A reflection on GenAI in the shadow of technocracy

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.

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Notes:

If this piece resonated with you and you’d like to explore related work or support me in other ways – please consider:

💡 On Patreon, I share additional writing, behind-the-scenes notes, and works-in-progress that don’t always fit here. You can find it here.

📖 I also self-published my MA thesis on Butoh, which looks at performance, embodiment, and cultural history. If that interests you, it’s available here.

💸 And if a smaller, one-time gesture feels more your speed, you can leave a $3 tip via Ko-fi here. It’s always appreciated.

After the Flâneur

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. It’s 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 – there’s 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. They’ve 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 politics—which, while crucial, tend to flatten everything exhaustively.

While going through old files in preparation for our move, I’ve been finding printed correspondences with professors, colleagues, and others in my field from years ago. Reading them now, I’m 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 weren’t 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 isn’t abundance; it’s 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 Benjamin’s flâneur – 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. Cafés 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 Moe’s 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. Cafés 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 cafés – spaces where lingering without purchase is discouraged and conversation with strangers feels socially and economically improbable; the experience of a flâneur has been rendered structurally impossible.

What I’m grieving, ultimately, isn’t nostalgia or youth. It’s 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 flâneur as a way of being in the world.

Notes:

If this piece resonated with you and you’d like to explore related work, here are a few places where I’m continuing these conversations:

💡 On Patreon, I share additional writing, behind-the-scenes notes, and works-in-progress that don’t always fit here. You can find it here.
📖 I also self-published my MA thesis on Butoh, which looks at performance, embodiment, and cultural history. If those threads interest you, it’s available here.
💸 And if a smaller, one-time gesture feels more your speed, you can leave a $3 tip via Ko-fi here. It’s always appreciated.

Retail’s Quiet Revolution

How online side‑businesses are reshaping survival strategies today

I was in a funk earlier today, doom‑scrolling 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 white‑collar lay-offs.

Thinking back to the the boom era of the late ’90s through the mid‑00s, I remember an era of giant retail enterprises. There were “megastores,” and “wow centers”—glitzy media megaplexes with enormous video screens playing the top music videos, magazine racks spanning 100 ft, and everyone drinking these giant new things called frappuccinos while buying CK One cologne.

In recent years larger chain stores have been closing. When you walk into one, it’s often run‑down and nearly empty, with maybe three employees handling returns or transactions you can’t 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 aren’t just being kind—they’ve become holding spaces for people shut out of traditional career ladders. But they rarely provide living wages, and there’s no guarantee the store itself will survive long enough to sustain them. I’ve 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 jobs—both paths have shown their risks and failures. What I’m witnessing isn’t just economic decline—it’s 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 don’t see this as a silver bullet, and I’m 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 options—work with dignity, stability, and autonomy—not survival strategies optimized for investor extraction.

Holding Light in French Windows

Carrying My Father’s 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 I’m 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 — windows that he fought to keep decades ago, when they wanted all the tenants to be “upgraded” to safer, more “modern” 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 ’90s – 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 don’t recognize much of my hometown anymore — 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 cafés or restaurants, or a museum or bookstore. I’d have an Italian soda or a steamed milk with honey, or we’d grab a bratwurst at Top Dog or he’d get me a shrimp nigiri from the tiny sushi stand that was in the back of the old North Berkeley 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:

💡 I have a Patreon to help support my efforts to build a website showcasing my father’s arts and analysis from his extensive notebooks. You can provide support here.
📖 I self-published my MA thesis on Butoh, which is available here.
💸 Or, if you’d like to give a smaller one-time tip ($3), you can do so via Ko-fi [here]. Every bit of support helps and is greatly appreciated!

Finding the Past in Paper and Pixels

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 school—friend‑written stories, doodles, poetry, slang lists, and word‑play games. I also uncovered every college paper, notebook, and printed email chain from the late‑‘90s through the birth of my son and the completion of my first master’s degree, along with articles, notes, old résumés, and CVs. After the mid‑2000s, everything shifted to digital storage.

Looking at those old emails, sketches, and lists, I’m struck by two things: the passion and ambition that drove me, and the scatter‑shot nature of my attention. Many projects were left unfinished, books unread, ideas half‑formed.

In my thirties, when parenthood, a full‑time 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 father’s notebooks, my own archives, and our library, I was reminded that there is more than enough to explore and immerse myself in—whether 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. I’ve begun curbing the habit of “frittering” my hours online, endlessly consuming other people’s content. There’s a lingering belief that deep focus on reading, drawing, or studying makes me “unavailable” to my family—or that I’m merely “escaping” rather than being productive. That judgment feels almost Protestant‑era, reminiscent of the way Jane Austen’s characters are scrutinized for their choices.

For years, I equated online activity—social media posts, chats, data exchanges—with being “social” and “real.” I treated the digital realm as if it were as tangible as a café table or a sketchbook—its 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 wasn’t 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, cafés 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 café meant meeting friends, lingering over espresso, and talking for hours while the hum of the grinder provided a soundtrack. That café culture—the spontaneous conversation, the clink of cups, the shared silences—was a touchstone of my upbringing.

