How Big How Blue How Beautiful

And Time Later

I've made a lot of small mistakes these past few days, and it is enough to make my eye strain come back full force. I also think I have a case of plantar faschiitis flaring up.

In any case, I believe I have settled into my new home. It still feels like summer, but I have weekly events that call my attention and schedule away from the relentless question of Why Am I Here. I drive down La Brea four times every week, and am greeted by the Hollywood Sign from afar. It is surreal driving through mountains like they are old friends. I listen to podcasts while I work as an archivist understudy that talk about LA and I think to myself, "I know what that place looks like."

It is a strange feeling, to be somewhere other than where I was born and raised. This, because I did not think I would be anywhere else—I simply could not picture myself living any place else. And look here, now.


I am addicted to re-reorganizing the boxes of things I own. It is hard enough to stay hydrated in the sudden heat, let alone finding the headspace to take a break. I am high, I am low, I am just about ready to burst waiting to listen to Florence + the Machine's new album. And waiting for the Los Angeles journey plans to solidify.

I have a plane ticket for the end of June, a prayer for a place to live in July, a feeling that I will have some kind of work to sustain. 

Forget the days that have passed without my studio work in mind. Forget that I haven't picked up a book, sadly, in months. And yet to color-correct the images from my recent exhibition...