With 15+ years of experience leading data strategy at companies like EA and AMD, I help organizations structure their digital world. From building AI-ready taxonomies to managing complex DAM migrations, I turn chaotic information into clear, findable insights.
Whether you are a startup needing a foundation or an enterprise looking to optimize your search, let’s talk.
Available for Hire:
Packing, planning, and prepping – but not ready for the big reveal.
Took a breather from writing for a couple months. The world and my bandwidth experienced some tumult, to say the least. The US went to war with Iran, we helped a family member move out of state, and our own preparations for our international move shifted from the conceptual to the daily grind of a merciless to-do list. I did not have the spoons for reflective writing – at least not anything public.
In the quiet moments between chaos, I turned to books: Orwellâs 1984, Budgieâs memoir The Absence (the drummer for Siouxsie and the Banshees), and most recently Octavia Butlerâs Parable of the Sower.
I’ve been buried under the slow moving, flakey world of Facebook Marketplace, the piles of digital bureaucracy of all things financial, legal, and administrative that comes with such a move, and the demanding march of getting our house ready for sale and ourselves overseas. It’s easy to lose yourself in spreadsheets when the bigger picture feels uncertain.
I’m not ready to announce where we are headed. I’m trying to thread the needle between safety, privacy, and superstition. It’s also TBD what direction my writing will take for this chapter. Many people are seeking others detailing checklists, budgetary guidelines – and I’ve definitely been a consumer of that kind of travel writing.
Balancing the audienceâs hunger for roadmaps with my desire to stay true to a more reflective, culturally observant style, and navigating the boundaries of transparency, remains to be seen. I’ve been following a number of YouTube channels and Instagram profiles, and many approach these same questions in different ways.
I expect my style to evolve – there is no point in being prescriptive. It is also not in my nature to duplicate others’ efforts.
What I can reveal is that weâre a family of three, traveling with a young adult child. I will address observations for that demographic broadly, without personal transparency. We will also be traveling with two small dogs. We will likely be traveling out in the summer and spend a couple months exploring different cities in the country we are interested in, until we find one we’d like to establish a residency in. We are hoping for an affordable, walkable town with arts, culture, museums, theatres, outdoor eateries, and nature. It would be wonderful if we found opportunities for my spouse to DJ post-punk/80’s underground for any local venues. In the meantime his darkwave/postpunk playlists are available on MixCloud.
I hope to find a good homebase for exploring the rest of Europe while diving deep into the local arts sceneâboth of which I plan to write about.
Stay tuned!
Notes:
đ Shop Independent: All book links in this post go to Bookshop.org. Your purchase supports local bookstores and helps fund this writing. (Affiliate links used).
đĄ Support this work â I share additional writing, behind-the-scenes notes, and works-in-progress on Patreon.
đ MA Thesis on Butoh â I self-published my thesis exploring performance, embodiment, and cultural history. Available here.
â One-time support â If you’d like to contribute directly, a $3 tip via Ko-fi is always appreciated.
A Personal Walk Through the Vanishing Urban Culture of Berkeley.
Something I miss about living in Berkeley before the late ’90s was that you could leave your home and walk and enter into an energetic, economic ecosystem. Every day was ripe with surprises, possibilities, and interconnections. You would go into a cafe and just see what the day (or night) would bring. You would walk down the street and just see what the season would bring to trees, to the air, to flowers. Everyday was different and magical – and everyone participated. There was a wavelength to tune into. People shared their energy, their discoveries and imaginings…and it was free. It reminded me of the Red Hot Chili Peppers song from the ’90s with the chorus “Give it away, give it away, give it away now.” Regardless of your feelings about the band, they captured something unique to this time – before the monetized internet and late stage capitalism hoarded everything behind computer screens and corporate big box retail.
