once and awhile, you've got to burn the house down to keep the dream alive

by Rachel Lynch in

Somewhere within a gauzy hollywood walk-up, a model frolics in languid poses to the indigenous hook of a rock song.

Rock and Roll glamor filtered through a deceptive modern veneer. Hair tumbles into indefinite space between voluminous and larger-than-life. As the light outside  threads its way through the canyons of Los Angeles, I fall into a kind of hyper-real trance. The hills of Hollywood are immediately alluring and yet in a dream-world, nothing is what it seems.

I'm the white tiger in a discord of crumpled white bed sheets. Leopard print and rumpled hair is a lethal combination in a land of self-destructive sex appeal.

A drone of white noises escalate through the untied rhythm of the kinks and bulbs flash in seductive discord. I am a slave to the rhythm that my body moves in and a martyr to the character I become in front of the lens.