And that's what I hate in all this. Him--having all the money in the world, and me, having none… The very thing that separates us from settlement, myself from closure. Really, the only thing I want. Closure. ‘I got love, fuck your money.' Sonny can be anyone--he's earned that right. He can be with anyone--deservingly so. I want for him the very best--and, knowing that I am not (physically, anyway) am dismissive of any judgement cast. I wouldn't want me, either--looks matter, I know. I just want to know what he means to me--in this lifetime, in this realm, in this reality. I didn't have to be moved from where I was to be inspired by him--I just always was. I didn't have to think about being attracted to him--I just always was. I didn't have to think about being connected through the music--I just always was. And it all came crashing down in a tent, at the bottom of the rabbit hole--where I lost my mind--after having already lost my soul, to something beyond the senses, long ago. I committed wholly and permanently to making music when Phoneixx died, almost 2 years ago. The point was never to sound like Skrillex, but rather to be like Skrillex, as an artist--but, after much speculative examination--I guess, I always was. I lost myself in the early days of Myspace. From First To Last rang through the hallways of my middle school's corridors. Chiodos carried me through the days of wrist-cutting and air-dust huffing, through the days of binging-and-purging, wishing I was prettier--and in the height of all that is the drama of living in my very own Teenaged Wasteland… The Rocket Summer was handed to me by the hands of an angel, as I transitioned out of awkward adolescent depression and into an almost-well-adjusted life at a performing arts school, as an aspiring musician, singer, dancer and storyteller… The dream that carried me out of Utah, and into the Heart of Hollywood at the age of 16… The dream I thought died, long ago. When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go? Billie Ellish's spirit collided with mine, as the first time I heard her voice, I shattered inwardly, and shivered in the resonance that is the understanding of pain, born undoubtedly in love; I shuddered to think that someone so young could feel so devoid of the willingness to live, to move onward. My response upon first experiencing her music, of course, a genuine “...Is she ok?” Three little words. I tend to really mean them, any time I ask. “Are you OK?!” I blurted, as my entire self exploded into shock, as I immediately recognized the face I've known for years--and looked through the widened eyes of one so now devastatingly human--to something inside of myself. Something about my voice shifted him; He became a mirror for all my pain, all my doubt--all the shame I have, for all that I am-- my demons came straight to the surface. Voiceless, now, and shielded in the fetal position, we faced each other silently. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm Sorry.', I thought loudly, as I lay panicking. I stared down into my chest, ashamed to be anything but invisible, thoughts racing. I dare not lift my head to look at him. My heart pounded, as I lay screaming silent apologies for my appearance--for my very presence, for my own existence. I couldn't process his presence in my reality. Choking back tears, I tried not even to so much as breathe, as I silently apologized for being born--and though I wanted nothing more than to reach out to hold him, I lay all-but-lifelessly--wondering what went so wrong that he would seek to find me. The familiar smell of liquor permeated the air, as my heart sank, throbbing as it pounded...I know an alcoholic, when I smell one. I did actually wonder if he was okay....(and I've been wondering daily, ever since.) But clearly, he wasn't okay. Clearly, I wasn't. Clearly, nobody's ok. He slipped his praying hands between my thighs, as I died inside--and all my outer senses blended to become all, and nothing at once, again. Exit Skrillex, Enter Sonny. How does a mere peasant earn a spot in the company of the Highest Priest? I've not bargained with the Devil, but begged the Heavens that my life would end before his...the First Fast emerged as a direct result of self-sacrifice; To serve as a protection against misjudgement--to realign my soul with it's true intensive purpose--in hopes that my body would shrink to form something suitable. The memory of his hands between my thighs, a haunting reminder that--I just may be too big for him… The reality is...of all that I am, and all that I have, and all that I wish to be...it just may be that--he's too big for me… metaphorically speaking. I'll have to become a damn-near Superstar, just to get to know the people--that know the people--that know the people, that know people who can connect me to Sonny, on any level. I'll have to get in line behind millions of other hopeful DJ's, producers, singers, dancers, songwriters--hundreds of thousands of entertainers who might kill-or-die to get to know Skrillex in any way-shape-or form. Romantically, I'd be competing against at least a million perfect-bodied beauty-queen fangirls who would do anything--and I mean anything--for their shot at Skrillex. The truth is, I'm not trying to get to know Skrillex; The truth is, i'd rather know Sonny. (Whatever that's supposed to mean, right?) I don't question at all our potential compatibility; there's no doubt in my mind that there's some chemistry between us--be it of ancient origin, an extra terrestrial genetic code, or otherwise...but I'd bet any money I actually had, that someone as highly regarded as Skrillex would be ridiculed, trolled, and tremendously hated by many, many fans--for associating with someone like me. I don't even know if it's like that--but, again--crawling into someone's tent is...kind of intimate. What in Heavens would one want with me, when he could have perfection-- Absolute perfection? I kind of get it. I'm used to being fetishised. I've always been the black girl who liked white guys--I've lead a life that's made it easy to learn that Jungle Fever is often taboo among the White Caucasion men who find black women attractive enough to fuck--but would never want to “date” us, or bring us home. I've learned that--at the end of the day-- most white guys, want white kids--even if they like to fuck black girls. Then, there's the added bonus of some genetic flaw which has allowed my body to at one point, have ballooned up to 380 pounds-- a body which, even after a 200+ pound weight loss, would disgust anyone with eyes, in what most would consider “cute rave attire”. And, although shrinking from a size 28 to a size 10 is somewhat of a ‘grand' achievement, I look like an asymmetrical potato sack with my clothes off. If there's anything I know about men--and especially the affluent ones--they love to have trophies to showcase. I've yet to see a body like mine on the red carpet, or as arm candy--or as the leading lady, anywhere. No, there's no such thing as a fat Cinderella. Still, he's one of the most handsome creatures i've ever seen-- undoubtedly one of the most beautiful creatures on this planet. I will continue to love what I know of him wholly and unconditionally. On my best days, I even hope to live long enough, and well enough to have the honor of properly meeting him. Never could I have the courage to ask him on a date--nor would I subject him to the cruelty of the outer world by alluding to the fact that he may, in fact be someone more important to me, than as just a musician--as with anyone i've ever loved, I only want for him the best. On my worst days, The Devil assures me that it was Annie he was really looking for, who he may have seen me with at the plethora of festivals we attended together last year--or perhaps, even Idania, who was supposed to have been there with me…and it would make sense. The Devil also constantly reminds me of how much prettier they both are than me--and better in every way. But, it was long ago that I came to terms with the fact that anyone who might come to love me--would also love Annie and would love her more thoroughly--her, having the more attractive body and face, being more ideally pretty. Standing next to Annie, I always lose. Even on a good day. All this, I can be sure to cast aside, however--because at the very best--he was looking for me, and everything between then-and-now builds into something of substance or significance… and at worse, my favorite figure in music absolutely hates me, and regrets my existence as much as I do. Either way, Skrillex hits hard any time of the day, any day of the week. And… Either way, Sonny hits home, all day, every day--until I can manage to learn to speak. Eight pages later, and it still hurts. Eight pages, and i'm still mad. I'm still crying. I'm still useless. I'm still stuck. Stuck on stupid. Stuck on Sonny. Stuck on Skrillex. Just… Stuck. And it hurts. 5/5 Another day. Nothing makes me hate myself more than waking up. ‘Don't look at the phone.' instructions, handed to me some time ago by the Divine--since then, I make it a point not to look at my phone, if I can help it, before I've sat up to pray, and meditate. Lately, I've been unable to relax at all enough to focus on a proper meditation, before realizing my actual self-worth (nothing), and falling into the depressive non-motion that has been me. How many evil men will it take being caught in the midst of, will it take for me to realize that I've been allowing myself to painfully absorb their essences, even without a single touch? Just living here alone has set me further back from my goals than I was--then--I'm beginning to feel that my ‘roomate' may have ties to White Supremacy; the evidence does just keep on building. It has occured to me that Jason's warning that Nick may be deep undercover for some Government agency is most likely true. Though I err on the side of not snooping through other peoples' things--I've happened to stumble across indicators which point to the likely case that he is, in fact, hired by the government or some other private entity--probably as part of some secret experiment, assigned to psycologically torture and disable mentally fragile individuals; It seems as though the experiement was designed in order to test morale, will power, self-control, and proper judgement-- tests which I've been concious of, but in the moment have not always cared about passing-or-failing. From the painful assortment of disgusting and obnoxious sounds make throughout the day, torturing me through unpleasant and peace-shattering sounds, left victimized by my synesthesia and recently pinpointed misophonia--or something similar...whatever it is that makes slamming doors, cabinets, and the items crashing to the floor after lazily being thrown across the room methods of torture. To the cavalcade of poisonous, sugary and addicted substances, which only seem to appear or are offered during crucial fasts--or, pushily and passive-aggressively left in my living space without asking whether or not i'd like any. Just left there, to be discovered upon finishing a shower, or returning from a nightly walk. And on days when I am actually hungry, or needing to eat? I am offered nothing. Only when I fast am I ever offered any sustenance. It says almost too much about my roomate as a person--to offer every time, or never at all would be acceptable, and understandable--but to only invite one to eat when one feels so ‘inclined' is beyond cruelty. It's privilege showing itself to be one of the only faces uglier than mine, that i'm aware of. While i've elected to use my headphones as a shield, life's not always easy immersed in a sound bath of isochronic tones and Theta Waves--and though it does excite me to have expanded my music library, with additions and updates I've been longing for ages-- it's almost more stressful to think about the amount of music that I don't have. Songs I would add to my “sets”, if you can call them that. If I can call myself a DJ--if I can call myself a person, anymore. Really, all I am is hurt feelings and trauma wrapped in flesh; I might be less of a person than I ever was, once. Everything costs--whether it be money, the world's currency--or time, the currency of the soul. Torturous is the life of an artist, who cannot herself make ‘art', as she sees fit. Everyone in Hollywood has a screenplay in their back pocket; Everyone in LA has a dream, two-to-three-jobs, and a side hustle--and me? I'm just learning to DJ to self-soothe, having given up hope of ever becoming anything greater than the happiest guest at the rave nearest you. It's harder than it looks….