all this happened, more or less
I’ve been getting back into photography lately after a very long hiatus.
My grandpa left me an old Minolta SRT 101 35mm film camera he had a friend buy for him in Japan and bring back to the States in the late 1960s. That’s the camera I used when I took photography in high school.
The class was simple black and white photography. Film, darkroom, contact sheets, prints. No phone screen, no instant review, no Photoshop to save a shot you didn’t quite get right. You had to slow down.
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Granada Theater, Dallas, 2010. A cold Sunday just after New Year’s, and the three of us, friends who felt like brothers, slid into the crush near the front. The Avetts stepped out with their arsenal of strings. Upright bass, a mournful cello, banjo bright enough to cut through winter. I felt the first shiver at the downbeat and the second when their voices locked. Two bearded men, no artifice, just the kind of harmony that makes you remember the names of your ghosts. I was carrying a lot then, fear and pride and unasked questions, and the music loosened the knots without humiliating me. It told the truth in a voice I could stand. By the end, I wanted to call people I had drifted from. I wanted to say things that had become hard to say. Some songs do not just play. They give you permission.
… Dumbed down and numbed by time and age
Your dreams they catch, the world, the cage
The highway sets the traveler's stage
All exits look the same
… Three words that became hard to say
I, and love, and you
July has long inspired me because of its revolutionary spirit, pushing me annually to reinvent myself creatively. Jamie xx’s Dream Night perfectly captures the quiet intensity of this July. It feels like those nights when I’m driving down an empty city highway, streetlights flickering past the windows, and reality condenses into a calm, reflective focus. The vocals glide over the music with a soothing steadiness, creating an atmosphere that feels both peaceful and charged with possibility, a soundscape that mirrors my own personal revolutions.
The xx used to be magic to me. I remember the day Chained came out, not just the song but this exact video. The music and visuals hit me in a way I still haven’t forgotten. It felt intimate and strange and perfect.
No one will ever really know me without intimately understanding the rush of listening to new indie music between 2007-2014.
I’ve been studying for a new technical certification exam for the last few months and on Monday I sat for the exam and passed it. Over the following days I’ve found myself feeling guilty and anxious in my free time. Eventually I realized the source of my anxiety is that my mind hasn’t caught up to the fact that I achieved all that I wanted during The July Revolution. It’s done.
Time for some rest.
As I grow older, there are fewer and fewer of my favorite bands that I haven't seen play live. It's been since 2016 since Blind Pilot released any music, so there were times I doubted it would ever happen. Not too long ago, Pitchfork referred to them as “one of the crown jewels of Oregon’s indie-folk scene”—a sentiment I've always shared. Sufjan Stevens, Bon Iver, The Decemberists, José González, Fleet Foxes, Iron & Wine, and Blind Pilot: all titans of indie folk, with Blind Pilot perhaps lesser-known but no less significant.
I have my ticket for their summer tour in hand. The trip is planned, and the road to a new city, where I'll finally experience Blind Pilot live—not just as echoes in my headphones, but as vibrant notes floating through the air—is now before me.
It’s been about six months since my website went offline and I’m sure there have been a least a few wondering why and where I’ve been. Mostly, I’ve been getting older and dealing with all the wonderful surprises that comes along with that. Read More
It’s been a long four years. February 08, 2020. That’s the day I rented a storage unit and put my life on hold. It’s funny how if you just act like you’re invisible and meaningless long enough, you can eventually become exactly that— a shadow in your own story, drifting through the days until you're ready to step back into the light.
I’m ready.
My journey through the philosophical realm hasn't been linear. It’s more akin to a trail through a dense forest with turns, detours, and unexpected clearings, with my intellectual compass being a persistent curiosity. The roads I have traveled have been shaped by the works of many great minds, three of whom stand out: Aldous Huxley, Joseph Campbell, and Jiddu Krishnamurti. Each of them has left an indelible imprint on my thoughts and my perception of the world around me.
During a period of exploration and self-discovery in my life, I found myself engrossed in the works of Aldous Huxley. It was a time characterized by my experiments with mind-altering substances, seeking to unearth deeper understandings of consciousness and perception. Huxley, a British intellectual and writer known for his novel "Brave New World," had also ventured into this terrain. His vivid descriptions of his mescaline experiences in "The Doors of Perception" resonated with me. He proposed that our brains function as reducing valves, limiting our awareness to facilitate survival, but at the cost of a broader perception of reality. His encounters with substances that dissolved these barriers felt simultaneously radical and deeply intuitive.
