We spent several hours on the road, stuffed with jammy kolaches and Vampire Weekend. One of the first songs I played was A-Punk. I had always thought the lyrics to A-Punk were: Do you want to go slowly / into the city? And I had always thought it kind of intimate and friendly. Like yes, Ezra, lead singer of Vampire Weekend, I would love to be stuck in traffic with you, now could you sing me a song? … More Into the City
The best dates are accidental – the bookstore/coffeeshop you didn’t expect, the historic square you didn’t anticipate, the flea market you didn’t know about. Today had all three – the bookstore/coffeeshop, the historic square, the flea market. I had an itch to go somewhere, maybe a bookstore or coffeeshop, preferably somewhere with space, parking, novelties, … More Accidental Date II
Ever since I was little, I’ve captured tidbits and moments of my life on camera. This eventually snowballed into a love for photography, a (now-defunct) photography business, and, most recently, developing film at home. In an effort to organize old photos floating around the Internet – and my hard drive – I’ve started a project … More Decade of Digital Photography | 2o1o – 2o13 pt. I
The other day, I realized that we waste a lot of time taking things personally. For the most part, none of what other people say or do has anything to actually do with you. When a kid is bullied, it has nothing to do with the kid, or their hair, or their clothes, or the … More Taking Things Personally
One psychology article that stuck with me revolved around happiness and memory. How our happiness, or lack thereof, goes hand-in-hand with the stories we craft. The stories of our lives, the stories of ourselves. These stories help us create meaning and to make sense of the world around us. … More Stories We Craft
Yesterday morning, we left the tiny house Airbnb. Leaving town, we cruised up Road 50. More beautiful winding roads up up the mountainside. There was a road delay up ahead, a sheriff told us: a thirty minute wait. We parked by the side of the road, across a ranch, where a hawk spun around in … More Jump Street and Symphony of Moo’s
Is there ever a point when you look back at your writing and think, wow! I hate my writing? That’s where I’m at right now. I look at old drafts and hidden posts. It’s all just… cringe. And yet here I am, still typing away. My private diary entries, on the other hand, are rambling, … More Rambling
At first, I figured this iPad was mostly and only good for the procreate painting app. Over the past week, I feel like I’ve unlocked drawing heaven: I have an app to doodle in, an app to sketch in, an app to jot dreams in. It’s like having a million digital notebooks all stored in … More Doodles
Here’s hoping for a better year.
This blog, since its inception in 2016, has since evolved from a bloated poetic mess to a bloated journalific mess. For the past hour, I went and vetted my content–all 20 pages of it. I removed unnecessary posts–ones where I didn’t seem to be saying anything at all–and potentially private posts, even if they may … More Shopkeeper
Tonight. We sat across the lake to live music. The sun set to rock classics. I dangled my toes over the brick wall, occasionally dipping them in cold lake water. Look! I’d exclaim. And I leaned back, prickly grass against my elbows. Rock and roll! Can you bring me a beer? He did. I finished … More This Happiness is My Own
“It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
Our souls are like peanuts, our bodies, the shells. I remember thinking this the night we came home from burning incense. We burned paper money. I think we bowed. Me, in my gangly western body, oversized and overstretched. Metal lockers. Ashes. Peanuts. Light enthusiasm for existence has been coupled with a headachey down-to-earth boredom. While … More Peanuts
I am at a boba shop, curled into the corner, taro boba and book by my side. I am reading Fruit of the Drunken Tree by Ingrid Rojas Contreras and finding comfort in the italicized Spanish and descriptions of Colombia. It reminds me of the books I read by Dominican writers, when they’d mix two … More Dear diary,
written November 2008 I went over to my friend’s house this Friday. At the park, I walked over to two kids that looked about eight and six at the park, asked what they were doing, and invited them to a game of tag. It ended up in a swinging contest. I was the judge. I … More Swinging Away, This Childhood
On the train to Santa Monica, I was suddenly overwhelmed with sonder, “the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own, populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness— an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with … More On The Train to Santa Monica
Cigarette smoke makes me think of China. I remember the way it’d fill up the room in my Uncle’s absence, then stay still, holding its breath for several hours. In the streets, in the markets, in the restaurants, there they’d be, the cigarettes clutched-clasped-dangling between people’s fingers. Last summer we got caught by Mei … More Summer Rain and Cigarettes
A string of thoughts, in no particular order: The mind is the strangest thing. One of my favorite books reminds me that we’re all stuck in our heads, projecting our own distorted notions of reality onto the screen of our minds. It’s all constructed, pieced together by attention, a weird believable 3D fabrication that we … More String of Thoughts
Hopping from the East to the South draws each region into sharp contrast. Against the tall and narrow East, the South seems wider. Twangy recorded voicemails, the norm, strike me as peculiar (“hah-lo, yoo’ve reached–“) Cityscapes turn to landscapes and steel structures melt to lake water. Welcome home, where it’s hotter, quieter, sunnier, brighter, lazier, slower, … More Disposable Diaries: Tale of Two Cities
Lately, I’ve been flooded with memories. Vignettes. The sight of a person early morning, blue polo, by the coffee machine. Sunday runs with friends and pastel chalk we’d line ourselves with. Fifth grade secrets about love once unrequited, reversed, now going unrequited. Hallway hugs and devious plans, being called on our shit by the guy who got expelled. These images, vivid and clear, are like bursts of yellow mango poppers. Syrupy and strange. Abrupt and angry. And then they fade, quickly, only to make way for another.
… More Mango Poppers
…and smize. Digital painting of my model friend whom I met at summer camp.
December 10th, 2013 // 12:50:00 pm On the car ride home I detected, from the smoky poof of our deep conversation, wispy strands of respect in your eyes. I really like people who have kind eyes. People with kind eyes are compassionate, and compassionate people have kind eyes. And kind people are beautiful and nice to … More With Eyes Like Butterflies
my memories keep me warm until I remember they’re just memories I wrote that in the summer first I was defiant then I was tired then I was reminiscent but mostly I was sad sometimes i wonder what the sheer durability of emotion says about humanity and whether it says anything at all and i … More bad cliffhangers