It’s exactly that experience I’m eager to rediscover when I move to Europe. My plan is simple: I’ll spend my days reading, writing, and making art in cafés. I’ll 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:

💡 I have a Patreon where I share extra writing, behind-the-scenes notes, and updates on creative projects. You can check it out here.
📖 I recently self-published my MA thesis on Butoh, which is available here. If you’re curious about performance, embodiment, and cultural history, I’d love for you to read it.
💸 Or, if you’d like to give a smaller one-time tip ($3), you can do so via Ko-fi [here]. Every bit of support helps and is greatly appreciated!

Trying to Live Locally in an Unlivable Economy

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 “walkable.” And maybe it is – in theory. But walkability doesn’t matter much when the place you live is unaffordable for anyone who isn’t earning six figures. I’ve lost count of how many tech and federal jobs were purged in the past year alone. It doesn’t matter if you can stroll through a lovely historic neighborhood to a juice bar or wine bar if you can’t afford $18 for a green juice plus tax and tip — or $30 per person for “happy hour.”

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 — one that encourages exploration and support of local businesses — without actively participating in gentrification? When I was growing up, I watched adults who didn’t appear especially wealthy or bougie spend their days in cafés, 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 cafés, to write, to make art — 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 hasn’t disappeared — it’s hardened.

I’m 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. I’m 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 — or creatives for daring to sit in public with a latte — as though that indulgence were anywhere near as destructive as draining communities of water to power data centers.

It’s 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.

Finding a Walkable Life Abroad: Swapping Hustle for Slow‑Living Streets

I wasn’t 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 country—a move that will give us space to pursue our creative projects, wander freely, and step away from the relentless grind of American hustle culture. I’m dreaming of a place where I can stroll to bustling produce markets, bakeries, and cheese shops, then settle into a café for hours—reading, writing, people-watching—without worrying about the cost of living.

Photo of Hana Cafe, Tirane, Albania – c/o Happy Cow.net

For me, this is a return to a lifestyle I’ve missed since leaving my hometown of Berkeley. Back in the ’80s, as a teenager, I roamed the city on foot, passing historic buildings, overgrown Mediterranean‑style gardens, and fruit‑laden trees. I spent endless afternoons in cafés, 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 wasn’t just the city itself, but the freedom of a daily life shaped by proximity, serendipity, and time—the same values drawing me toward walkable living abroad now.

Rent prices, however, began to skyrocket in the mid‑’90s, pushing me out of state and by the early 00’s – eroding that vibrant, walkable life. Now, as we prepare for the move, we’re in the thick of downsizing: selling select books, décor, furniture, and other household items we don’t want to spend thousands to ship overseas. It’s a painstaking, slow process—listing 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 I’d love for my friends to swing by and buy from me directly. In the weeks leading up to our departure, we’ll 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 it’s making room for: mornings that begin with a walk to the market, afternoons spent lingering in cafés, and evenings shaped more by curiosity than exhaustion. Letting go of these objects is the price of reclaiming that rhythm. If I’m patient—and a little ruthless with my belongings—I might finally step back into the kind of everyday life that first taught me how to wander, observe, and create.

Midnight Brew: Reviving the Analog Night‑Life

How Late‑Hour Coffeehouses Can Reclaim the “Third Place,” Foster Honest Conversation, and Spark a New Creative Renaissance

I heard a story about a bar in Europe whose owner once forgot to restock beer for a night and ended up serving only espresso. He expected the crowd to leave, but they stayed. The atmosphere shifted: people became more aware, yet strangely calmer. After that night they kept coming back, asking for the same thing, and the owner eventually renamed the place Midnight Coffee. He stopped playing loud music, and he noticed that patrons no longer needed to shout. For many, it was the first time in years they’d spent an evening out sober, and they said they felt safer. Even though it was nighttime, the energy remained electric—but it was a different kind of electricity. Conversations grew more honest, and awareness rose.

I can’t verify that the story is true, but the message feels important. I remember a late‑night coffee scene from the ’90s, when the world felt very different and there seems now to be a collective yearning for a more analog experience.

Back then, night‑time cafés thrived. There were poetry readings, experimental acoustic sets, and free live music. Artists, musicians, and students of all ages mingled after work or class. People played chess, read, drafted zines or comic books, and wrote novel fragments. The cafés offered a refuge from home distractions—a place to socialize with strangers without the pressure of volume or intoxication.

Today, many of us are either cooped up at home all day or stuck at work from dawn to dusk. A $60 night out at a bar is out of reach for many, so we stay home, isolated. We’re growing weary of endless streams of bland, pricey corporate productions, of doom‑scrolling and mindless video ads. What we crave is a “third place”—neither home nor work—affordable, alcohol‑free, and gentle enough to let us decompress, create, and connect honestly.