(or, maybe it isn't, and i'm just retarded.) Building a music collection worthy enough to grace the decks in any of my favorite venues, is an arduous task--maybe this is why all the popular DJs are pretty white boys--the proof is in the privilege. Money, money, money...I used to make plenty of it, and was always exhausted--now I make none, and am always exhausted. What's worth what cost? Time = Money. In LA, and in the world. But by anyone's definition--and especially mine--LA is the world. Or, at the very least, sets the tone for the world. Truly, nothing is free. DJing is more expensive than I could have ever imagined--once again, in any direction I turn, there's a ladder to climb. I've not got the time or energy left in my sadly depleting lifesource left to storm gates, crawling over heads and cutting down those in my way. While it's certain that ‘Competitive Greatness' is the key atop the Pyramid of Success, there are 14 other bricks below to lay the foundation of that which one might call success, to be garnered as imagined through the eyes of a man, anyway, who lived in the 1930's. John L. Wooden may have been right--and may still be right--if I were a standard male (we'll leave race out of it, for now…..for now.) Still, i've been using the Pyrimid of Success as a guidepost, in what it is exactly I may have to do, or be, in order to become something. Not even something great, just something. Perhaps, if I can make it to being something, eventually I might become someone. Oh, to be a person would be nice. For now, I'll just have to settle on tricking my useless sack of anatomy into being a DJ. There's nothing outside of it, anymore. Bass Canyon truly was my last rave--not that I enjoyed it, honestly. Though I've attempted to retrain my brain around the trauma which resulted from that weekend, it did serve as a turning point--a sort of going-away party, as I departed from my home as a no-holds-bar Kandi Kid. Happy Graduation, OG Raver! Little did I know that, with the multidimentionality of our universe, I would be presented, through the world of possibility--the ability to at least observe with the naked eye that there lie more beyond the decks-- a space that may have been made for me. I'll never forget the moment I knew I would be a DJ--or at least try, for the life (or the death) of me. Electric Daisy Carnival changed my life--an experience ten years in the making that catapulted me into the depths of my wildest dreams--unbeknownst to me that I hadn't yet the ability to swim, in such that is the tempest of my own subconscious mind. But--that part of this story deserves its own dedicated elaboration; For now, i'll only look back--and realize that it was there that I aligned with my highest self in the truest sense, that, at least then, I actually believed that I could become a top DJ. I've lost the flight to stay afloat in the salty sea that is the millions of other people trying to make it to the mainstages of our favorite places, and begun to sink into the reality of the entertainment industry as a whole...the reality of the world, as a whole anymore. Looking around at the world's top DJs is less encouraging and inspirational than it should be. Nearly every headliner looks like every kid who ever bullied me, every guy who ever turned me down--every kid hosting the party I wasn't invited to. As for the females of the bunch--I find it frustrating that not one yet has been of any color other than yellow--and even then--we all know the world's men love Asian women. While I can admire girls like Rezz and Allison Wonderland--I wonder what kind of career, if any, if either of them were black, or heavyset--or, my losing genetic combination: Both. Would a fat Allison Wonderland have ever made it into the industry? Would a black Rezz ever become a staple in bass music, and rave culture? If Softest. Hard had a pot belly, would she have been discovered? Then, there are up-and-comings beyond my complete comprehension--those who are visually appealing, but musically inept; I'll leave out any names, and still salute them--anyone who can wrap their brain around any standard DAW enough to make an entire song, is absolutely more talented, definitely more intelligent than I am. [I'm not.] But, I can't help but wonder: How easy was it for any of them, being so pretty, to learn to do what they do--just by being kind and asking a friend for help to learn production? In so many years of raving, I've watched beautiful girls get pulled backstage--and even pulled on stage, to connect with the artists and VIPs. I've been brought to tears as I've watched rude girls with porcelain faces caked in makeup be lifted over rails into the promised land, picked to be plucked by just her eyes and smile combined with the perfection of a flat and flawless stomach. Pretty girls always get priority. Me? Well, I get the dead eyes of the drunken DJ, staring down at me through his whiskey glass, as he beckons the stagehands to assist the perfect-bodied princess backstage...but i'm only front-and-center so I can feel the music move, and watch all the energy bounce around, matching the movement of the expert's hands on deck, to the waves of sound colliding with the rest of the world. True, my mind might wander to what wonderful experiences await the perfect princess, as she disappears behind the decks, into a world i've yet to know, but only seen: The life I know exists beyond the rails, beyond the decks...the world I can only wish to build, for myself. Big ugly black girls don't get pulled backstage. Big ugly black girls are token ancillary characters, it seems, in the plot which writes the story of the modern rave. In a sea of new-generation ravers raised by Kim Kardashian and YouTube makeup tutorials--left lost in a torturous chamber of perfection--women who can wear anything, beautifully. Women who get whatever they want, whenever they want--because they know they can; 10's, to my -3. Bottom Line: Looks matter, until all the men in the world go blind. Sad-but-true. I move not to objectify the women whose music and movement through the clearly sexist music entertainment industry. God only knows how hard each of them has worked to earn a spot so highly ranked amongst those to whom we all admire--the legends, the greats. Each woman behind the decks has become a reflection of everything I wish I ever was--but also a painful reminder of everything that I am not. Of every girl i've ever come behind. Perhaps, this is the result of growing up the as the only ‘black girl', in the backwards, racist po-dunk town I was transplanted into: A place where I spent years constantly being told, taught, and trained that it was more admirable to have light skin, blonde hair, blue eyes...then again, The Media has always done a particularly good job at creating and maintaining what the ideal beauty standard should be, or is--and an excellent job of perpetuating stereotypes. People never expect me to sound how I do, or to like what I like--because it's “white people stuff”; and ten years ago when I discovered raving, there wasn't another black girl (or boy!) in sight for miles, at any rave I went to. I was the oddity, the token--the “what the fuck” person, in an already entirely what-the-fuck place. Fast Forward to 2020: My Freshman Year as a DJ. And...as it appears, the world behind the decks is just as non-diverse as the dancefloor was when I first began this escapade through the world of immersive music. Do I want to be the first ethnically-bred Female DJ to reach the top? OF COURSE. Can I? It's not up to me. Now I'm confusededly caught in the web that is rumours circulating of an ongoing race-war, and wondering if I've been left to die smack-dab in the middle of it. Amongst currently living with a white supremacist (or, extremely ignorant and culturally intolerant biggoted racist at the very, very least.), it seems that White Superiority may be a driving theme amongst the Electronic Music Industry--that maybe the world I've rather grown up in, and come to love has more twists, turns, and dark alleys to look through than the obvious ‘secrets' that loom in the world of rave. All seeing is the eye that watches over all. Insomniac's crew is among one of the least racially diverse I've ever seen--if I were Pasqualle, I might think to at least try to make it look as though there were a plethora of ethnic backgrounds who work together to tie the knot holding together the world's biggest metaphorical kandi: Insomniac, the Kingdom of Mainstream rave culture. A global endeavor. I wonder how many i've come to admire--Pasqualle included-- are actually White Supremacists, masquerading in the power of positivity and their corporate capitalism, true beliefs and intentions. My curiosity about the man himself peaked during EDC weekend, after stumbling into sign after sign, symbol after symbol--of something I've aspired [in the past] to commit to, but also am wearlily aware of its adversity towards that of my kind; being firstly female, and secondly partially black. Now, I wonder--am I even allowed to enter into the world beyond the decks--or is that preserved for only women with perfect bodies, fair skin--attractive individuals? Does it belong only to those with money? Is there any possibility that there may be room for someone like me to enter the scene--or may only pretty girls with pretty bodies and pretty hair be allowed in the backstage world? Really, I just want to perform. I miss myself as a dancer, as a musician--as an actor, all together. I still wish I had continued on this path a decade ago, when--though weighing over 300 pounds--my confidence at least existed. Teaching myself to DJ has been one of the hardest things i've ever done; I don't know if I'm retarded, but I'm beginning to consider attempting to see someone for some kind of screening. If Paris Hilton can DJ, why is it so hard for me? If Sonny can dink around on a computer with a blown speaker, call himself ‘Skrillex' and make some of the world's most intricate music since that of Beethoven-- why can't I do the same? What makes the difference in all these YouTube tutorials telling me how to do it--and me actually being able to do it? What is it, that's wrong with my brain? But, it's all i've wanted for over a year--to be a DJ, at least. I've always been a musician; It's just been a stop-and-go, allowing for the rest of what has been my life to pass through between the times I could make music, and couldn't. I wish I had the positive support it takes to have encouraged me forward on the path I was already on, since I was 13--instead, I was told I was too fat (and too black) to succeed in the way I wanted to. 10 Years later and Lizzo is at the top of her game, while I beat myself up for losing at mine. Never could I have imagined a world where i'd see an album cover like hers; upon seeing it, I was not only shocked, but enraged: She was everything I was told I could not be. And the Truth Is: more than likely, someone told Lizzo the same thing I was told, and the difference is-- she didn't believe them, and kept moving forward. The difference is: She believed in herself, and loved herself enough to keep trying. The difference is, that everything I needed, I already had--I just never believed it to be so. I'm proud of her...but insanely jealous. My inner child cries “That should have been me.” Truth Hurts. There's more to it, than that; Envy lives in the cavernous pits deep within the confined Hell that is my subconscious mind--and--as the world begins to close in on itself, as consciousness continues expanding, I find myself fighting against the worst of my woes daily. Nowhere can I go without meeting a flawless, forward-figured, and facially exquisite female--rather than submit to catty jealousness, I have learned to admire and nod or bow as a gesture that I am a lesser creature. So now i'm left to wonder as I self-teach myself a trade, if my aspirations may ever be achieved, without possessing any outer beauty. All that's left in the world for me, now, is to become my own favorite DJ. (A title, of course, formerly belonging to Skrillex... ruined, by his untimely arrival as a physical person, into my actual life. More on that later...and infinitely.) I've lately begun asking myself “Is it really worth it?”