yesterday was beautiful. blue skies and trotting dogs and bittersweet chocolate ice cream in pre-sealed cups on paddle boats in man-made lakes that would make any deity proud. and tall cans of modelo and drizzy on the radio and the top down in the swaggen and squash tacos and damn good whiskey and a pack of 27s that always disappears faster when your friends are around —but you wouldn’t want it any other way. and dinner with beautiful waitresses and hostesses and long walks from cole valley, up market street, overlooking the city, the beautiful, beautiful city that shines at night like a fucking beacon, like a sun, like a warm hug from mom. and long-winded advice from an old scottish woman: “avoid trouble. except for girl trouble.”
and that game of cheers governor and the intermittent smoke breaks always comprised of different crews of people. and the conversations —the fucking conversations— about sex and why it scares us and why we love it and gentrification and why the city I love is being botox’d, nipped and tucked like an aging celebrity clinging on to shreds of the past. only this city will always be young and beautiful.
and the music at el rio and the patio, lit up by deftly strung fluorescent lights woven into the trees, transporting all patrons — a winter night in the mission became a midsummer’s night dream.
and I’m pretty sure I fell in love.
my sister told me that we’re all a little bit in love with each of our best friends and I’m fucking head over heels for these people and nothing I would have done yesterday would have mattered if they weren’t right there with me.
It’s been a few weeks since the last photo as I have been on holiday in Morocco to celebrate my birthday. I saw Ali for the first time last Sunday, as I was taking out the rubbish at the end of my shift. He was leaning out of his window and after a quick chat he threw a Mars Bar out the window for me to catch!
I remember this leather hoody from last winter, although the leather backpack is new. It reminds me of the ones I’ve seen some of the other (younger) fashionable residents of Neukölln carrying around.
Leaves fall from a tree, one by one or in a flourish. They swim through the air, subject to the slightest of whims yet undeterred. I often search for that which transforms me into a falling leaf: absorbed, floating and alive. Sometimes I can find it in a bottle of booze or in a cigarette or a line of coke off a dingy mirror. But I know that these are ephemeral and artificial. Other times I find it in a good book or a movie or a particular painting or a particular moment in class when my professor uses a word —“espouse”— that becomes a new obsession. I find this feeling often when my fingers drum the black keys of my macbook and when my pen dresses a lined yet naked page with scribbled words and I find it when I play hoops on a cement court till my lungs burn and knees ache. Most reliably, though, I find it in the people that I love. Shout out to them for that.
seattle’s home to bright blue skies on this crispy fall afternoon. it’s genuinely warm in the sun — warm enough to shed sweaters and long sleeves. the sunshine calls for sunglasses and smiles and spliffs on the balconies, porches, stoops and lawns of our lives. but the kind warmth is undercut —or better yet, grounded— by an acute & understood chill. there is a cold that lurks in the shadows, beneath the trees and behind looming buildings. she stings like icy water: sudden, unmerciful and swallowing. she reminds us of gloomy, overcast days to come and we shuffle past her towards the ever-fading sunshine.
Ambling inside one’s inner realm necessitates a mindset that is perpetually changing, unwavering in its ability to waver and ultimately understanding yourself in a way that varies from time in space to time in the present. Happiness in that aspect is tough to acquire. Trying to concretely define…
Outside Lands Day 10. Mainstage. Whereas last Sunday saw 65,000 worldly souls reveling in musical ecstacy, tonight it was just the stairs, the track, the dusk-lit clouds and trees, an elderly man and his dogs, a few festival signs and myself. Gone is the windmill. Gone are the beer gardens, the porta-potties and plastic cups. Gone are the jean shorts and the flowers in our hair. Gone are bustling crowds and famous musicians. Gone are girls on shoulders, smuggled-in joints and shared cigarettes. Still standing are the eucalyptus trees and the tunnels, flanked with bright colored murals. Shoutout to a city always in flux. (at Polo Fields)