But Huxley wasn't just a literary maverick exploring psychedelic realms; he was also an ardent student of human nature and society. He was drawn to Eastern philosophies and mysticism, and his interest in Jiddu Krishnamurti's philosophy was palpable. Huxley’s writings became a bridge that connected my own explorations with the profound insights of these Eastern philosophies.
As my journey progressed, I stumbled upon the works of Joseph Campbell. I'd been delving into Carl Jung’s theories, fascinated by the collective unconscious and archetypes. Campbell, renowned for his work on comparative mythology and the concept of the "Hero's Journey," seemed like a natural progression. His compelling narratives about universal patterns in myths and stories across cultures provided a fresh perspective on my own life journey. Campbell's ideas reflected Jung’s archetypes but expanded them into the narrative realm, showing how our individual life stories echo these timeless mythic patterns. The personal and the universal were no longer distinct, but interconnected layers of the human experience.
Finally, the teachings of Jiddu Krishnamurti were introduced to me in college, thanks to a professor named Brian Deer. Krishnamurti’s philosophy was unlike anything I had encountered. His emphasis on self-awareness and the need for individuals to free themselves from conditioning was both challenging and enlightening. His declaration that "Truth is a pathless land" was a reminder of the importance of personal discovery and the limitations of second-hand knowledge.
I recently found out that Brian, who used to engage us in stimulating discussions about Krishnamurti, is now a public defender. This made me smile; it somehow makes perfect sense. If Krishnamurti urged us to question our conditioning and liberate ourselves, isn’t that what Brian is doing now, challenging a system that often seems to presume guilt and assisting those who might otherwise be without aid?
The teachings of Huxley, Campbell, and Krishnamurti have shaped the way I view myself and the world around me. Huxley taught me the value of pushing boundaries and challenging the status quo. Campbell showed me the universality of human experience and the potential to find personal meaning in the grand narratives of humanity. Krishnamurti emphasized the importance of self-inquiry, reminding me that the journey towards understanding begins and ends with the self.
In a way, we are all products of our influences, a melting pot of ideas and experiences that shape our worldview. I am grateful for the influence of these three remarkable minds. Their teachings continue to guide me, not as dogmas, but as lights illuminating the path of exploration, a journey with many twists, turns, and no fixed destination. After all, as Krishnamurti said, truth is a pathless land. I guess the joy lies in wandering.
Not many people know this about me but I’m quite the data hoarder. My full disk backups stretch all the way back to 2008 which is probably more than 99.999% of other people my age. Some people have scrapbooks, others have their memories preserved in social media posts dating back to the dawn of the modern internet. I’ve always been fond of offline, digital backups, personally.
Maybe if I had a better memory it would be a less significant experience. But every 3-4 years when I review and reorganize my backups there’s always something that catches me off guard. This Saturday, March 11, 2023, on the eve of Daylight Saving Time and a week before Spring officially kicks off, it was 2011. Specifically, an album that came out that year by a band called Explosions in The Sky. Take Care, Take Care, Take Care. Just the name alone causes me to slightly seize up with emotion. The 46 minutes and 5 seconds of instrumental magic, spread across 6 tracks, transport me back to my youth, to a year that shaped the course of the next decade of my life.
That year, I was grappling with the loss of my closest friend and mentor. My faith in romantic relationships had been shaken after years of unrequited pursuits. On top of that, I was facing other personal challenges that I won't delve into here. 2011 was the year I dropped out of college. I was brimming over with creativity and on many occasions, optimism. But ultimately the stress prevented me from staying organized and disciplined enough to stay in school. No one will ever know how truly isolated I was during that time. I’ve honestly never recovered from the stress, isolation, and failure of that year.
While rummaging through folders upon folders of old data today, I unearthed a copy of Take Care, Take Care, Take Care. It was like opening a time capsule, reminding me of the all the change I went through in 2011, of the losses I mourned and those that slipped through my fingers before I even noticed they were gone.
