A Love Letter to Tangible Things.
Everything is grey.
The wildfires in Oregon and California have formed a fog of smoke that sits over a city resigned to its existence.
It’s easy to be resigned to our failures.
I sat on the beach with an old co-worker on Sunday. We got stoned and stared out at the ocean. The horizon hidden behind a dull veil.
In January this same beach hosted the 2020 Polar Bear Swim. Everyone decked out in speakeasy swimwear.
A mass of people pressed together in bizarre ritual.
Three months later I would be grabbing one last box of donuts from Cartems on my last day of work at the office.
Not long after this, I would be laid off.
I started a Covid diary. Sloppy sketches, random thoughts, a daily record.
It seemed important. To have something that could be held. Pages tracking days, artistic ‘progression’, failures, frustrations, worries. I don’t keep it daily anymore (I’ve gained two part-time jobs and an exhaustive list of responsibilities since then), but I do still keep it.