Prior to this shift in the ’00s you could walk down a street and the air would just be alive with the smells of incense, coffee roasting, garlic and onions, BBQ…..the sounds of music coming out of shops and cars – reggae, punk, R&B. It felt like surfing – riding each day’s energy, stopping in a cafe, record store, or bookstore to see what new things had come in – like treasures washing up on shore. I would make friends with shop owners and they would know what I was interested in. We would talk about music or writers, they would turn me on to new things, and I would gift them with my interest and enthusiasm. It was an energetic economy – even if I couldn’t purchase a book or record that day, the passionate conversation was payment enough. You could be hungry then and still live off these exchanges.
Berkeley was vibrant yet small – people often knew me through different work places or through different family members, or school. This kept people in check, for the most part. I had worked in numerous cafes across town as well as record stores. It felt like small but also worldly, limitless. You could get music, books, or food from all over the globe. It felt relatively safe because of a shared local history and certain East Bay code of honor. There was also freedom because it was an anti-authoritarian town – but if you screwed people over, word would get around.
But something happened when everything was replaced by online billionaires buying everything up, monopolizing the internet, retail, and the media. In partnership with a gradual take over of the political sphere they narrowed the world and separated everyone from each other. Rents and home prices rose to inhumane levels, local businesses closed down, jobs went away. Generations scattered to more affordable shores. Everyone became fractured and divided…closed off. The energy went into hiding. It survives now mostly in the trees, wild neighborhood gardens, and old houses. This is why it’s so important to preserve these spaces – green and architectural – because they’re the last places to still hold these transactions…free of charge.
It’s difficult to leverage technical tools when everything lays on shifting sands owned by billionaires donating money to fascists.
When I was working for corporate America a year ago, in the years preceding, there was an enormous push for everyone to start using our enterprise AI tool to sharpen our writing, to strengthen and standardize our reports and documentation. The goal was to ease everyone’s workload with copy that was easier to digest, more compelling, more engaging. In simultaneous efforts to increase metrics and reduce headcount, everyone jumped on board to increase productivity. In time this sowed doubt in everyone natural ability. Should everything be run through these tools to ensure the right polish, the right “oomph”? While everyone was trying to deliver their “best” they were actually undermining their own abilities and proving themselves replaceable.
This has been happening across the country, and it’s creating the most turmoil in hiring processes. Companies use AI to screen resumes (often with inaccurate results), they even use AI to conduct screening interviews. But they are increasingly using tools to detect the use of AI by applicants and then use that to discredit them. It’s a cost-saving strategy when hiring departments use it – but represents a power imbalance when others are disqualified for doing the same. Throughout the industry there are no clear guidelines, expectations, or guardrails.
Worse still, readers have caught on to the tell tale sign of AI use in copy. Beyond the famous em-dash (which precedes AI and punishes legitimate authors who use it properly), there are certain common conventions and a certain cadence that reveals popular tool use. There are also a number of new tools available (for subscription of course) that promise to detect AI writing. Many are now reverting to analogue tools and processes as they struggle to adapt to this competitive and fickle environment. Will this result in writing output that is slower and clunkier in order to prove authenticity? Will this negatively impact “productivity metrics”? Or will only those who are disenfranchised economically be held to the analogue standard? It’s a chaotic time in many ways these days; this is just one more log on the dumpster fire.
But let’s return to two large elephants in the room, one that I touched on in the beginning. One: there’s currently a boycott brewing of ChatGPT for the massive donations OpenAI’s co-president has sent to Trump. Two: the disastrous impact that GenAI data centers have had on local water and energy resources.
I don’t have an easy conclusion or neat and tidy next steps. If I ran this piece through GenAI for optimization and restructuring it might come back with something pithy and punchy – but it also could flatten my overall voice and derail my intentions. These paragraphs could also end up sounding like the dozens we see regularly on LinkedIn.
These impacts were never my intention when I wanted to leverage these tools to just refine awkward transitions or clunky passages. Even with the best of prompts there’s a tendency for GenAI to dilute the voice and agency of authors. These tools can also be beguiling, flattering, and so incredibly helpful – which is dangerously attractive to writers dealing with critical, unsupportive employers or readers. But the trade-off is the weakening of one’s own instincts, creative judgement, and voice – and in this current environment that could be intellectually and culturally disastrous.
