I can feel the applause in my cup.

Little Spanish fans moving ambient smoke in a field of summer armpits.

Mosh pit with a homemade-sling and Yves Tumor. I know I’m an idiot. I know it’s worth it.

Akanksha and I are forever designated party-spirits but we also do sitting on the beach and going home “early.”

A couple days ago I was saying how I am my father’s child in a lot of essential ways.

Waiting for the metro, I found out my dad has a broken rib and a punctured lung. I’m really glad he’s alive.


Also worth noting: since I’m in Spain I’ve been seeing a lot of bull imagery. Recently I read an article where neuroscientist David Eagleman was saying that one can quantify how people’s responses toward animals differs across culture (e.g.. In India people have a more emotional response to cows).

Yesterday I was thinking about this in relation to Bull fighting (with the nice symbol of Arca’s torn white matador jacket -also an example Nicolas gave me of a sacrificial bull festival in Greece), and how my dad once thought about getting a tattoo of Ferdinand (the bull from a children’s book who sat in the middle of the ring to smell flowers and wouldn’t fight). My dad was injured herding cattle, so good thing he’s strong like a bull?


The recycling truck lifts the bins with a series of beeps, and dumps them into resounding clatter – without worrying that the neighbours will complain.

I stand on the balcony, admiring the lack of tentativeness. I want to shout “ciao! grazie!” At the orange- clad man operating the sonic pollution, But also don’t want to wake the neighbours.

There is a big tree which the building was maybe built around, it’s the only significant plant-life I can see beyond basil in windowsills.

Everything is design, our entire built environment – the infrastructure in which we live. I think about Kristen being a city planner, and what trees she may have to avoid or plant for our environments. I think about how I am loved unconditionally, and how happy I am to exist.


Roving down a flooded hallway with Adhit we passed pallbearers carrying mom’s coffin. They opened the casket. Dad was there, I was crying, mom got up groggily and said that in the dying experience she had a feeling of the most powerful woman in the world.

Parking on a dirt hill for a gathering where we were all to bring childhood relics. I brought Crouton, the small dog passed to me from my mom which I slept with for most of my life. 




Woke up and it was raining and I was in pain. Perfect day to go running. Light grey sky and clean air. Dad sleeping on couch to American Dad like every morning. Made hot lemon water and coffee, wondered if I will ever look how I want to.
Wasted all the time!


Dazzling visuals from ocular migraines – 3 in a week. I would rather have a migraine than go to work though.

After the gorgeous fabrications made by my visual cortex had run their course yesterday I went to pick up Sean’s dad from jail. We talked about music during the half hour wait for the towing guy to get to his office so Sean’s dad could give him the car title.

Familiar sounds filled the house as dad played Pac-The-Man and Tetris. We have been collaborating on keeping the kitchen clean and making meals. Dad has been employing Sean and bringing home many tortillas. Also making fresh salsa every day.

Dad, Sean’s dad, Noah, Sean, and I ate pomegranate seeds out of shot glasses as it got dark. I applied for a residency that takes place on a commercial ship and wrote an admissions essay for graduate school.

I got home with tomatoes (for salsa), greens, beans, beets, onions. Noah and Sean came home with tortilla chips, tomatoes (for salsa), tortillas, sugar cereal, whipped cream, ramen. Dad got home with tortilla chips, tomatoes (for salsa), Tortillas, beer.

Dad and Sean did Whip-Its. “When I lived in Seattle, I used to buy a can of whipped cream, do nitrous at the bus stop – doing whip-its is the best way to take the bus.”

Dad: “Like driving, work is dangerous and boring.”
Me:  “Today I thought about how I would rather have a migraine than be at work.”
Dad gives me a high 5.
Dad: “Today I had 5 beers at work, no one to tell me not to.”

Sean didn’t go to work because he was taking the “drunk driving test.” He failed the first time, passed the second time.

Dad puts a golden-embossed sticker that says “Family”  on our dehydrator – where we ironically place many stickers. We all eat salsa.


Dad texted Noah that he would be here on August 25th, not telling anyone else.

Later, dad wrote Noah a letter saying he’d be here on the 28th.

On the 28th, dad asked me if I would pick him up from the airport.

My friends are dads around here, they feed me beer!

The second day dad was in town he came home with a case of Happy Camper, a gallon of Vodka, and a gigantic watermelon. We blended drinks, put them in water bottles and biked to the Scottish Rite temple.

We were only 3 hours late so the party had not really started. Dad and I were bored and sleepy, so we snuck around the off-limits part of the building. Ascending some store stairs we discovered a room of illuminated bunk beds, the light changing color in a soothing pattern. We took a nap.

Later we went to see Zozobra burn and dad said he was hungry. He found two sandwiches sitting in boxes on a wall and enjoyed one of them in the crowd. Angelo, Sarah, and Christian approached. Angelo had just found a hundred dollar bill.

The party went full tilt and I was a dance floor catalyst with Benji as dad ate his second sandwich. Later, we wanted more beer and dad found a half-full bottle of “Hair of the Wolf” on the grass. We passed sips around and dad gave people cigarettes from the pack of Marlboro reds he discovered (through reaching his hand into pure potentiality).

Bonus-round in the platform party-game. Ask and you shall receive.

The next day dad and I bought 30 lbs of chile and drank a glass-bottle coke as the roasters made their music.


Dad peels chile on the porch

Wingrens on a Yacht

Hanging out with Wingrens brought familiar patterns: sitting in the same room, reading different books, occupying most air space with jokes, and taking a long time to plan things, then discussing which parts of the plan could have been better.