...but, at the same time, I've never loved anything so much, as to fly on the wings of music--and so i've also wondered “What else will really make me happy?” Tough question. Ideally, I'm the entertainment Guru I always wished to be--not tied down to any one artform, but able to move about freely in all of them. There's no life without theatre--there's no light without entertainment. If living ideally, I could never be any-one-thing-- if living ideally, I am the embodiment of everything I love. But in a world where a snatched waist and a pretty face are a winning (and deadly) combination, I'm 0-0. Life of am ugly kid. Worse off yet, since even Hobo Johnson seems to have more confidence in his awkward and broken rhythms enough to speak his mind clearly enough for the rest of the world to resonate. Might be a good time to revisit, what it is exactly I came for. Perhaps, the answer is nothing: So far, I have nothing, make nothing, am nothing--if there is anything that I am, it's words on a piece of paper--just another ‘thing', another dreaming, wishful hopeful that I can rise above all that has been, and all that I am now...to become something more When training to match with the likes of the devil in preparation for battle against he, you must intend to figure, what the vehicle he has chosen has maintained to use as atool to help build you, as a Saint or an Angel--or one to break you, as Satan he. It has been a fruitful fas, but still i persist, though with a weary eye and curious mind, to the riddle i have yet been presente; ; Much ado about Chicken Soup. “Practice androgyny!” the two meet, immidiately fritening eachother; they transform-- One becomes dog, the other a cat--the cat begins to run. the dog pursues her. they run into a sunny meadow where a river feeds the wildlife and it is vibrant amongst the creatures; the cat climbs up a tree, and the [very friendly] dog stops at the base, looking up at her playfully, with an ask that she come down. She looks down from the tree at him, at a safe distance, and begins to relax on the I've fallen in love with a celebrity. What medicine cures that? Dearest Sonny, I'm unsure quite how to explain myself to you--or if I can, or should explain myself at all.I guess I could start with “I'm sorry.”, but it's almost as if that doesn't quite cover it, and nothing does. Perhaps, i'll start with just “thank you”--thank you for being you--which is something that makes me more ‘myself' than anything, at best. Really though, that's probably a good place to start with the wholehearted apology I owe you; It cannot be easy being yourself, or navigating life with such prominence, importance--as I'm sure you never intended all that you are, as any gift-given may have come as a God-honest, and God-given surprise. That being said; God is only anything that I am --as is, anything that you are. The talent that you possess is insurmountably powerful...and has touched, changed, inspired millions--changing the world and the very fabric of time itself--no matter how unintentionally, in all your humility. Somewhere hidden, I too have talent. I only wish that in this lifetime, I were granted the confidence and charisma to be able to somehow express it. Music is the matter I find I am made of--without being able to express it, I only feel burdened, trapped. It is a beautiful language you speak--you, and the rest of the artists I've grown to admire. It is a language so soothing, I can only long to learn it; I'm afraid though that in this lifetime, too much time and opportunity has passed...in this modern, technologically fast-paced new world...i've been left behind. You are truly a good friend, indeed. In all the sense that it doesn't make, I honor you as someone who has inspired, motivated, comforted, and captivated consistently throughout my existence in this time, in this life; Though i've been in recent times, able to remember your essence in lifetimes past, it is in this lifetime that I find the most befuddling, how your music itself has seemed to find and follow me.Unexplainable, would be the word that I can most easily use to describe anything having to do with it--love, would be the other word. “I love you”, is, I guess, what I was trying to say by tapping you gently three times, before running away. Really though, there aren't many things I could have said, or done--i'd never really been “starstruck” before; but it would be quite a stretch to say that it was the first time I'd been left awestruck in your presence. Countless performances, club shows; Raves are my favorite, favorite thing--second to the feel, and sound of bass. “Synesthesia”, would be the vocabulary word that explained a lifelong fascination with laser lights and deep bass; in ten years of hugging subwoofers and losing myself in the drop wondering my early adulthood mantra “Why am I like this?” almost constantly, it never mattered more to me than it has now. I recall a time where I referred to Skrillex as my spirit animal--still true, I suppose, although considering the fact I've consciously separated the Skrillex of things from the Sonny Moore of it all. One in the same, or, two separate parts of a whole--I can undeniably say all my unconventional, unconditional “I love you, I love you, I love you's”, in the everything that you are. ‘In love', would be an understatement--though which statement to actually make, i'm unsure of. I'm unsure of a lot of things, really; I've made many honest (and dishonest mistakes) in this lifetime--walking away from you, one of them. But, I can't change that, anything about who I am--or anything about the world the way it is, for I am only one--and too small, too weak, and too tired. My soul wishes for the freedom that death will bring--and so, I must let it...as its simply much too hard to live moving forward with such a badly broken spirit. I want you to understand that it is not your fault; It's nothing to do with you, or anything that you've done--the way that I love is uncontainable, once the match has been lit. I apologize again that you've become a victim in the energy field that becomes somewhat of a vortex, once activated. I didn't mean to fall in love with you--I don't know really how it happened, it just did. Maybe you don't remember me. Maybe you do. It doesn't really matter now, I just want you to know that me leaving this life is no fault of yours. I love you wholeheartedly--wholeheartedly, too, I love myself--though, seemingly only from the inside-out; there's nothing I can do about the outer shell I've been trapped in all these years. This is my body; something I would neither burden nor embarrass you with. Apologies, and all my love to you. There's nothing I want for you more than to live a happy, healthy, fulfilling life--I hope that you and those surrounding you are always, always living in peace, with joy and love--without worry, or burden, or stress; in honesty, these arre my wishes for anyone on this planet..as my love for humanity itself has only seemed to quantify, as I near the end of my life. I love, love; sometimes, I believe that I *am* love, as are any of us--but as I draw nearer to the light, it becomes harder and harder for me to believe that anything else matters, or has ever mattered, more than love. I love you. It just may be that i'm the world's biggest Skrillex fan--but to look beyond the cloak of stardom has left me longing for the embodiment of a memorable, familiar soul: The you. The person, and being that actually is; which is to say--as I would for any of my closest friends--I'd go to hell-and-back for you, give my last for you, do anything to protect you--*you*, the person; wanting and needing, expecting nothing in the world--because I cannot see a world without you in it. I'm sorry again, for any negativity. I meant to leave you behind at least, something beautiful, in exchange for all the years and moment's i've experienced through your art--but as I've mentioned before, I am trapped within myself. Symphonies unsung, melodies unwritten--because I've not what it takes to make it. I won't depart without admitting I tried, Music is my all, my everything, my guiding light--so at least in going home, I know there will always, always be the World of Sound--perhaps Heaven in the place where I can live there. I don't know what else to say. You're one of the most beautiful people i've ever seen, from the inside out--before I saw you, I heard you; before I could hear you, you were felt. I will always love you...nothing much else can matter, except that you know that. I'll never be able to erase it from my mind, never be able to forget, or look past it. I may even never understand why. Ancient Egyptian knowledge, or whatever—is the thing it seems they were trying to convey. By they, I only mean—whoever it is that wanted to hurt me. From the men shouting “kill yourself” outside my window— To the flocks of gorgeous, perfect women with perfect waists, perfect fashion, perfect faces—flaunting and floating before me, taunting me, pointing and laughing—rolling eyes, and flipping hair— and giving looks that say “I know you wish you looked as good as me.” I do. I do wish that. I wish more than anything to be beautiful. But...I keep eating. My body is hideous. I hate everything about it. I could try harder, but even that hurts. Everything hurts. Especially my heart. Why was I not more panicked, that after such a phenomenon such as that, cast by shadows against my tent—that the zipper of the door began to move slowly, from one side to another. Perhaps, I wanted the company. Maybe I needed it. What I didn't need, was more excruciating pain. No one's fault, I guess—someone wants me dead. At this point, I think me, the most. I'll never forget that face. The shocker. “Why is Skrillex in my tent?” The looming question. A question I hadn't even the time to ask, before blurting out “Are you okay?!” He froze, I froze. I guess that's where my Skrillex and my Sonny collided, as my soul began the process of separating the music I adored, and the person who made it. I will never forget his eyes. Fear. I scared him. He scared me. He scarred me. Maybe it wasn't him. I know that it *was* in fact Sonny himself (the face is unmistakable, those eyes)—but perhaps he was put up to it. Paid, for the task. Maybe my deer-in-the-headlights makes it so that he is the hunter—? How could he have missed his shot? How could I have missed mine. I've fallen in love with a celebrity. What medicine cures that? What medicine cures suicide? None I've taken, really—maybe Acid. Now, I can't seem to separate myself from Skrillex—or from Sonny—or from figuring out the two, or one in the same— or from figuring out myself, in that we are one in the same. I love him. Like a stupid teenager loves her favorite idol. Yeah, it's exactly like that, except worse—I'm a grown woman, a failure—whose aspirations and admirations are grandiose, and dillusional. Now I'm even more delusional. I thought, for a moment that Sonny might be in love with me. In honesty? Sometimes I still think that. I actually still believe that. So why this approach? I'm partially convinced he was paid to ‘finish the job', so to speak. I was already suicidal, and, fresh out of the hospital on the attempt to end my life that failed, again. So this would do it—make me hope and believe I could be something, someone, anyone—that I could be anything—even a superstar DJ-turned-future President. I'm a fucking joke. Someone, who could have anyone—in love with me? Maybe this is why people sneak into tents at music festivals: They don't love you— They just want to fuck. DAY 1: MAY 1ST, 2020; If I am offered dinner, will eat--but if not, will continue forward. Will set an alarm for 3:30 AM once roommate has gone to bed to check for his keys. Everyone gets their own suicide letter. Mom Dad Bearr Annie Yesenia Sonny (just leave it to Annie w/ his rock && burn book) Let everybody know it's not their fault. Reasons: 1. Fat 2. Ugly 3. Black 4. Poor 5. Unsuccessful 6. Friendless 7. No Charisma 8. Single I don't know why I numbered them. Do you really need more than one reason to kill yourself? (no.) I believe i”ve started the fast that I was asked. Be it that I have, the date is May 1st, 2020--however, I've been wondering if my roommate leaves the keys to his car in an accessible place; I'm kind of hoping so. I'm already craving to eat, and the first 24 hours have yet to pass. Again, i'm always given the open to keep this date and continue forward, so long that I eat before midnight--however, nothing seems like the right answer; The matter of fasting has become a damned-if-I-do, damned-if-I-don't matter...it seems that everything I do is ‘wrong', though right-and-wrong are subjective, and multidimensionally, objective, even. I probably might have been dead by now, if my car battery hadn't died...it seems like the easiest and least painful way; something easy and quiet. I've thought about sharpening a knife, just to cut and let [myself] bleed out at the wrist--but then, I fear that I may panic and that my mind would fight to survive. I've thought about hanging from one of my favorite trees-- but haven't the money left to buy any rope--which, perhaps, I could steal--but to steal enough rope to hang myself with on foot? A tricky task, to say the least. So, really, some of me is hoping my roommate leaves his keys out. At first, the thought of committing my suicide here was unsettling. My roommate, Satan's personal favorite vehicle and overall negative void of a ‘person' (or vampire, honestly), is a drama Queen--he needs not only conflict and drama to survive, but fiends for it; something in me had somehow become too proud to give him something to girlishly blabber about with his narcissistic, simple friends--I can already hear the repetitive exclamations of “horror” that would more-than-likely delight him as he recounts the story of finding my body, over-and-over...at first it rather haunted me, and now i've come to peace with--bargaining that having him find my body would be something of a statement, which wordlessly reads “sticks and stones may break my bones but words got up and killed me.” Words. Little words. Big Words. Actions. Gestures. If it's negative, I can feel it in my body, before it even happens; If it's positive, it can leave me radiating for days on end, and without a care. My “living situation” has been nothing more than a prolonging of my already disastrously failed and predominately miserable life. A mentally-ill and often psychotic mother, followed by a too- young marriage to a dynamically similar person, has left me up Shit's creek with no boat; I'm pushing 30 with no significant other, and no significance at all. There are generations of perfect people, fresh out of high school--who can and will do everything I ever thought possible or imaginable, better than me. And it's my fault. NO ENTRY ON DAY 2. Gave Myself A “Skrillex” haircut. Wow. Fuck my life. DAY 3: The fast will end today, more than likely. I am overwhelmed with grief, at loss for motivation, and struggling to believe there is any positive outcome to anything I do. I'm already getting headaches, and acute hunger pains--usually these things don't happen until well after the third day. I suppose my body is telli

