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.

Some might argue that where we moved in the PNW was already “walkable.” And maybe it was — on paper. But walkability doesn’t mean much when the U.S. has become unaffordable for anyone not 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 keep a travel 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. I might get a year or two before the cost of living caught up with me, forcing another 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?

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 property-owning overclasses go far 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 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. I’m equally opposed to platforms that underpay 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 caffeinated drink — 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!

Afro Butoh film & performances – Tacoma Armory

Kicking off the three-part series Butoh Art Attack Tacoma, a free screening was held on May 17 at the Tacoma Armory , showcasing three films by South African Butoh artist Tebby Ramasike.. Although he was unable to attend in person due to visa issues, the audience was treated to recordings of three of his powerful performances.

Following the films, the evening continued with two live performances. The first was by dancer Helen Thorsen, a founding member of Seattle’s Dappin Butoh and Yuni Hoffman Dance Theater. Thorsen is currently the managing director of Seattle’s DAIPANbutoh Collective. Viewing dance through a therapeutic lens, her background spans disciplines including Butoh, yoga, Tai Chi, and more. She also served as the evening’s emcee, introducing Ramasike’s work and contextualizing the recordings.

The second performance featured Lin Lucas an African-American dancer from Earthseed Rising in Tucson, AZ. Through Butoh, art and dream work he engages in ancestral lineage healing. He is also a comic book creator and writer of short stories, screenplays, and poetry.

Each of the live performances were accompanied by the Seattle-based, experimental violinist Jackie An, a neurodivergent, non-binary, Korean-American artist whose musical and empathic talents enhanced the improvisational collaborations. All three performers participated in a post-show discussion that was both invigorating and thought-provoking.

Reflections on Ramasike’s Films

The first work by Ramasike was a selection from “In the Shadow of Darkness”, filmed at the Sesalac Butoh Retreat in Serbia. The video can be viewed on YouTube here. Watching the performance, set against an experimental musical backdrop, I was reminded of Butoh’s origins—born in postwar Japan as an embodied expression of trauma, tension, and release. It’s a form that summons pain, processes it somatically, and purges it.

Hijikata Tatsumi’s original Butoh drew influence from German Expressionism and Antonin Artaud’s Theater of Cruelty, as well as Japan’s subconscious—its folklore, spirits (Yokai), and native shamanic traditions.

The second video was incredibly moving – it was a selection from “The Wreakage of My Flesh”, performed at the Musee National de la Resistance Esch-Sur-Alzette, which preserves the memory of Luxembourg’s victors of the Nazi Occupation. The full recording can be found on YouTube here.

In this piece we see figures suspended in what resemble amniotic sacks. A dancer on the floor writhes in a similar sack and struggles to break free. The room has bars on one wall, like a prison. The African figure breaks free and still writhes in pain, attempting to reach out to the remaining, suspended figures. There are phrases on the wall: “I am alive and I am dead”…and “…never return from Auschwitz”. A European figure appears, gently placing a white cloth over him—perhaps an act of comfort, though the gesture is ambiguous: Is it care, or another form of entrapment?

The last one was “In Search of a Soul: a Blind man’s cry….the appeal” – which was performed at a Butoh festival at Espace Culturel Bertin Poiree de Tenri, in Paris. A copy can be viewed on YouTube here but the film is a bit grainy. In this work we see the dancer performing in what appear to be a pile of dried, golden leaves. He dances frantically, showering himself with the leaves. He thrashes and throws his body about, as if aggressively seeking stimulus from a world he cannot see.

The Live Performances

Helen Thorson’s performance was entitled “Kintsugi” – named after the Japanese art of taking broken pottery and mending it with gold as a meditative act of transformation. Her dance was inspired by the release of Lenord Pelitier after 40 years in prison. This piece was heavy, intense, unpredictable, and frightening. A figure slowly crawls out of a room, still dragging chains attached to their feet. The figure struggles to stand and move about, as if fighting to re-learn how to live in a world outside.

Lin Lucas’ piece was entitled “Blind at the Gates of Grief”, served as an exploration of loss and desire. He drew influence from Butoh founder Tatsumi Hijikata’s “Blind Girl” and Francis Wellers’ book From the Wild Edge of Sorrow: Rituals of Renewal and the Sacred Work of Grief.

Each station, illuminated by a single candle, marked a passage—love, desire, grief. At each point he embodied the various struggles, before collapsing and snuffing out a flame. At one point, he dug dirt from a beach bag and covered himself with it. At another, he cradled a bouquet of roses, then tore them apart, sparing one, which he inhaled deeply before extinguishing that station’s light with the very rose. Each moment unfolded with raw beauty and sorrow—expressions of grief and longing beyond language.

Final Thoughts

During the closing discussion, two powerful themes emerged. First, that Butoh is a profoundly therapeutic practice—one that helps people access and process trauma held within the body. Second, much of Butoh operates on a pre-verbal, primal level—expression that comes before language, or even thought. One story recounted an artist bringing Butoh into a prison, where over time, participants found they could access deep-seated traumas—eventually finding the words to describe them, thanks to the embodied work that came first.

Helen Thorsen will offer a free Butoh workshop at the Tacoma Armory on May 24, from 1–3 PM.

Fresh Ground Butoh Dances will perform on May 31 at 8 PM, also at the Tacoma Armory. Tickets are $20, and the show will feature six dancers accompanied by three musicians.