—–
Notes:
If this piece resonated with you and youâd like to explore related work or support me in other ways – please consider:
đĄ On Patreon, I share additional writing, behind-the-scenes notes, and works-in-progress that donât always fit here. You can find it here.
đ I also self-published my MA thesis on Butoh, which looks at performance, embodiment, and cultural history. If that interests you, itâs available here.
đž And if a smaller, one-time gesture feels more your speed, you can leave a $3 tip via Ko-fi here. Itâs always appreciated.
How Platforms and Cities Unmade a Way of Thinking
Years ago I left academia – more specifically Asian studies. I had colleagues in Anthropology, History, Critical Theory, Comparative Literature, and Art History. Itâs hard to express how much I miss these conversations. In the years since, working in Library Science, in tech, having friendships with artists and musicians…while adjacent, it hasn’t been the same. This is not intended to sound snooty or dismissive – thereâs just a discourse that I’ve become estranged from. Book clubs come close, but they also cannot replicate it – for everyone arrives from different academic trajectories. Theyâve read different histories, followed different canons. There was once a shared scaffolding that’s harder now to find. If I referenced Bourdieu or Debord there used to be an acknowledgement of that work and a shared understanding. Don’t get me wrong – our book club conversations are rich, varied, and deeply engaging, yet I sometimes I just miss discussions with people who shared the same class or curriculum.
When I follow academic blogs or accounts on Bluesky, I sometimes catch glimpses of these lost worlds. But they arrive as fragments: compressed, pithy, and often submerged beneath the urgency of current politicsâwhich, while crucial, tend to flatten everything exhaustively.
While going through old files in preparation for our move, Iâve been finding printed correspondences with professors, colleagues, and others in my field from years ago. Reading them now, Iâm struck by how many of those relationships were never continued. I pivoted from Japanese studies into Information Science, and then into tech, and my local circles became even further removed from that earlier intellectual life. I boxed that part of myself up. Revisiting it now feels bittersweet. This is not because the work was unfinished (I completed my degree, published in journals, published my thesis), but because the conversations were. I lost touch with that community and fell out of the loop. While my inbox still receives messages from a shared humanities listerv, lacking academic affiliations, I am no longer an active participant.
Substack promised a return to slower, more sustained thinking, but its design quietly undermines this possibility. Without robust ways to organize, label, or browse subscriptions by theme, the experience collapses into noise. Attention that wants to settle into deep focus is constantly disrupted by unrelated content. I used to rely on Feedly for precisely this reason: Asian Studies in one place, Digital Humanities in another, Information Architecture in another. These separations werenât arbitrary, they were cognitive, they allowed immersion. On Substack, dozens of updates arrive daily in a single undifferentiated stream, making it impossible to read with care. The result isnât abundance; itâs overwhelm.
Algorithmic platforms like YouTube or Instagram at least acknowledge how attention works, even if they exploit it. They detect patterns and narrow the field. Substack offers neither meaningful curation nor intelligent filtering – only a flattened feed that treats all content as equally urgent. Faced with that, I find myself reading less, not more.
This mirrors, uncomfortably, the disappearance of the physical and social conditions that once made intellectual wandering possible at all. Walter Benjaminâs flĂąneur – the figure who roams city streets absorbing culture, ideas, and chance encounters – depended on an urban fabric that allowed for slowness, permeability, and unscripted exchange. CafĂ©s near UC Berkeley once functioned this way: you overheard conversations about theory, politics, or art; sometimes you joined in; sometimes a single remark sent you down rabbit holes. A conversation about quantum mechanics might lead to a comic book touching on chaos theory and mythology, then to a used book on Jungian psychology at Moeâs Books, then to a European New Wave film at the U.C. Theatre. These experiences formed a chain – thinking unfolded across bodies, books, streets, and time.
Now that chain has been broken. CafĂ©s became laptop farms, bookstores vanished or relocated to areas with less foot traffic, movie theaters became unaffordable or inaccessible. Online spaces, meanwhile, atomize experience into monetized fragments, interrupted by ads, paywalls, and notifications. Add to all this the inflated cost of American cafĂ©s – spaces where lingering without purchase is discouraged and conversation with strangers feels socially and economically improbable; the experience of a flĂąneur has been rendered structurally impossible.