this is a cringeworthy read, i'm sure of it. {THE TIME CAPSULE] Here lies everything I won't delete, but wouldn't dare to publish (as of yet), and therefore banish to the land and/or realm of impossibility, where everything entirely consists of unimaginable, unfathomable, inconceivable, never-ever-happened ( or will) unexistence. Nothing Here Exists. Amen. (I didn't write this.) The Colenel's Jounal. “Would he be mad reading this shit? “ I mean. I have to step back at this point and admit to reading this shit to myself at this point, that... I stumbled upon an interview with none other than The Great Mike Tyson--who--if coincidences actually existed--coincidentally dated my mother oh-way-back-when. I remember the shenanigans she went through to get him to sign a pair of boxing gloves for an auction she hosted, once, when I was younger. For that, I've always gotten a little chuckle, whenever I've randomly ended up watching something. Dude is funny. As for other dude? I'm so lost. It's almost like Insomniac (or whoever) can read my thoughts--or at the very least, my text messages. It's been a year of strangeness, and I'm now more lost than found. Why is Pasqualle so strangely familiar? What is this connection, i'm missing? Who am I, if not S U P A C R E E? I'm aware of my cosmic insignificance, my societal displacement. I am nothing useful that I know of, but it seems so that I've been being followed. So maybe he's not a white supremacist, after all...he seems to love as much as I do--if not more. So, that one's my fault, as everything is. I wonder if the window of opportunity has truly closed. I wonder what to make of all this, at all. I'm so, so confused, and so lost, and so… ...confused... First, I levitated. Still can't get over that (literally) Then....everything else. Literally everything else. From playing drums at Ruskos set, to weirdly making my way to Excision, just “following a vibe”--my failed suicide attempt, and running away to Bass Canyon where, everything in my reality officially shattered. Now, here I am...about to be homeless, jobless, and lost in love. I can't shake it off anymore, I can't let it go. My brain's wrapped around all of it, all the time. Prayers, Mantras, Methods. I'm driving myself crazy trying to wish away the pain. I need to be...need to be… … Needed. Bearr needs me. Sometimes, in all the pain--I fail to see that. But he does--and if I can't make it in show business...how are we meant to survive? There's no room for depression and poverty in motherhood. After losing the twins...I just can't. I can't be sad and parent at the same time. And, maybe that makes me weak. Maybe it makes me stupid. Maybe I've just had enough. But there's nothing I wouldn't give just to know that there's love, somewhere out there for me. Is it selfish that that's all I want? I think i'm a good person, but maybe i'm wrong. I can account for hundreds of premonitions, predictions, visions--outstanding sensitivity to energy...but how could I misread, and misjudge, so easily? Something inside me never really made it out of that tent. Then, going back--maybe it was all of me, that never made it out of that ambulance. Am I just the special kid in class--and it's obvious I've been left behind? When I hear myself speak aloudt, I wonder if I am retarded. I feel other people also wonder. Either way, how would anyone have known about my musical history so broadly, as it's been displayed? There's no going back from it. I can't go back to being a regular “Skrillex” fan. It's almost like...almost like I can't go back at all. And I miss that, a lot--just being able to be honest about what my taste in music is, who my favorite musician is…. I tense up when I hear the word “Skrillex”. In good company, I can shrug it off, I guess…. But on any regular day, it still feels deep. It doesn't leave my mind, ever. I can pretend to move on, but I can't unlove. I can't unlove. So, i'm two-for-two...three-for-three, if you count Josh Pan's video, where his face swells up and he turns into a reptile… I remember waking up for work with swollen eyes, and bulging, puffy skin...the way the spiral to insanity began...not with suicide, at all--at least, in the traditional sense. I was working 80 hours a week. I needed it--I needed out of my marriage. Pasqualle's sweater Sonny's Sweater, now falling apart--because, yes--I've worn it every day for nearly a year. A red, white, and blue blanket, reminding me of my presidential ambitions--which have since, not faded...but become realistically reflected with this sense that, I have much to fulfill between now-and-never. I'll only run for President if I can afford it. I can only afford it if I am successful in music. I found it heartwarming that Mike Tyson is so enamoured by the culture. To see him swell with joy, such as I have, upon discovering the world of raves. Apparently, there will be some kind of permanent Oasis, someday...I hope I live to see it. Better yet, I hope I live to play there. I want my chance on all the stages, as selfish as it may seem. To earn a place behind the decks, an unrealized dream. But, can I find it to become all that it takes? To read and move a room, to create and connect with people, live onstage. To inspire a crowd--telling a story with music. To give love, the best way that I can. I miss myself...but no I don't. I do miss never having to worry about whether I was too fat to be found attractive by someone I vehemently admire--but never thought about sexually, in all of the years i've loved watching him live. But, its a vibe. Much ado about Elon Musk. I'm not smart enough to become a rocket scientist--and it's too late for me to become an astronaut, as I once dreamed...but there's something in the space above us all, that seems to connect the space between us all--and it's almost as is the walls are caving in. Time and space continues to collapse upon itself. I might be broken forever...but then, I always was. Who'd have thought the Grand Prize for your third suicide attempt is a Skrillex? I'm cursed, in the way that...it won't fall off. My brain won't un-Sonny itself. I'm on default to give a fuck now, and there's no turning back. I guess this is what I get for hating on *fangirls*...now i am one. Problem is, I'm a lot less cute. How often does shit like this happen? There's hypnosis through music--and then there's losing your entire soul to something outside of yourself. Why and how am I so out of place, in this world? ‘You're too good for this world.' Nothing's been forgotten, it's just getting more suppressed. I can pretend to move on, but I won't. I just found the Holy Mecca of research for my weird, invasive project. Apparently DeadMau5 had some kind of comedy show, or something--called “coffee run” It seems to be about...2014, but haven't bothered to check yet--I'm sure, though that this predates the infamous ‘fued'. Blah blah blah--i'm learning too much about these people. People. Real people. ...was interrupted to watch the new episode of Rick and Morty; Lucky me. One half-hour and several belly-rolling laughs later, I'm back...with slightly more self confidence that, if The Heavens grant me whatever kind of combination of confidence and focus that it will take to bring the Festival Saga If nobody's sampled this video, I've stumbled upon a literal goldmine. Life imitates art--and music imitates music. “I love it when it's super sweaty.” (How do I resonate with this so well?) “ A Los Angeles Real Estate Guy In Torono”, says Dillon. “Yeah, there's a few of those.”, Joel recants, stoically. Now i'm watching people who never mattered on YouTube, in a finally “Sonny says…” If i can ever make my brain learn the magic that makes something like Ableton somehow turn into a banger. “Does he drive?!” I've wondered this myself. “I don't think he does.” I knew it. Dillon Francis' awkwardness is reminiscent of mine...again, here I am wondering...who I might be if I were born a white male--if nothing was changed, but the body. CRUSTPUNKS. How did I get here? Oh, yeah. I specifically opened an incognito window to...fuck it. I know what I'm here for. The thing is, I don't know what i'm blessed with. I don't know that i'm talented… It could all just be a Grand Delusion… Do I hate myself enough to try this? A movie where the entirety of the fabric of [my] universe is music, and the musicians that make it. A universe that already existed in the Multiverse of Rick and Morty, since it's strange inception into my being. Wait, how the fuck did I get here? I was already on a writing tangent Probably--I hate enough to “ i get to go home--not tomorrow, but the next day” This experience is becoming so humanizing. It is a job, this music shit--Touring takes you everywhere but home. What the fuck is ‘home?' Perhaps I am meant for this shit, after all. I don't have a home, anyway. I also don't have any music under my belt, but--with any luck, I can pump out the LP I promised my twins. Today Marks 5 years since Skyy passed away. May 23rd will be 2 years, since Phoenixx left us. It's not a good time of year, for grief. With no friends I can trust (Annie's Toxicity is again rearing its head), no family that loves me the way a family should...I find myself completely isolating from what Love is, almost forgetting what it might have felt like. “How often are you home?” “KAAAAHHHHHHHHHN” If i'm ever lucky enough to learn how to make Dupstep--that deserves to go before a fucking deadly drop. I've officially seen Skrillex more times in person than ever on video--which disincluded, of course, the tent incident--something I'm realizing that if I'm unable to catch up with myself in time, I'll have to live with forever. Can I answer my own prayers? At this point, i've given up any expectation of what it might be like to achieved enough to earn any kind of place in that world *their* world... 