Gothic Pride Seattle – 2023 Dark Delights Spring Bazaar & Bakesale

Today we travelled up to Seattle from Tacoma for the second annual Dark Delights Spring Bazaar & Bake Sale by Gothic Pride Seattle.

“Gothic Pride Seattle is an all-inclusive nonprofit 501(c)3 organization working to help strengthen and empower our diverse community through advocacy, education, social, and fundraising events. We strive to help make safe and lasting connections and alliances within and throughout the Seattle Gothic community, as well as in the greater Seattle area.

Through hosting and participating in local gothic events, we help strengthen and unify our community and promote connections. We create visibility through our float in Seattle’s yearly Pride Parade, and invite all community members to join us and celebrate your gothic pride!

All the profits from the sales of the t-shirts, hoodies and other merchandise goes to the Community Crypt fund which is distributed to local goth businesses in need.”
https://gothicprideseattle.org/mission-statement/

The history of Gothic Pride Seattle can be found here – The GPS website offers many ways for community goths to become involved, whether that be through volunteering, donating, or supporting sponsoring businesses.

These were some of the partipating vendors:

Iikka Keränen – Dark and Gothy artist
Dropping Needles Embroidery – Spooky and Geeky embroidery
Handbasket Co – Home of the Satanizer to ‘clean your hands, not your soul’
Gothic Pride Seattle Shop – Coffee mugs, t-shirts, hoodies
MX Morgan Illustrations – Dark Fantasy Artist
Shady Lamp Lady – Gothy lamps
Charmed Curio – Jewelry
Robert Tritthardt – Dark Pen and Ink Illustration
Ground by the Sound – Crystals

I enjoyed browsing and seeing everyone’s talents. I will definitely visit their online stores to acquire more wares. I found a couple beautiful prints by Mx Morgan Illustrations – the one I was able to purchase today was this lovely dark moon against a blood red sky. They had a collection of really dark and adorable stickers as well. I’ll be returning to their shop to try to purchase the other print I was eyeing.

I was happy to meet Tara of the aspiring Little Goth Cafe on the Hill – Please help support her efforts to develop a late night gothy cafe in Seattle that will feature art, vegan and lacto-ovo-vegetarian options, and community/meeting spaces.

Anti-immigrant fear stems from lack of connection. Why the alt-right gets ‘heritage’ all wrong.

(Updates made for clarification – 2022)

Netflix has a documentary from a Pakistani-British woman who interviews white supremacists and neo-Nazis. I tried watching it and couldn’t get past 10 minutes. The emptiness of these people’s souls, their deep-rooted repression of healthy connection or attachment and subsequent projection onto scapegoats was so apparent it was painful and frustrating to watch.

Then I watched an Anthony Bourdain episode in cities in Ethiopia, interviewing a cook who was born there, was adopted and brought to Sweden, then moved to NY where he became a famous cook and then returned to the booming Ethiopia. They filmed the growing skate movement among the youth and of course shared pieces about the local food, drink, cultural and music scene. Throughout it all we see culture, connection, richness…which Anthony Bourdain sees and heralds. But you still see the pain in his eyes.

White culture, White Europe, White America…like the Indigenous elders have told us – we ‘haven’t begun’ our ‘healing journeys yet.’ There’s a portion that senses this is happening and because they don’t want to relinguish control and supremacy, they are lashing out. The world is changing but diversity does not mean erasure. It is possible to hold on to your history and culture while acknowledging a problematic past AND still embrace and support multi-culturalism. There are white people learning Irish, exploring Norse religions and mythology, learning Medieval fighting styles and going to Rennaissance faires. They are also enjoying Thai food, Chinese films, African sci-fi, Latin music, the list goes on. They know who they are, they are not being ‘erased.’

‘European heritage’ should not be cover for heralding a stolen symbol from India used to defend killing millions. ‘European heritage’ should not be cover for embracing the flag of slave-owning American states. I can research my European heritage, travel to Irish towns or Italian towns and still respect another’s wish to seek safety from war-torn countries. There are small towns in Italy and Spain that are dying because not enough people live there; the young move to cities for tech jobs. They welcome and embrace refugees now. Yet are still people celebrating centuries-old folk festivals in Europe and that don’t feel the need to hate on other groups. Europeans and European-Americans CAN research and preserve the best of their rich, cultural heritage without using it as cover for xenophobic fascism. That said, I mentioned earlier pre-Christian religions and Medieval/Rennaissance faires – it’s critical that those in these scenes police their communities to identify and root out members acting in bad faith to exclude others out of racism.

If Anthony Bourdain taught his white viewers anything it was the value of traveling, how to open our eyes to the longer view and to seek inspiration from others who have not lost human connection. I don’t want to fight to defend or preserve a culture built of oppression and disconnection from global humanity. “Whiteness” (or “Aryan”) by this definition is not a heritage worth keeping. It’s an artificial, divisive construct and lie propagated by slave owners and Nazis. Is it part of our history and thus our heritage too? Of course, but it is not something to cling to out of misplaced pride, thinking there is nothing else. There is so much more. There’s literature, music, languages, mythology.

If all you know of yourself is that your people were conquerors or slave-owners, and your history book praises colonialists, colonists, leaders slaughtering Native Americans, because the rest of your culture was robbed from you by those in power wanting to keep you hungry and angry, like a trained pit-bull raised on hate….shining a light on that may make you uncomfortable. But it should also open a door and lead you to ask – what has been kept from me? What else is there in the world? This is what motivated Antony Bourdain and so many other travelers – curiosity, an adventurous spirit, and openess.