Evening coffeehouses would be a welcome comeback. They could boost mental health, give college students and older teens a safe alternative to bars, and spark a creative renaissance. Imagine people gathering to collaborate on analog, in‑person projects: zines, comics, board games, RPGs, crafts, art, or performances. Young creators could meet outside the constraints of school curricula or formal programs. Older creators could take a break from their day jobs and home. Loud bars rarely foster this kind of spontaneous inspiration, but cafés have done it for decades.

What changed in the past 15 years? The rise of the internet and streaming, plus the trend of people occupying daytime cafés alone on laptops and phones, pushed many cafés to close earlier. Yet we seem to be at a tipping point: burnout from corporate media is running its course, and people are hungry for genuine connection and an affordable, analog space. If cafés began hosting late‑night poetry slams, low‑key live music, or a zine‑lending library, as small examples to get things started —they could ignite creative connection and authentic experiences that everyone seems to need right now.

NOTES:

If you enjoy my writing here, you might also like some of my other projects:

💡 I have a Patreon where I share extra writing, behind-the-scenes notes, and updates on creative projects. You can check it out here.
📖 I recently self-published my MA thesis on Butoh, which is available here. If you’re curious about performance, embodiment, and cultural history, I’d love for you to read it.
☕ If you’d like to give a small one-time tip ($3), you can do so via Ko-fi here. Every bit of support helps and is greatly appreciated!
And as always – Please like and subscribe!

Walker-Ames Haunted House tour – Port Gamble, WA

Ghosts by the Water

We were recently invited by our friend — fellow goth and Tacoma real estate agent Benni Sack — to tour a haunted house in Port Gamble. The small historic town, surrounded by the waters of the Sound and home to only about 834 residents, boasts a number of downtown buildings rumored to be haunted.

After visiting, I was convinced it was because of how lovely the place is. Port Gamble is an enchanted patch of land, wrapped in water and filled with old trees and character. The historic houses, now art galleries, craft shops, cafés, and restaurants, were so charming I couldn’t blame the spirits for wanting to linger. That was my impression during the daylight, at least.

Our evening visit was to one of the area’s most haunted properties — the Walker-Ames House. Said to be home to a handful of family spirits, the property can be viewed by reservation. The ghosts are mostly benign, though sensitivities vary. For instance, I did not feel comfortable entering the basement, while others who did reported an unpleasant presence.

We were in good hands with our guide Paranormal Pete, who knows the resident spirits well. As we entered, we heard what sounded like playful children’s laughter echo through the hall. Some areas of the house are cordoned off as “ghost-only” spaces — a large upstairs closet, and the servants’ stairwell. Pete brought along an array of investigative tools for us to use, including EMF meters, dowsing rods, and a spirit box, which he later demonstrated to attempt communication with the unseen residents.

We walked through the house, once considered a mansion in its day, with spacious rooms designed for entertaining, fireplaces in nearly every bedroom, and a generous attic that once served as the nanny’s quarters and playroom for the children. The primary bedroom even boasted its own en suite bath and a small balcony overlooking the grounds, a rare luxury for the period.

In contrast, time has taken its toll. Much of the wallpaper is torn or missing, and the wooden floors creak underfoot with age. Restoring the home to its original grandeur would be prohibitively costly, a quiet echo of the family’s former status among the town’s most prominent citizens. I imagine the spirits have mixed feelings about it all, perhaps appreciative of the attention they still receive, yet impatient when visitors fail to show the proper respect for their historic home.

Outside the Walker-Ames House, other buildings in the area were said to host their own ghostly inhabitants: a former general store now home to a café, a small nautical museum, and a tourist shop among them. Across the street stood an old theater and post office, both known for unexplained activity reported by residents and visitors alike. There had once been a hospital nearby, and our guide suggested that some of its spirits may have drifted over when he opened channels of communication. Depending on the era and the illnesses that took their lives, some of these lingering souls did not seem entirely at peace.

As the evening faded into night, I left with the sense that the town’s spirits, like its people, simply loved where they lived. Maybe haunting, in some places, is just another word for staying home.

During Halloween season Pete offers regular Ghost Walks, and on Halloween itself there is Trick or Treating for children as well as a Ghoulish Gala in the evening. More information can be found here: https://www.portgamble.com/events-festivals/ Tickets can be procured on Eventbrite.

Paranormal Pete’s site for all his regular offerings including their annual Ghost Conferences is available here: https://www.portgambleparanormal.com/

NOTES:

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Help support this art blog and my artist father Robert Moore’s legacy project

I’ve been unpacking in batches my dad’s books that I moved up here since his passing. Sometimes I come across a book with his annotations. Whether it be an art book on color theory or a book by Baudrillard…He would sometimes write down words he liked and what pages they were on, he would note the month and year above the list, other times he’d write notes reacting to passages. It’s almost like having a conversation with him.

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I have boxes of his art notebooks. It’s going to be a big task because he had very unique and ambitious abstract ideas, that usually followed complex geometric and musical logic.

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