He looked up at the sky, his construction orange shades pointed toward the beaming sun. Sweat trickled down the contour of his brow and then the side of his cheek. Under high summer temperatures, the ocean waves crashed loudly yet peacefully, repeatedly, reliably.

His pupils were enlarged despite the growing light in his direction. The colors of the sky were more vivd than ever. Turning his face down toward the horizon, there were dozens of happy humans. Frolicking in the surf and on the shore, they smiled and drank and ate and swam. Under the direction of summertime.

Breeze developed. Noises buzzed around him. Louder. Louder. Just behind him, a white pick-up truck, its passengers motioning their arms to direct him to the side of their path. Drum and bass permeated his immediate atmosphere, and off they went. As the music faded, so did his interest in his current location. Onward to the shoreline.

​Just after a wildly fun weekend with all of my best college friends, I decide to "re-quarantine" myself in my hometown. I can't overemphasize how jovial it was celebrating my 30 years on this Earth, but something seems hopeless now, just 24 hours after. At the initial peak of the comedown.

The rubber band effect: We hope for the best but resist what is too good to be true.

Here I am again.
No stranger to these parts but
I don't feel at home.

Pedaling slowly, stuck at a sluggish pace I envied out west but feel trapped in here.
Brown turns to green, just after a flight across COVID country.
We don't think anything is different until it's right there in front of our eyes.
Been feeling conflicted for quite a while. Here its manifests itself, although I'm just across the street from my own mother.
I love her and here so much. Yet what is keeping me here in this mood?
Nothing is outside of our control. But almost everything seems to be. Raining tomorrow. Fuck. Thunder comes. Okay.

May 2020
​ - 7Ply Epic

Artists are sexier than utilitarians.
Everyone wants to be a work of art,
not a piece of work.
But pieces of work pay the bills,
works of art more rare.
Be a piece of work of art. Now there's an idea.
The practical artist survives.

Apr 2020
 - 7Ply Epic

It had been weeks. The slow-paced weeks that only led to the next, and no one seemed to keep track of the days. As if time were still. As if. It was a Sunday morning.

He had been coping with the loneliness of the lockdown in his own little world. His head full of thoughts, good and bad. Ups and downs. The vices helped soften the thoughts. Another week had lent its bike rides, short skate sessions, copious reading, and intermittent boredom. Alone. After a full-day hangover, it was past time to rise from that mundane bed of his. He remembers when that bed didn't seem so mundane. At an early hour, he prepared his coffee and breakfast, ready to begin his day in its entirety.

With mask equipped, layers of clothing, coffee, & snacks in tow, he mechanically fastened his seatbelt. Backed out the driveway, swung the steering wheel to the right. Now, accelerating north on that first street. A dozen turns later, he approached the highway. Ten miles in, he exited to advance into the National Forest. The only place anywhere nearby that seemed to cling to any of its normalcy. The birds continued to chirp, the roads continues to wind, and the roadside litter remained where it had been placed by irresponsible visitors.

The region's unseasonably heavy rains made for an abnormal lush greenery in the foothills. Beautiful. Still alone. He could smell his own breath in his mask and removed it, placing it on the passenger's seat. Shotgun was reserved for that mask now, never for another human. He wonders how long this would last. Card games, comedy specials, and The Economist lost their appeal in the new world shaped by the virus.

This blog was meant to reflect on situations past and thoughts & lessons from them. But with the current COVID-19 outbreak and crisis, it is hard for me to divest my thoughts from it.

During the last two weeks of mainstream concern (here in LA), its psychological and physiological effects on me are too varied to assess. At first, a cancelled trip to New York with one day's notice was stressful enough to cause a common cold. I couldn't solidify a decision, mainly because I loved visiting the city so much. But I am now glad that I made the decision that I did. As the slow days of cancelled plans and public uncertainty developed, I was in a weightless-like state of good and bad all around me. I had the lounging freedom of a mellow work-from-home week, but it was raining. Which made it all the more eerie and alarming. During the week I was supposed to be gone, it rained 6 of 7 days, and that normally would be enough to have me feeling anxious to get outdoors.

People were beginning to panic. Toilet paper and purified water (idiotically enough) were disappearing from the shelves. The gravity of the coronavirus spread situation hadn't fully set in yet, but concern and misinformation were setting people off. I'm lucky and happy to have the home that I do. I'm confident that I can stay at home constantly and comfortably. But even I began to hold concern. The stress disappeared less and less often.