What Iâm grieving, ultimately, isnât nostalgia or youth. Itâs the loss of the environments – both digital and physical – that once made deep, meandering, non-instrumental thinking possible, and with them the quiet disappearance of the flĂąneur as a way of being in the world.
Notes:
If this piece resonated with you and youâd like to explore related work, here are a few places where Iâm continuing these conversations:
How online sideâbusinesses are reshaping survival strategies today
I was in a funk earlier today, doomâscrolling online and reading about the extent to which global relations and the value of the dollar have been destabilized by the current administration. Inflation and exchange-rate shifts have eroded purchasing power by 10% in 2025. The effect of this is being felt across both the US domestically and with expats abroad.
Since the late 00’s, U.S. economics have gotten really bad – as I do my regular shopping, and observe people and the environments – I wonder how many will survive. I see people working retail jobs who look like they previously worked in offices. Every day I hear about tech and other whiteâcollar lay-offs.
Thinking back to the the boom era of the late â90s through the midâ00s, I remember an era of giant retail enterprises. There were âmegastores,â and âwow centersââglitzy media megaplexes with enormous video screens playing the top music videos, magazine racks spanning 100âŻft, and everyone drinking these giant new things called frappuccinos while buying CKâŻOne cologne.
In recent years larger chain stores have been closing. When you walk into one, itâs often runâdown and nearly empty, with maybe three employees handling returns or transactions you canât complete online. There are many forces to blame for this – monopolies like Amazon gobbling up market share. Then private equity and hedge fund companies come in the liquidate the rest. Profits are funneled to CEOs, executives, stockholders, and everyone else loses their job and their retirement. The executives move on to the next companies.
I was at a chain office-supply store shredding some paper. At the register stood a tall trans woman with long dark hair. Ahead of me in line was a young neurodivergent person dressed much younger than her age, visibly stimming and bouncing with energy. The cashier greeted her warmly, chatting as if with an old friend, and I found myself wondering what their lives and futures might look like.
Inclusive stores arenât just being kindâtheyâve become holding spaces for people shut out of traditional career ladders. But they rarely provide living wages, and thereâs no guarantee the store itself will survive long enough to sustain them. Iâve seen this before. One of my favorite jobs in the 1990s was working as a book buyer for the Virgin Megastore. When corporate centralized purchasing and stripped the role of autonomy, I left. Not long after, the chain shut down entirely.
As if by serendipity, I overheard the lady at the register mentoring the shopper on managing an online shop and on affiliate marketing. She mentioned that a friend with their online shop earns more in a month than she does in a year. While of course none of that happens overnight, it dawned on me that this generation isn’t willing to settle for the low wages of retail, nor are they pinning their hopes on expensive degrees and office jobsâboth paths have shown their risks and failures. What Iâm witnessing isnât just economic declineâitâs a quiet shift in how marginalized people are stitching together survival through inclusion, informality, and digital micro-economies as traditional institutions fail them.
This generation is doing its best to hustle online, independently. But I also donât see this as a silver bullet, and Iâm not sure how sustainable it is. It still feels temporary. Algorithms replace bosses, platforms replace employers, volatility replaces stability. These people seem hopeful – but I believe we need a stronger and more just and equitable economy for all. Whether people want to work in smaller stores, as independent business owners, or for larger cooperatives. People need real optionsâwork with dignity, stability, and autonomyânot survival strategies optimized for investor extraction.
Carrying My Fatherâs Stories, Light, and Unwavering Enthusiasm Into an Uncertain Future Abroad.