5/6/2020 Life is unfair sometimes. Like--do I want tacos, or divine inspiration? Do I put off fasting for yet another day, just for the temporary comfort and satisfaction of eating? Does limiting my eating to once every 24-hour-or-less suffice as enough of a self-sacrifice, that my prayers might be answered? I highly doubt that it is, but still--I often ride the line between just allowing myself to feel good when I can (and food does, make me feel so....so good) and remaining steady in my fasting. Then, it has been over 6 months of almost constant fasting and praying, all over someone I haven't properly met--all over myself. Because, the longer I stay in this mindset--the clearer it becomes that it is all the same. At the core, there's only really one thing in existence. Skyy will have passed away 5 years ago tomorrow. To think, I should have had 5-year-old twins. They would have been so beautiful; I've never quite imagined them so, umti now. I miss my babies so much. Will I ever be okay again? I thought to record a song for Skyy, but it would never be ready by tomorrow, in the perfect way that I would want it to be. I don't want to put out anything less than the best. I'm being as patient as I possibly can with teaching myself--but grow frustrated in my limitations. The only thing standing between me, and the tools I need to make the music I have...is me. (Really, it's money.) Lack of money is keeping me from being unstoppable. With unlimited money, I'd have a home--I could fully pay all 4-years of my tuition at UCLA….ny dream school. I'd study music, anthropology, astrology….maybe even engineering. I can't make myself prettier--but I can make myself smarter. Google University just isn't cutting it. I want to make a difference in the world by any means, and i'm trapped behind the gate of poverty. I just want a closet full of harem pants, chuck taylors, and T-shirts with stuff I like on them. I just want to wear my kandi every day. I just want to be behind the decks atop the stages of my favorite places… I want to be someone's favorite DJ. I want to be one of my favorite DJ's favorite DJ I, I, I… How selfish. What does the world need? Less people. Well, i'm honestly one-less, I guess, if I can;t make it in music, in art. If I can't make a decent living just by being myself...i'm not meant to live at all. That much is true--no life worth living includes waking up every day to go to a job I hate, that barely pays my bills. No life is worth living that Something strange happens to me when my favorite people go ‘live' on instagram Social Media, a young demon with whom I constantly evade, when I am not forcibly fighting to fit the status quo (which, I cannot.) Watching my social media right now is like the digital equivalent of “You can't sit with us.” I've grown attached to OWSLA like some sort of distant, imaginary family--only, I know this is something I've just embedded into my mind--the ultimate wishful thinking. Everything I do seems fragile, as if the grid I had discovered not only exists in the outer world, but also my inner--that everything I do, think, say, sing, speak makes a difference in what will happen moving forward. Reawakening my center has been difficult, saying the very least--I am almost paralyzed by negativity--made catatonic through senses with which I cannot control; My ‘home' life has become a hell where i'll-spirits and pitiful thoughts are cast about me--in reality, I have no home. In truth, I'm unsure that I have any purpose, either. It's all been bothering me… Now it's something that just hurts, like everything else. Add to the pain, subtract from willingness to live. Add to the trauma, subtract from the motivation to succeed. How much of my fault is this? Who did it? What is it for? Amongst the most otherworldly of theories, the possibility that extraterrestrials had actual involvement in removing Sonny from wherever he was supposed to be (Burning Man, albeit) and placing him where I was. I've wondered how else the dancing shadows cast against the canvas of the tent were so perfectly made-- ancient egyptian prophecies foretold as a light show, in the moments leading up to the one where the entirety of my being was shifted, in an instant. I dreamed of a B2B with Skrillex, and instead got a face-to-face with Sonny Moore. One, apparently, does not quite equal the other. Eight (or so) months later, and I've filtered through all the stages of grief--for all of the ways I had to lose him--as much as one could be lost, without actually dying. But, perhaps I am dead. My soul and spirit at least, are trapped, and tainted torturously from all I've come to gather. Running into the night, like a bat fresh out of hell, away from the visions I was forced to have from our exchange-- I can only imagine, had I acted any differently and stayed, rather than fled what else I may have seen. In only the few short moments we shared together...I was able to see more of his life than for anyone I've ever ‘seen' for, besides myself. To have, after only a few moments--seen both backwards into his past--and forwards into a seemingly shared future of some sort. I don't know what else to call this creepy psychic shit, other than “seeing”. To even call myself a “seer” would be a heavy title, I'd be too uncomfortable to claim. Still, vivid memories of the dude's past--and chilling premonitions of the future, have left me disgustingly sick with a concern that wholly did not exist, beforehand. But, when faced with the question: “What would it be like to actually lose him?” I fucking lost it. I've never taken well to celebrity deaths--perhaps, overly sensitive in ways that suite absolutely nobody--I just so happen to have fallen apart numerous times, upon learning of the passing of those i've long cherished. I collapsed fully at Michael Jackson's passing, scrolling through the African TV channels in disbelief, as I desperately searched for a News Channel in English to confirm that it was indeed, true. This was, of course, a couple years after I cried for hours with Back to Black on repeat in the wake of Amy Winehouses' death--going even further back, I can recall arguing with a classmate that Steve Erwin, another hero, was brave--rather than ‘stupid', and undeserving of his untimeley demise. A special place lies in my heart for the day I remember losing Robin Williams-- a weird memory which collides in the now, with my affinity for Skrillex music and the strange outer connectivity my emotions seem to have in the passing of those I wholeheartedly admire; I've shed tears for Whitney Houston, Prince--I've shed tears for all of them. But none so much as for Skrillex, who is [surprisingly] still alive… And I'm mad about it. I'm mad about it, because I was [partially] happy in my place, as a fan. I wasn't even the best fan, or the biggest fan (metaphorically speaking--physically, though--I probably hold a record of some sort.) I wasn't following his social media--I wasn't following his anything, honestly. I was just crossing my fingers that with every lineup released, I might find the name “Skrillex” plastered to the top of it, or standing out broadly against the other ‘S' names, if alphabetically presented. I'm mad about it, because I hate myself. I've been hating myself my entire life. But i've never hated that I loved Skrillex--in fact, I've always been quite proud, having watched the project skyrocket, as EDM penetrated pop-culture in the years following my college endeavors. Never really thought to think that at any point, we might be equals. We're not--outwardly, anyway. Inwardly, though? Fuck me. It's like I'm bound to it by the roots of the Tree of Life. Like something in my DNA was activated by an overabundance of Skrillex. I've undoubtedly, and by far crossed the threshold of having listened to 10,000 Hours of Skrillex, guaranteed. No calculations needed. Still, there are perhaps millions of others who share the same affinity--and at least a few thousands who are more outwardly obsessive than in. It works, when I need to know something I'd rather just ask Sonny myself, but can't--there's always a kid in the fan pool who has been quick to find whatever information I'm looking for, long, long before I've come to look for it. Poor guy. For almost an entire year, that's all I've really been able to think. ‘Poor guy.' Because, if the roles were reversed--and for whatever reason I decided to make my way into someone's tent at a music festival (I wouldn't) and I scared them into a shock, resulting in them fleeing away from me--I'd feel like shit. And, if I had been touring my entire life and watched the culture grow and morph into the nearly unmanageable able monster it has become--i'd feel like shit. If I had to watch an ambulance cart away someone in the crowd during one of my sets, I'd feel like shit. If I had to do a live set while I felt like shit, I'd feel like shit. and ...if some random fan fell head over heels in love with me, simply because I crawled into her tent, or made really good music, or made her feel some kind of way… I'd feel like shit. And that shit probably happens all the time. It's been 10 long years for me, with Skrillex-- but I can't imagine how long the last 10 years have been, as Skrillex. Now I think about all the shit DJs go through, being DJs….what's more, I've had to give in-depth thought to what it means to be a celebrity at all--what it might be like to have someone grow an obsession over you--unprovokingly. Although my ‘obsession' for this particular person can't technically be considered ‘unprovoked' (I was minding my own business, after all--and Skrillex was not on the lineup.) I can't help but feel for those in the limelight whose charisma and talent combined attract every type of creeper imaginable. I'm just the kind of creeper that wants to make music; any previous searches as an attempt to ‘get to know' Skrillex, previous to last August, originated in attempting to comprehend how to create such organic sounds--exploring and studying how intricately layered and carefully arranged each of my favorite sounds and songs were made. Piecing together how exactly an artist like such, had become as such. Now, i'm just entangled in self-doubt, as it seems the entire next generation is equipped with whatever skillset it takes to become an electronic musician. Self-doubt, as I fear that my body weight intimidated him as much as his presence intimidated me. Again: All me. All bad. I've nowhere to turn to to unleash this shit--it has to be a secret-- and even letting it slip to Annie in the isolation of the aftermath has felt like a mistake, since I allowed it to happen. Can I keep a secret? Ha. There are things that only I know, certainly. The premonition I did subtly speak of, I refused to unearth in detail, even to Annie. The other visions I was made to have, still my own secret; I've begun to wonder if, upon meeting Sonny, I would keep it to myself; I suppose that would depend on nature and context. But, I think about it every day. It is my first thought upon waking up, my final thought before coming to rest--it has permeated into the only dreams I ever have anymore--crowds my semi-waking thoughts as I toss-and-turn throughout the night; the amount of energy exchanged, the amount of concern that consumes me....lets me know that it is all apart of something far beyond my comprehension, far beyond my senses...far beyond any understanding of the universe that I may have. And, it hurts. As bad as it is for me, it's probably worse for him--IF he remembers any of it. Then, probably a seasoned drinker (lol, “probably”) There's a good chance that, well-- he does remember. Oh God no. If I could motion to be erased, I would. I've been trying to erase myself for the better part of a year, including and certainly not limited to August 4th--an attempt I can stand to think I had not fully recovered from by the time it all happened. What the fuck did happen? Though it can't be denied that each of us possesses some kind of magic--the origins of mine can be traced back, at least on one side. Powers I was ‘born with', as told by my father--something I only believed until I was old enough that it didn't make sense--and something I was forced to recognize once I was old enough that it did. I want to know what exactly it is that ties us... Where this love--which is what it is, undeniably-- originates. I've spent the better part of the last year praying and meditating, and attempting to loosen the knots in my stomach enough to self-soothe enough to settle that, at worst-- Sonny was just being a pretty white boy, looking for a good time--and I just became a victim by knowing how to have one. Alternately--how fuck fuck would he even know I exist? As i've stated, I was the epitome of a silent Skrillex fan, prior to all these spectacular occurrences. I may have, at some point online--said something about Skrillex being my Spirit Animal… (still true) But can't imagine what else might have been garnered in my attainable, tangible history, which would alert him of my existence at all. Then, with all the money in the world, you truly can do anything… And that's what I hate in all this. Him--having all the money in the world, and me, having none… The very thing that separates us from settlement, myself from closure. Really, the only thing I want. Closure. ‘I got love, fuck your money.' Sonny can be anyone--he's earned that right. He can be with anyone--deservingly so. I want for him the very best--and, knowing that I am not (physically, anyway) am dismissive of any judgement cast. I wouldn't want me, either--looks matter, I know. I just want to know what he means to me--in this lifetime, in this realm, in this reality. I didn't have to be moved from where I was to be inspired by him--I just always was. I didn't have to think about being attracted to him--I just always was. I didn't have to think about being connected through the music--I just always was. And it all came crashing down in a tent, at the bottom of the rabbit hole--where I lost my mind--after having already lost my soul, to something beyond the senses, long ago. I committed wholly and permanently to making music when Phoneixx died, almost 2 years ago. The point was never to sound like Skrillex, but rather to be like Skrillex, as an artist--but, after much speculative examination--I guess, I always was. I lost myself in the early days of Myspace. From First To Last rang through the hallways of my middle school's corridors. Chiodos carried me through the days of wrist-cutting and air-dust huffing, through the days of binging-and-purging, wishing I was prettier--and in the height of all that is the drama of living in my very own Teenaged Wasteland… The Rocket Summer was handed to me by the hands of an angel, as I transitioned out of awkward adolescent depression and into an almost-well-adjusted life at a performing arts school, as an aspiring musician, singer, dancer and storyteller… The dream that carried me out of Utah, and into the Heart of Hollywood at the age of 16… The dream I thought died, long ago. When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go? Billie Ellish's spirit collided with mine, as the first time I heard her voice, I shattered inwardly, and shivered in the resonance that is the understanding of pain, born undoubtedly in love; I shuddered to think that someone so young could feel so devoid of the willingness to live, to move onward. My response upon first experiencing her music, of course, a genuine “...Is she ok?” Three little words. I tend to really mean them, any time I ask. “Are you OK?!” I blurted, as my entire self exploded into shock, as I immediately recognized the face I've known for years--and looked through the widened eyes of one so now devastatingly human--to something inside of myself. Something about my voice shifted him; He became a mirror for all my pain, all my doubt--all the shame I have, for all that I am-- my demons came straight to the surface. Voiceless, now, and shielded in the fetal position, we faced each other silently. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm Sorry.', I thought loudly, as I lay panicking. I stared down into my chest, ashamed to be anything but invisible, thoughts racing. I dare not lift my head to look at him. My heart pounded, as I lay screaming silent apologies for my appearance--for my very presence, for my own existence. I couldn't process his presence in my reality. Choking back tears, I tried not even to so much as breathe, as I silently apologized for being born--and though I wanted nothing more than to reach out to hold him, I lay all-but-lifelessly--wondering what went so wrong that he would seek to find me. The familiar smell of liquor permeated the air, as my heart sank, throbbing as it pounded...I know an alcoholic, when I smell one. I did actually wonder if he was okay....(and I've been wondering daily, ever since.) But clearly, he wasn't okay. Clearly, I wasn't. Clearly, nobody's ok. He slipped his praying hands between my thighs, as I died inside--and all my outer senses blended to become all, and nothing at once, again. Exit Skrillex, Enter Sonny. How does a mere peasant earn a spot in the company of the Highest Priest? I've not bargained with the Devil, but begged the Heavens that my life would end before his...the First Fast emerged as a direct result of self-sacrifice; To serve as a protection against misjudgement--to realign my soul with it's true intensive purpose--in hopes that my body would shrink to form something suitable. The memory of his hands between my thighs, a haunting reminder that--I just may be too big for him… The reality is...of all that I am, and all that I have, and all that I wish to be...it just may be that--he's too big for me… metaphorically speaking. I'll have to become a damn-near Superstar, just to get to know the people--that know the people--that know the people, that know people who can connect me to Sonny, on any level. I'll have to get in line behind millions of other hopeful DJ's, producers, singers, dancers, songwriters--hundreds of thousands of entertainers who might kill-or-die to get to know Skrillex in any way-shape-or form. Romantically, I'd be competing against at least a million perfect-bodied beauty-queen fangirls who would do anything--and I mean anything--for their shot at Skrillex. The truth is, I'm not trying to get to know Skrillex; The truth is, i'd rather know Sonny. (Whatever that's supposed to mean, right?) I don't question at all our potential compatibility; there's no doubt in my mind that there's some chemistry between us--be it of ancient origin, an extra terrestrial genetic code, or otherwise...but I'd bet any money I actually had, that someone as highly regarded as Skrillex would be ridiculed, trolled, and tremendously hated by many, many fans--for associating with someone like me. I don't even know if it's like that--but, again--crawling into someone's tent is...kind of intimate. What in Heavens would one want with me, when he could have perfection-- Absolute perfection? I kind of get it. I'm used to being fetishised. I've always been the black girl who liked white guys--I've lead a life that's made it easy to learn that Jungle Fever is often taboo among the White Caucasion men who find black women attractive enough to fuck--but would never want to “date” us, or bring us home. I've learned that--at the end of the day-- most white guys, want white kids--even if they like to fuck black girls. Then, there's the added bonus of some genetic flaw which has allowed my body to at one point, have ballooned up to 380 pounds-- a body which, even after a 200+ pound weight loss, would disgust anyone with eyes, in what most would consider “cute rave attire”. And, although shrinking from a size 28 to a size 10 is somewhat of a ‘grand' achievement, I look like an asymmetrical potato sack with my clothes off. If there's anything I know about men--and especially the affluent ones--they love to have trophies to showcase. I've yet to see a body like mine on the red carpet, or as arm candy--or as the leading lady, anywhere. No, there's no such thing as a fat Cinderella. Still, he's one of the most handsome creatures i've ever seen-- undoubtedly one of the most beautiful creatures on this planet. I will continue to love what I know of him wholly and unconditionally. On my best days, I even hope to live long enough, and well enough to have the honor of properly meeting him. Never could I have the courage to ask him on a date--nor would I subject him to the cruelty of the outer world by alluding to the fact that he may, in fact be someone more important to me, than as just a musician--as with anyone i've ever loved, I only want for him the best. On my worst days, The Devil assures me that it was Annie he was really looking for, who he may have seen me with at the plethora of festivals we attended together last year--or perhaps, even Idania, who was supposed to have been there with me…and it would make sense. The Devil also constantly reminds me of how much prettier they both are than me--and better in every way. But, it was long ago that I came to terms with the fact that anyone who might come to love me--would also love Annie and would love her more thoroughly--her, having the more attractive body and face, being more ideally pretty. Standing next to Annie, I always lose. Even on a good day. All this, I can be sure to cast aside, however--because at the very best--he was looking for me, and everything between then-and-now builds into something of substance or significance… and at worse, my favorite figure in music absolutely hates me, and regrets my existence as much as I do. Either way, Skrillex hits hard any time of the day, any day of the week. And… Either way, Sonny hits home, all day, every day--until I can manage to learn to speak. Eight pages later, and it still hurts. Eight pages, and i'm still mad. I'm still crying. I'm still useless. I'm still stuck. Stuck on stupid. Stuck on Sonny. Stuck on Skrillex. Just… Stuck. And it hurts. 5/5 Another day. Nothing makes me hate myself more than waking up. ‘Don't look at the phone.' instructions, handed to me some time ago by the Divine--since then, I make it a point not to look at my phone, if I can help it, before I've sat up to pray, and meditate. Lately, I've been unable to relax at all enough to focus on a proper meditation, before realizing my actual self-worth (nothing), and falling into the depressive non-motion that has been me. How many evil men will it take being caught in the midst of, will it take for me to realize that I've been allowing myself to painfully absorb their essences, even without a single touch? Just living here alone has set me further back from my goals than I was--then--I'm beginning to feel that my ‘roomate' may have ties to White Supremacy; the evidence does just keep on building. It has occured to me that Jason's warning that Nick may be deep undercover for some Government agency is most likely true. Though I err on the side of not snooping through other peoples' things--I've happened to stumble across indicators which point to the likely case that he is, in fact, hired by the government or some other private entity--probably as part of some secret experiment, assigned to psycologically torture and disable mentally fragile individuals; It seems as though the experiement was designed in order to test morale, will power, self-control, and proper judgement-- tests which I've been concious of, but in the moment have not always cared about passing-or-failing. From the painful assortment of disgusting and obnoxious sounds make throughout the day, torturing me through unpleasant and peace-shattering sounds, left victimized by my synesthesia and recently pinpointed misophonia--or something similar...whatever it is that makes slamming doors, cabinets, and the items crashing to the floor after lazily being thrown across the room methods of torture. To the cavalcade of poisonous, sugary and addicted substances, which only seem to appear or are offered during crucial fasts--or, pushily and passive-aggressively left in my living space without asking whether or not i'd like any. Just left there, to be discovered upon finishing a shower, or returning from a nightly walk. And on days when I am actually hungry, or needing to eat? I am offered nothing. Only when I fast am I ever offered any sustenance. It says almost too much about my roomate as a person--to offer every time, or never at all would be acceptable, and understandable--but to only invite one to eat when one feels so ‘inclined' is beyond cruelty. It's privilege showing itself to be one of the only faces uglier than mine, that i'm aware of. While i've elected to use my headphones as a shield, life's not always easy immersed in a sound bath of isochronic tones and Theta Waves--and though it does excite me to have expanded my music library, with additions and updates I've been longing for ages-- it's almost more stressful to think about the amount of music that I don't have. Songs I would add to my “sets”, if you can call them that. If I can call myself a DJ--if I can call myself a person, anymore. Really, all I am is hurt feelings and trauma wrapped in flesh; I might be less of a person than I ever was, once. Everything costs--whether it be money, the world's currency--or time, the currency of the soul. Torturous is the life of an artist, who cannot herself make ‘art', as she sees fit. Everyone in Hollywood has a screenplay in their back pocket; Everyone in LA has a dream, two-to-three-jobs, and a side hustle--and me? I'm just learning to DJ to self-soothe, having given up hope of ever becoming anything greater than the happiest guest at the rave nearest you. It's harder than it looks….