It was mid-April and I had gotten my hands on Explosions in The Sky’s new album a week early as part of my participation in the Warez scene. I grabbed my laptop, connected it to my car’s stereo and drove out to a secluded recreational area for a private listening party of one. It was windy. I remember opening my driver’s door at one point, standing beside my car and opening my arms as the Great Plains wind blew around me and the songs played. Let Me Back In, the last song was titled. As I felt control of my future slipping away I remember that sound.
It’s disorienting to remember how hopeful I was back in the early days of when I was heavily involved in politics. I think that’s honestly one of reasons most people in the US are so disaffected by politics. We’ve all had our hopes crushed.
I remember back in 2008 and 2009 I used to drive home from college on the weekends blasting Passion Pit just so damn happy to be on my way back to my friends. We would always have music exchanges and new music listening sessions. We’d do psychedelics and write/draw messages for our sober selves to decipher later in a journey to self-actualization. We’d throw house parties that brought different cool friend groups together for the first time and we’d go to concerts of our favorite bands that left our bodies vibrating on strange frequencies.
Passion Pit is the embodiment of that unbound optimism.
A guy walks up to a woman at a bar. He flirts with her. He makes small talk, but the woman insists she isn't gonna go home with him.
Guy says, "What if I offer you $1 million to sleep with me?" The woman's never had a million dollars in her life. She stops and considers the offer very seriously.
The guy changes his mind, says, "What if I change my offer to a dollar instead?"
Woman is aghast. "What kind of woman do you think I am?"
Guy says, "We already figured that out. Now we're just negotiating."
This is exactly how I feel when I honestly try to imagine myself voting for Clinton. For weeks all we heard about was the 'Platform' and how Bernie was helping to make it the most progressive in history. But ultimately the platform doesn't mean anything. Bernie's endorsement doesn't make me want to vote for Hillary because when I voted for Bernie in the primary it wasn't just because I believe in him. A large part of why I voted for Bernie is because I believe establishment politics are broken and the system is so far removed from being a functioning democracy. I voted for him because I reject the judgment, Neoliberal philosophies, and the lack of character of Hillary Clinton. Those reasons didn't suddenly disappear. Neither Trump or Hillary are fit to be president and I intend to fight on for the revolution by supporting downticket races and promoting the hell out of Jill Stein.
I'll be the first to admit that since the endorsement it's been tough getting out of bed in the morning. But I wrote a few lines of Homer to hang on my door for inspiration when I go out every morning:
Striking his breast, reproved his heart with the worlds:
'Endure, my heart; e'en worse thou didst one endure.'
The Democratic National Convention is a month away and I've never felt such compulsion in my life. I can feel the winds of revolution rising to the chorus of millions of Americans suddenly realizing impossible is nothing, defeat is never permanent and to struggle for justice is to earn this precious gift of life we've all been given.
With my calendar laid out in front of me and a stack of unpaid bills to my left I'm trying to imagine a way. I'm trying to imagine how I might get there, how it might work out, and then I'm also trying to imagine setting aside the dream to honor my responsibilities. Imagining the latter tears me apart inside. I won't pretend i'm right all the time but I do try to stay as close to the edge as I can. By that I mean that out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center. Most people stick to the center, society couldn't function if it didn't teach people to need the safety and predictability of that place where you obey authority, pay your bills, have kids and raise them to become another self-multiplying cog in the machine.
But the edge, that's where you get dirty and accept pain and rejection in return for something quite different. True courage is only found after learning what there is to be afraid of by experiencing it. You can never understand the shape of the world until you've spent some time near the edge, out where you might fall over. I walk beside the edge as much as I can trying to catch a glimpse, straining to hear a whisper of what is, what's to come, and what might be. If I had been alive during the mid 18th century I'd like to imagine I'd have written an almanac entitled 'depending on the whether'. But almanacs have become relics from our time spent toiling in agrarian society and like the the fruits of the American revolution, are outdated beyond usefulness. The orbit of the earth and the position of the stars in our sky can offer no guidance in a world that frequently changes overnight. In order to see the shape of things, I stay as close to the edge as I can without going over.
Here I am now, at the precipice with the wind howling at my back. Everything i've learned, all the doubt, the fear, the pain and the hope- it all tells me now is the time to take a step without feet. The winds have never spoken more of revolution, perhaps won't again for another 20 years. I'd hate to miss it. Depending on the weather.