I think about my father often. He passed last year in May. He had been dealing with Alzheimer’s for at least a decade. In the video interview (that Iâm so grateful was captured of him!) filmed in 2016, before the famous Caffe Mediterraneum closed, you could see him begin to struggle with his memory. It’s a wonderful interview nonetheless, his charismatic storytelling nature is evident, and it was there until the end, as best he could. We were very blessed that he retained his upbeat, positive zest for life. He would marvel at the sunlight coming through the beautiful French windows of his 1920s Berkeley apartment â windows that he fought to keep decades ago, when they wanted all the tenants to be âupgradedâ to safer, more âmodernâ windows. I was always afraid that he might fall out, but he would always demonstrate how the older French windows were superior in allowing one to naturally ventilate the apartment and would not obstruct the enjoyment of the outdoor surroundings. He had views of beautiful trees and the sunset from one side, and views of the mountain on the other. I’m so grateful that he spent his last days comfortable, listening to the music of Richard Galliano, sipping cups of tea, surrounded by his art in that beloved space.
My father was full of praise for things he would observe. He was an artist who looked at everything in life through that passionate lens. He would especially shower his loved ones with words of adoration, whether for their character or a dashing scarf they were wearing. The older he got, the more his attention was spent on enjoying people and creative things. The other thing that I’m most grateful for was that in his last year he took no notice of politics, which would have unnecessarily stolen joy from him.
My father was an artist, a philosopher, and he had worked most of his life as a cab driver in San Francisco. He was also a lover of music, mythology, travel, films, and literature. He was pro-Union and a lifelong Democrat. I remember years ago when he was really discouraged by the economic way of things after the â90s – the ways in which the Tech industry ravaged San Francisco and really made the entire region unaffordable ⊠and, by extension, less creative. I remember him telling me about the (now infamous) skit by George Carlin about the ‘big club’ that we’re ‘not in.’ He would tell me that Carlin really nailed it completely. Things only got worse in San Francisco when the ride share apps came on the scene and the SF government bent over backward for them. My father and many other cab drivers struggled to keep driving into their ’70s to maintain their medallions and earn a living. This is a complicated topic for another post – but suffice it to say, the SF City Council and their lawyers threw local cab drivers under the bus to bring profit to Uber and Lyft.
Lately I find myself feeling adrift – it’s been a year since I was laid off by my tech job of many years. I’ve been applying for positions relentlessly to no avail. I’ve sat through 7 rounds of interviews at top companies, only to be told they’ve gone with someone else. I created two LLCs – one for my metadata and knowledge-management consulting – the other for my creative projects. But it takes time to build clientele, followers, and subscribers. As I look at our dwindling savings and at mortgage interest payments that mirror what we used to pay for a large apartment – I question staying here at all.
I find myself wishing that I could talk to him again to ground myself in what we hold dear. I really don’t recognize this country anymore. I certainly donât recognize much of my hometown anymore â not the built-up corridors of condominium towers. I am grateful that I have many volumes from his large book collection and some of his artwork. Eventually I will digitize the slides of his art, go through his notebooks and develop a website for him. I’m bitter that I had to move away from California decades ago because I was priced out. I could have done this work years ago. There’s much that I could have done. But I left in search of affordability – thanks, Silicon Valley.
As I box up our belongings to move abroad – hoping that we are making a safe and right move – in an increasingly shifting world – I spy a small framed photo of me that I brought back from my dad’s apartment. I must be about three in the photo – I’m wearing overalls, my bangs hanging in my eyes. I’m looking up with an innocent yet anxious look on my face. I still feel like this child inside – and I miss my dad. I miss his funny, joyful stories, taking me to new and interesting places, whether they were cafĂ©s or restaurants, or a museum or bookstore. Iâd have an Italian soda or a steamed milk with honey, or we’d grab a bratwurst at TopâŻDog or he’d get me a shrimp nigiri from the tiny sushi stand that was in the back of the old NorthâŻBerkeley Fish Market, that used to neighbor the Cheese Board Collective. I miss his guidance and his relentless enthusiasm the most. I must remember that I have that inside me in my memories and draw on these things in these difficult days. I know that he would be excited and delighted for me for the adventure that we’re about to undertake. I will do my best to see myself through his adoring eyes.
NOTES:
If you enjoy my writing here, you might also like some of my other projects:
Decades of archives, burnout, and ditching online noise to pursue offline creativity, travel, and a slower, intentional life abroad.