We went for a drought-ridden nature-walk with airplane noise overhead. My uncle and I talked about neuroscience. Noah and I were still playing our vacation game and had located 3 vegan restaurants within a mile, one of them open on July 4th, 2015.

“We are going back to our natural habitat.” Dad and Pat walked with us, impressed by organic fries, blueberry lavender lemonade, and elaborate salads.

Getting on a bus with a selection of suits and dresses was fun, as was being on a yacht.I read an article recently, about how blue is one of the last colors to be named in any given culture – in the odyssey for instance the ocean is “wine dark,” but modern construction states that the ocean is “blue,” so too were many of the dresses at the wedding.
Apparently my cousin and her groom met in the bird aisle of Pet Co, a friend’s speech mentioned how they were brought together by a love of animals. For dinner the options were beef, chicken, or salmon.

Noah, cousin Audry, and I were each given a gigantic artichoke as a substitution. A grandmotherly figure grasped my hand and led me to the dance floor where the rest of the guests  followed hesitantly. The next day we tried to skip wedding brunch, but were told our “vegan omelettes” had already been paid for. I subsided on mimosas and had a great time. Turns out my new cousin-in-law (if that’s a thing) recognized me from Austin and knows SCUBA. We were seated next to the groom’s older Italian family, who it was easy to bond with over a shared love of breakfast-alcohol.

Dad and Pat had been toting around this gallon of gas station milk, trying to offer it to passersby. My aunt mixed some with warm Coca Cola by the pool, where we all loitered for hours after checkout.

Dad asked if I would be opposed to drinking milk from a family cow. I said that on a personal level I am not interested in consuming the hormones of other animals. From an environmental standpoint it is less sustainable to operate a small, organic, free range farm than a factory farm, and both are objectionable. Pat was surprised that supposedly “good” farms still killed their dairy cows, after the small window in which they are kept perpetually pregnant (all male offspring gotten rid of on the spot or sent into veal production, and finally calf leather). Her ideology got stuck on the idea of operating her own personal cow and she talked happily about it as we drove to union staton.

At union station we hugged goodbye. Noah and I searched for corn chips to go with our avocado and chile powder and were surprised by cheap vegan orange “chkn” etc. – of which Noah bought 3. The second train ride was only delayed 3 hours. I slept on the floor of the observation car surrounded by pizza-eating boy scouts, a sweater over my head. I finished reading ‘What I Talk About when I Talk About Running” and decided to start running.

Mom picked us up and took us grocery shopping. I bought flowers for Bea and told the cashier I was going to use them to break car windows and kill cops.






My mom gave birth to me illegally. She trusted herself over the hospital so I was born in a small rental in Ventura, the placenta buried under an orange tree in the backyard. When I went to California for college we stopped by the house and the tree had doubled in size.I was raised to trust myself, with no limitation on who I might become. My mom has said that the day before I was born she felt a presence and after I was born she realized that presence was me. She has always been a great listener and her psychic ties to my sibling and I have only deepened in the absence of umbilical chords.

I have a lot of reasons to brag about having a cool mom. She was a punk who ran “The Hungry Parasite” cafe and was a budding classic film scholar. My sibling and I recently found out that she used to longboard everywhere, adding to her history of cool points.

When she was younger my mom would cook and clean for her little sister and my grandma who was a working single parent. My mom has always been a nurturing force, taking in many of mine and my sibling’s friends. Recently, one supremely cool homeless musician kid has been staying with us. My mom says: “I wish that I had enough energy and money to take in all of the homeless kids, give them beds and dinner, and then breakfast in the morning.” She wants to create a program for homeless teens that is partially run by the kids themselves.

Every day around 4:00PM my mom has a guttural instinct to ponder dinner. In a recent facebook post she mentioned her favorite cooking blog: “This is my favorite blog. I don’t need his fucking recipes, because I fucking cook like this every fucking night. I just thought I’d share this shit with you.”

One of the recent badass things my mom has done is to write “Fuck the Police” in a fancy script over our fireplace.

My mom lives her life as art, and is also an artist by trade. Dropping out of high school and then Jr. College because it was so moronic, my mom later built her business with the fearlessness, and nurturing creativity that define her.


For mother’s day my mom made my grandma a mix saying: “Her mind will be blown, if she can stand to listen to it. The title is: ARTMOM. It’s her job to swallow quietly, smile sweetly, and tell me how much she enjoyed all the weird shit that I love so much and tried to share.”

Lucky for me my mom is the ARTMOM.

3/31/13 Grandma Cake, Easter, Fertility, Vietnam

* Mom got Noah and I Kakawa chocolate. Dark cherry-chile. She also made potatoes with green AND red chile.
* Walked to work after mom went to Keiko’s for Lia’s baby-shower.
* Grandma Cake + Frank came in and I gave them a tour for 2 hours. Much of the time grandma was giving me information, rather than the reverse. G-Ma had a lot to say about the Vietnam-pieces and I asked her if she had ever protested Vietnam. She said she was pregnant with my mom at the time and that ended up being the reason my grandpa was able to dodge the draft. They had known each other for 4 months. She said she was afraid the world was going to end, afraid to be having a kid, and  afraid of bringing a child into a world that might end. Abortion wasn’t legal at the time, but grandma mentioned that she wouldn’t have gotten one if it was. I wondered if a right I believe in had been legal if I wouldn’t exist. But of course I wouldn’t have to worry about it if I didn’t exist.