(or, maybe it isn't, and i'm just retarded.) Building a music collection worthy enough to grace the decks in any of my favorite venues, is an arduous task--maybe this is why all the popular DJs are pretty white boys--the proof is in the privilege. Money, money, money...I used to make plenty of it, and was always exhausted--now I make none, and am always exhausted. What's worth what cost? Time = Money. In LA, and in the world. But by anyone's definition--and especially mine--LA is the world. Or, at the very least, sets the tone for the world. Truly, nothing is free. DJing is more expensive than I could have ever imagined--once again, in any direction I turn, there's a ladder to climb. I've not got the time or energy left in my sadly depleting lifesource left to storm gates, crawling over heads and cutting down those in my way. While it's certain that ‘Competitive Greatness' is the key atop the Pyramid of Success, there are 14 other bricks below to lay the foundation of that which one might call success, to be garnered as imagined through the eyes of a man, anyway, who lived in the 1930's. John L. Wooden may have been right--and may still be right--if I were a standard male (we'll leave race out of it, for now…..for now.) Still, i've been using the Pyrimid of Success as a guidepost, in what it is exactly I may have to do, or be, in order to become something. Not even something great, just something. Perhaps, if I can make it to being something, eventually I might become someone. Oh, to be a person would be nice. For now, I'll just have to settle on tricking my useless sack of anatomy into being a DJ. There's nothing outside of it, anymore. Bass Canyon truly was my last rave--not that I enjoyed it, honestly. Though I've attempted to retrain my brain around the trauma which resulted from that weekend, it did serve as a turning point--a sort of going-away party, as I departed from my home as a no-holds-bar Kandi Kid. Happy Graduation, OG Raver! Little did I know that, with the multidimentionality of our universe, I would be presented, through the world of possibility--the ability to at least observe with the naked eye that there lie more beyond the decks-- a space that may have been made for me. I'll never forget the moment I knew I would be a DJ--or at least try, for the life (or the death) of me. Electric Daisy Carnival changed my life--an experience ten years in the making that catapulted me into the depths of my wildest dreams--unbeknownst to me that I hadn't yet the ability to swim, in such that is the tempest of my own subconscious mind. But--that part of this story deserves its own dedicated elaboration; For now, i'll only look back--and realize that it was there that I aligned with my highest self in the truest sense, that, at least then, I actually believed that I could become a top DJ. I've lost the flight to stay afloat in the salty sea that is the millions of other people trying to make it to the mainstages of our favorite places, and begun to sink into the reality of the entertainment industry as a whole...the reality of the world, as a whole anymore. Looking around at the world's top DJs is less encouraging and inspirational than it should be. Nearly every headliner looks like every kid who ever bullied me, every guy who ever turned me down--every kid hosting the party I wasn't invited to. As for the females of the bunch--I find it frustrating that not one yet has been of any color other than yellow--and even then--we all know the world's men love Asian women. While I can admire girls like Rezz and Allison Wonderland--I wonder what kind of career, if any, if either of them were black, or heavyset--or, my losing genetic combination: Both. Would a fat Allison Wonderland have ever made it into the industry? Would a black Rezz ever become a staple in bass music, and rave culture? If Softest. Hard had a pot belly, would she have been discovered? Then, there are up-and-comings beyond my complete comprehension--those who are visually appealing, but musically inept; I'll leave out any names, and still salute them--anyone who can wrap their brain around any standard DAW enough to make an entire song, is absolutely more talented, definitely more intelligent than I am. [I'm not.] But, I can't help but wonder: How easy was it for any of them, being so pretty, to learn to do what they do--just by being kind and asking a friend for help to learn production? In so many years of raving, I've watched beautiful girls get pulled backstage--and even pulled on stage, to connect with the artists and VIPs. I've been brought to tears as I've watched rude girls with porcelain faces caked in makeup be lifted over rails into the promised land, picked to be plucked by just her eyes and smile combined with the perfection of a flat and flawless stomach. Pretty girls always get priority. Me? Well, I get the dead eyes of the drunken DJ, staring down at me through his whiskey glass, as he beckons the stagehands to assist the perfect-bodied princess backstage...but i'm only front-and-center so I can feel the music move, and watch all the energy bounce around, matching the movement of the expert's hands on deck, to the waves of sound colliding with the rest of the world. True, my mind might wander to what wonderful experiences await the perfect princess, as she disappears behind the decks, into a world i've yet to know, but only seen: The life I know exists beyond the rails, beyond the decks...the world I can only wish to build, for myself. Big ugly black girls don't get pulled backstage. Big ugly black girls are token ancillary characters, it seems, in the plot which writes the story of the modern rave. In a sea of new-generation ravers raised by Kim Kardashian and YouTube makeup tutorials--left lost in a torturous chamber of perfection--women who can wear anything, beautifully. Women who get whatever they want, whenever they want--because they know they can; 10's, to my -3. Bottom Line: Looks matter, until all the men in the world go blind. Sad-but-true. I move not to objectify the women whose music and movement through the clearly sexist music entertainment industry. God only knows how hard each of them has worked to earn a spot so highly ranked amongst those to whom we all admire--the legends, the greats. Each woman behind the decks has become a reflection of everything I wish I ever was--but also a painful reminder of everything that I am not. Of every girl i've ever come behind. Perhaps, this is the result of growing up the as the only ‘black girl', in the backwards, racist po-dunk town I was transplanted into: A place where I spent years constantly being told, taught, and trained that it was more admirable to have light skin, blonde hair, blue eyes...then again, The Media has always done a particularly good job at creating and maintaining what the ideal beauty standard should be, or is--and an excellent job of perpetuating stereotypes. People never expect me to sound how I do, or to like what I like--because it's “white people stuff”; and ten years ago when I discovered raving, there wasn't another black girl (or boy!) in sight for miles, at any rave I went to. I was the oddity, the token--the “what the fuck” person, in an already entirely what-the-fuck place. Fast Forward to 2020: My Freshman Year as a DJ. And...as it appears, the world behind the decks is just as non-diverse as the dancefloor was when I first began this escapade through the world of immersive music. Do I want to be the first ethnically-bred Female DJ to reach the top? OF COURSE. Can I? It's not up to me. Now I'm confusededly caught in the web that is rumours circulating of an ongoing race-war, and wondering if I've been left to die smack-dab in the middle of it. Amongst currently living with a white supremacist (or, extremely ignorant and culturally intolerant biggoted racist at the very, very least.), it seems that White Superiority may be a driving theme amongst the Electronic Music Industry--that maybe the world I've rather grown up in, and come to love has more twists, turns, and dark alleys to look through than the obvious ‘secrets' that loom in the world of rave. All seeing is the eye that watches over all. Insomniac's crew is among one of the least racially diverse I've ever seen--if I were Pasqualle, I might think to at least try to make it look as though there were a plethora of ethnic backgrounds who work together to tie the knot holding together the world's biggest metaphorical kandi: Insomniac, the Kingdom of Mainstream rave culture. A global endeavor. I wonder how many i've come to admire--Pasqualle included-- are actually White Supremacists, masquerading in the power of positivity and their corporate capitalism, true beliefs and intentions. My curiosity about the man himself peaked during EDC weekend, after stumbling into sign after sign, symbol after symbol--of something I've aspired [in the past] to commit to, but also am wearlily aware of its adversity towards that of my kind; being firstly female, and secondly partially black. Now, I wonder--am I even allowed to enter into the world beyond the decks--or is that preserved for only women with perfect bodies, fair skin--attractive individuals? Does it belong only to those with money? Is there any possibility that there may be room for someone like me to enter the scene--or may only pretty girls with pretty bodies and pretty hair be allowed in the backstage world? Really, I just want to perform. I miss myself as a dancer, as a musician--as an actor, all together. I still wish I had continued on this path a decade ago, when--though weighing over 300 pounds--my confidence at least existed. Teaching myself to DJ has been one of the hardest things i've ever done; I don't know if I'm retarded, but I'm beginning to consider attempting to see someone for some kind of screening. If Paris Hilton can DJ, why is it so hard for me? If Sonny can dink around on a computer with a blown speaker, call himself ‘Skrillex' and make some of the world's most intricate music since that of Beethoven-- why can't I do the same? What makes the difference in all these YouTube tutorials telling me how to do it--and me actually being able to do it? What is it, that's wrong with my brain? But, it's all i've wanted for over a year--to be a DJ, at least. I've always been a musician; It's just been a stop-and-go, allowing for the rest of what has been my life to pass through between the times I could make music, and couldn't. I wish I had the positive support it takes to have encouraged me forward on the path I was already on, since I was 13--instead, I was told I was too fat (and too black) to succeed in the way I wanted to. 10 Years later and Lizzo is at the top of her game, while I beat myself up for losing at mine. Never could I have imagined a world where i'd see an album cover like hers; upon seeing it, I was not only shocked, but enraged: She was everything I was told I could not be. And the Truth Is: more than likely, someone told Lizzo the same thing I was told, and the difference is-- she didn't believe them, and kept moving forward. The difference is: She believed in herself, and loved herself enough to keep trying. The difference is, that everything I needed, I already had--I just never believed it to be so. I'm proud of her...but insanely jealous. My inner child cries “That should have been me.” Truth Hurts. There's more to it, than that; Envy lives in the cavernous pits deep within the confined Hell that is my subconscious mind--and--as the world begins to close in on itself, as consciousness continues expanding, I find myself fighting against the worst of my woes daily. Nowhere can I go without meeting a flawless, forward-figured, and facially exquisite female--rather than submit to catty jealousness, I have learned to admire and nod or bow as a gesture that I am a lesser creature. So now i'm left to wonder as I self-teach myself a trade, if my aspirations may ever be achieved, without possessing any outer beauty. All that's left in the world for me, now, is to become my own favorite DJ. (A title, of course, formerly belonging to Skrillex... ruined, by his untimely arrival as a physical person, into my actual life. More on that later...and infinitely.) I've lately begun asking myself “Is it really worth it?”...but, at the same time, I've never loved anything so much, as to fly on the wings of music--and so i've also wondered “What else will really make me happy?” Tough question. Ideally, I'm the entertainment Guru I always wished to be--not tied down to any one artform, but able to move about freely in all of them. There's no life without theatre--there's no light without entertainment. If living ideally, I could never be any-one-thing-- if living ideally, I am the embodiment of everything I love. But in a world where a snatched waist and a pretty face are a winning (and deadly) combination, I'm 0-0. Life of am ugly kid. Worse off yet, since even Hobo Johnson seems to have more confidence in his awkward and broken rhythms enough to speak his mind clearly enough for the rest of the world to resonate. Might be a good time to revisit, what it is exactly I came for. Perhaps, the answer is nothing: So far, I have nothing, make nothing, am nothing--if there is anything that I am, it's words on a piece of paper--just another ‘thing', another dreaming, wishful hopeful that I can rise above all that has been, and all that I am now...to become something more When training to match with the likes of the devil in preparation for battle against he, you must intend to figure, what the vehicle he has chosen has maintained to use as atool to help build you, as a Saint or an Angel--or one to break you, as Satan he. It has been a fruitful fas, but still i persist, though with a weary eye and curious mind, to the riddle i have yet been presente; ; Much ado about Chicken Soup. “Practice androgyny!” the two meet, immidiately fritening eachother; they transform-- One becomes dog, the other a cat--the cat begins to run. the dog pursues her. they run into a sunny meadow where a river feeds the wildlife and it is vibrant amongst the creatures; the cat climbs up a tree, and the [very friendly] dog stops at the base, looking up at her playfully, with an ask that she come down. She looks down from the tree at him, at a safe distance, and begins to relax on the I've fallen in love with a celebrity. What medicine cures that? Dearest Sonny, I'm unsure quite how to explain myself to you--or if I can, or should explain myself at all.I guess I could start with “I'm sorry.”, but it's almost as if that doesn't quite cover it, and nothing does. Perhaps, i'll