While packing for our move, I dug through boxes that span back to high schoolâfriendâwritten stories, doodles, poetry, slang lists, and wordâplay games. I also uncovered every college paper, notebook, and printed email chain from the lateââ90s through the birth of my son and the completion of my first masterâs degree, along with articles, notes, old rĂ©sumĂ©s, and CVs. After the midâ2000s, everything shifted to digital storage.
Looking at those old emails, sketches, and lists, Iâm struck by two things: the passion and ambition that drove me, and the scatterâshot nature of my attention. Many projects were left unfinished, books unread, ideas halfâformed.
In my thirties, when parenthood, a fullâtime career, and a second graduate degree converged, burnout set in. Digital copies multiplied, but they came with no guarantees: hard drives failed, email providers changed with each job, platforms vanished, and search tools proved unreliable. Economic shifts forced priorities, and a lot of content slipped away, leaving some dreams deferred.
My forties were spent in tech, raising my son, paying off debt, and moving out of state. Burnout lingered, yet surrounded now by my late fatherâs notebooks, my own archives, and our library, I was reminded that there is more than enough to explore and immerse myself inâwhether or not I pursued professional work for others. The abundance of material, both personal and inherited, offers endless possibilities, giving me a sense of purpose beyond employment.
That realization has also changed how I approach time. Iâve begun curbing the habit of âfritteringâ my hours online, endlessly consuming other peopleâs content. Thereâs a lingering belief that deep focus on reading, drawing, or studying makes me âunavailableâ to my familyâor that Iâm merely âescapingâ rather than being productive. That judgment feels almost Protestantâera, reminiscent of the way Jane Austenâs characters are scrutinized for their choices.
For years, I equated online activityâsocial media posts, chats, data exchangesâwith being âsocialâ and âreal.â I treated the digital realm as if it were as tangible as a cafĂ© table or a sketchbookâits fleeting likes and comments offering instant, almost physical feedback, feeding my craving for connection and validation, even though all I was really producing was a paycheck for the platforms.
But it wasnât just the lure of the screen; it was also the loss of a social ritual that had shaped my youth. After the turn of the millennium, cafĂ©s stopped feeling like true gathering places. Today, when I step into one, most people are glued to laptops or phones, each lost in their own online world.
I miss the 1990s, when a trip to a cafĂ© meant meeting friends, lingering over espresso, and talking for hours while the hum of the grinder provided a soundtrack. That cafĂ© cultureâthe spontaneous conversation, the clink of cups, the shared silencesâwas a touchstone of my upbringing.
Itâs exactly that experience Iâm eager to rediscover when I move to Europe. My plan is simple: Iâll spend my days reading, writing, and making art in cafĂ©s. Iâll revisit my archives, travel, write about exhibitions and performances, and finally give those unfinished projects a chance to breathe. Surrounded by both my own work and the material I inherited, I know there will always be enough to keep me absorbed, on my own terms.
NOTES:
If you enjoy my writing here, you might also like some of my other projects:
On cafés, creativity, and the rising cost of staying human.
I wrote recently on my desire to move to somewhere walkable. Some might argue that where we live in the PNW is already âwalkable.â And maybe it is – in theory. But walkability doesnât matter much when the place you live is unaffordable for anyone who isnât earning six figures. Iâve lost count of how many tech and federal jobs were purged in the past year alone. It doesnât matter if you can stroll through a lovely historic neighborhood to a juice bar or wine bar if you canât afford $18 for a green juice plus tax and tip â or $30 per person for âhappy hour.â
Food prices are up (thanks, tariffs). Rent is up (thanks, corporate investors). Wages are flat. Unemployment is climbing. The math no longer works.
So how does one responsibly maintain a travel/arts blog â one that encourages exploration and support of local businesses â without actively participating in gentrification? When I was growing up, I watched adults who didnât appear especially wealthy or bougie spend their days in cafĂ©s, theaters, and bookstores. They read. They made art. They lingered. And they seemed able to live that way for years. As an adult after the 90’s, I was lucky to get in a year or two of that before the cost of living would catch up, forcing me to move in search of affordability.