start with just “thank you”--thank you for being you--which is something that makes me more ‘myself' than anything, at best. Really though, that's probably a good place to start with the wholehearted apology I owe you; It cannot be easy being yourself, or navigating life with such prominence, importance--as I'm sure you never intended all that you are, as any gift-given may have come as a God-honest, and God-given surprise. That being said; God is only anything that I am --as is, anything that you are. The talent that you possess is insurmountably powerful...and has touched, changed, inspired millions--changing the world and the very fabric of time itself--no matter how unintentionally, in all your humility. Somewhere hidden, I too have talent. I only wish that in this lifetime, I were granted the confidence and charisma to be able to somehow express it. Music is the matter I find I am made of--without being able to express it, I only feel burdened, trapped. It is a beautiful language you speak--you, and the rest of the artists I've grown to admire. It is a language so soothing, I can only long to learn it; I'm afraid though that in this lifetime, too much time and opportunity has passed...in this modern, technologically fast-paced new world...i've been left behind. You are truly a good friend, indeed. In all the sense that it doesn't make, I honor you as someone who has inspired, motivated, comforted, and captivated consistently throughout my existence in this time, in this life; Though i've been in recent times, able to remember your essence in lifetimes past, it is in this lifetime that I find the most befuddling, how your music itself has seemed to find and follow me.Unexplainable, would be the word that I can most easily use to describe anything having to do with it--love, would be the other word. “I love you”, is, I guess, what I was trying to say by tapping you gently three times, before running away. Really though, there aren't many things I could have said, or done--i'd never really been “starstruck” before; but it would be quite a stretch to say that it was the first time I'd been left awestruck in your presence. Countless performances, club shows; Raves are my favorite, favorite thing--second to the feel, and sound of bass. “Synesthesia”, would be the vocabulary word that explained a lifelong fascination with laser lights and deep bass; in ten years of hugging subwoofers and losing myself in the drop wondering my early adulthood mantra “Why am I like this?” almost constantly, it never mattered more to me than it has now. I recall a time where I referred to Skrillex as my spirit animal--still true, I suppose, although considering the fact I've consciously separated the Skrillex of things from the Sonny Moore of it all. One in the same, or, two separate parts of a whole--I can undeniably say all my unconventional, unconditional “I love you, I love you, I love you's”, in the everything that you are. ‘In love', would be an understatement--though which statement to actually make, i'm unsure of. I'm unsure of a lot of things, really; I've made many honest (and dishonest mistakes) in this lifetime--walking away from you, one of them. But, I can't change that, anything about who I am--or anything about the world the way it is, for I am only one--and too small, too weak, and too tired. My soul wishes for the freedom that death will bring--and so, I must let it...as its simply much too hard to live moving forward with such a badly broken spirit. I want you to understand that it is not your fault; It's nothing to do with you, or anything that you've done--the way that I love is uncontainable, once the match has been lit. I apologize again that you've become a victim in the energy field that becomes somewhat of a vortex, once activated. I didn't mean to fall in love with you--I don't know really how it happened, it just did. Maybe you don't remember me. Maybe you do. It doesn't really matter now, I just want you to know that me leaving this life is no fault of yours. I love you wholeheartedly--wholeheartedly, too, I love myself--though, seemingly only from the inside-out; there's nothing I can do about the outer shell I've been trapped in all these years. This is my body; something I would neither burden nor embarrass you with. Apologies, and all my love to you. There's nothing I want for you more than to live a happy, healthy, fulfilling life--I hope that you and those surrounding you are always, always living in peace, with joy and love--without worry, or burden, or stress; in honesty, these arre my wishes for anyone on this planet..as my love for humanity itself has only seemed to quantify, as I near the end of my life. I love, love; sometimes, I believe that I *am* love, as are any of us--but as I draw nearer to the light, it becomes harder and harder for me to believe that anything else matters, or has ever mattered, more than love. I love you. It just may be that i'm the world's biggest Skrillex fan--but to look beyond the cloak of stardom has left me longing for the embodiment of a memorable, familiar soul: The you. The person, and being that actually is; which is to say--as I would for any of my closest friends--I'd go to hell-and-back for you, give my last for you, do anything to protect you--*you*, the person; wanting and needing, expecting nothing in the world--because I cannot see a world without you in it. I'm sorry again, for any negativity. I meant to leave you behind at least, something beautiful, in exchange for all the years and moment's i've experienced through your art--but as I've mentioned before, I am trapped within myself. Symphonies unsung, melodies unwritten--because I've not what it takes to make it. I won't depart without admitting I tried, Music is my all, my everything, my guiding light--so at least in going home, I know there will always, always be the World of Sound--perhaps Heaven in the place where I can live there. I don't know what else to say. You're one of the most beautiful people i've ever seen, from the inside out--before I saw you, I heard you; before I could hear you, you were felt. I will always love you...nothing much else can matter, except that you know that. I'll never be able to erase it from my mind, never be able to forget, or look past it. I may even never understand why. Ancient Egyptian knowledge, or whatever—is the thing it seems they were trying to convey. By they, I only mean—whoever it is that wanted to hurt me. From the men shouting “kill yourself” outside my window— To the flocks of gorgeous, perfect women with perfect waists, perfect fashion, perfect faces—flaunting and floating before me, taunting me, pointing and laughing—rolling eyes, and flipping hair— and giving looks that say “I know you wish you looked as good as me.” I do. I do wish that. I wish more than anything to be beautiful. But...I keep eating. My body is hideous. I hate everything about it. I could try harder, but even that hurts. Everything hurts. Especially my heart. Why was I not more panicked, that after such a phenomenon such as that, cast by shadows against my tent—that the zipper of the door began to move slowly, from one side to another. Perhaps, I wanted the company. Maybe I needed it. What I didn't need, was more excruciating pain. No one's fault, I guess—someone wants me dead. At this point, I think me, the most. I'll never forget that face. The shocker. “Why is Skrillex in my tent?” The looming question. A question I hadn't even the time to ask, before blurting out “Are you okay?!” He froze, I froze. I guess that's where my Skrillex and my Sonny collided, as my soul began the process of separating the music I adored, and the person who made it. I will never forget his eyes. Fear. I scared him. He scared me. He scarred me. Maybe it wasn't him. I know that it *was* in fact Sonny himself (the face is unmistakable, those eyes)—but perhaps he was put up to it. Paid, for the task. Maybe my deer-in-the-headlights makes it so that he is the hunter—? How could he have missed his shot? How could I have missed mine. I've fallen in love with a celebrity. What medicine cures that? What medicine cures suicide? None I've taken, really—maybe Acid. Now, I can't seem to separate myself from Skrillex—or from Sonny—or from figuring out the two, or one in the same— or from figuring out myself, in that we are one in the same. I love him. Like a stupid teenager loves her favorite idol. Yeah, it's exactly like that, except worse—I'm a grown woman, a failure—whose aspirations and admirations are grandiose, and dillusional. Now I'm even more delusional. I thought, for a moment that Sonny might be in love with me. In honesty? Sometimes I still think that. I actually still believe that. So why this approach? I'm partially convinced he was paid to ‘finish the job', so to speak. I was already suicidal, and, fresh out of the hospital on the attempt to end my life that failed, again. So this would do it—make me hope and believe I could be something, someone, anyone—that I could be anything—even a superstar DJ-turned-future President. I'm a fucking joke. Someone, who could have anyone—in love with me? Maybe this is why people sneak into tents at music festivals: They don't love you— They just want to fuck. DAY 1: MAY 1ST, 2020; If I am offered dinner, will eat--but if not, will continue forward. Will set an alarm for 3:30 AM once roommate has gone to bed to check for his keys. Everyone gets their own suicide letter. Mom Dad Bearr Annie Yesenia Sonny (just leave it to Annie w/ his rock && burn book) Let everybody know it's not their fault. Reasons: 1. Fat 2. Ugly 3. Black 4. Poor 5. Unsuccessful 6. Friendless 7. No Charisma 8. Single I don't know why I numbered them. Do you really need more than one reason to kill yourself? (no.) I believe i”ve started the fast that I was asked. Be it that I have, the date is May 1st, 2020--however, I've been wondering if my roommate leaves the keys to his car in an accessible place; I'm kind of hoping so. I'm already craving to eat, and the first 24 hours have yet to pass. Again, i'm always given the open to keep this date and continue forward, so long that I eat before midnight--however, nothing seems like the right answer; The matter of fasting has become a damned-if-I-do, damned-if-I-don't matter...it seems that everything I do is ‘wrong', though right-and-wrong are subjective, and multidimensionally, objective, even. I probably might have been dead by now, if my car battery hadn't died...it seems like the easiest and least painful way; something easy and quiet. I've thought about sharpening a knife, just to cut and let [myself] bleed out at the wrist--but then, I fear that I may panic and that my mind would fight to survive. I've thought about hanging from one of my favorite trees-- but haven't the money left to buy any rope--which, perhaps, I could steal--but to steal enough rope to hang myself with on foot? A tricky task, to say the least. So, really, some of me is hoping my roommate leaves his keys out. At first, the thought of committing my suicide here was unsettling. My roommate, Satan's personal favorite vehicle and overall negative void of a ‘person' (or vampire, honestly), is a drama Queen--he needs not only conflict and drama to survive, but fiends for it; something in me had somehow become too proud to give him something to girlishly blabber about with his narcissistic, simple friends--I can already hear the repetitive exclamations of “horror” that would more-than-likely delight him as he recounts the story of finding my body, over-and-over...at first it rather haunted me, and now i've come to peace with--bargaining that having him find my body would be something of a statement, which wordlessly reads “sticks and stones may break my bones but words got up and killed me.” Words. Little words. Big Words. Actions. Gestures. If it's negative, I can feel it in my body, before it even happens; If it's positive, it can leave me radiating for days on end, and without a care. My “living situation” has been nothing more than a prolonging of my already disastrously failed and predominately miserable life. A mentally-ill and often psychotic mother, followed by a too- young marriage to a dynamically similar person, has left me up Shit's creek with no boat; I'm pushing 30 with no significant other, and no significance at all. There are generations of perfect people, fresh out of high school--who can and will do everything I ever thought possible or imaginable, better than me. And it's my fault. NO ENTRY ON DAY 2. Gave Myself A “Skrillex” haircut. Wow. Fuck my life. DAY 3: The fast will end today, more than likely. I am overwhelmed with grief, at loss for motivation, and struggling to believe there is any positive outcome to anything I do. I'm already getting headaches, and acute hunger pains--usually these things don't happen until well after the third day. I suppose my body is telli