I applaud my Democratic Socialist neighbors who are fighting to preserve stability and sustainability in a world increasingly driven by greed, resource wars, and labor exploitation. Communities everywhere are asking the same questions: how do we elect leaders who will prioritize health, education, infrastructure, and housing over courting monied investors who have no real stake in the lives of the people who live there?
Scotland Parliament has just passed state one of the world’s first Community Wealth Building Law. With final approval, every local authority there would be legally required to reduce economic inequality by using public money toward local economies over large corporations. Local businesses would be prioritized in local government contracts, and wherever possible worker cooperatives would be given preference. In short, keeping wealth within communities instead of shipping it to distant shareholders.
My goal has always been modest. I want space in my life to read in cafĂ©s, to write, to make art â and to earn enough to buy food from local markets and support local restaurants, artists, and musicians. The ambitions of tech and asset-owning overclasses too often go beyond meeting their needs. They seek to scale endlessly, to build empires and asset portfolios. That way of living feels utterly alien to me.
Historically, the artistic and bohemian classes resisted being lumped in with aristocracy (even when ironically those born into means were often the only ones who could afford the time to create). That tension hasnât disappeared â itâs hardened.
Iâm a strong proponent of Universal Basic Income, especially for the creative class. Our content and our data has been used for almost decades to enrich a minority of billionaires. Iâm opposed to platforms underpaying artists, musicians, and writers while siphoning millions to advertisers and executives feeding off our labor, content, and data. The same corporate model loves to vilify younger people for opting out â or creatives for daring to sit in public with a latte â as though that indulgence were anywhere near as destructive as draining communities of water to power data centers.
Itâs unavoidable that this blog will be political at times. Living is political now. Supporting equity, dignity, and sustainability is political.
There are better ways to live. And we have the right to fight for them.
J.R.R. Tolkien spent thousands of pages reminding us of exactly that.
I wasnât sure I was ready to write about this yet, but because this blog is part art journal, part travel diary, it feels like the right place to begin.
Later this year we may relocate to a more affordable countryâa move that will give us space to pursue our creative projects, wander freely, and step away from the relentless grind of American hustle culture. Iâm dreaming of a place where I can stroll to bustling produce markets, bakeries, and cheese shops, then settle into a cafĂ© for hoursâreading, writing, people-watchingâwithout worrying about the cost of living.
For me, this is a return to a lifestyle Iâve missed since leaving my hometown of Berkeley. Back in the â80s, as a teenager, I roamed the city on foot, passing historic buildings, overgrown Mediterraneanâstyle gardens, and fruitâladen trees. I spent endless afternoons in cafĂ©s, browsing independent bookstores and record shops, grabbing fresh meals at inexpensive local eateries, and catching foreign films at local art theatres. These moments became the cornerstones of a lifestyle I hoped to carry with me as I grew older. Looking back, I realize that what I loved most about those years wasnât just the city itself, but the freedom of a daily life shaped by proximity, serendipity, and timeâthe same values drawing me toward walkable living abroad now.
Rent prices, however, began to skyrocket in the midââ90s, pushing me out of state and by the early 00’s – eroding that vibrant, walkable life. Now, as we prepare for the move, weâre in the thick of downsizing: selling select books, dĂ©cor, furniture, and other household items we donât want to spend thousands to ship overseas. Itâs a painstaking, slow processâlisting everything on Facebook Marketplace, eBay, and Etsy right after the holiday rush feels like an endless chore. Still, I keep boxing up books, posting shelves, and hoping each listing finds a new home.
The minutiae can be overwhelming. I wish I had an easier system, and Iâd love for my friends to swing by and buy from me directly. In the weeks leading up to our departure, weâll host an estate sale, but it would be liberating to clear out as much as possible beforehand.
As tedious as this process is, I try to remember what itâs making room for: mornings that begin with a walk to the market, afternoons spent lingering in cafĂ©s, and evenings shaped more by curiosity than exhaustion. Letting go of these objects is the price of reclaiming that rhythm. If Iâm patientâand a little ruthless with my belongingsâI might finally step back into the kind of everyday life that first taught me how to wander, observe, and create.