i buy far too many pens to write as little as i do—although, granted, it’s also because i tend to lose them pretty easily. collecting notebooks more for their empty pages than the potential of their contents. there’s probably a lot to unpack in those couple fragments.

for the past month or so i’ve been enjoying how late it has been staying light out—and yet here we are, the longest day of the year. the sun will start setting sooner now. this used to be a bigger deal when i was living in alaska. the solstice there means something. in la it’s just another night that, except for the temperature, isn’t too noticeably different than february. maybe i was expecting more from los angeles based on name alone.

most things only live up to their potential to disappoint.

nobody has ever been able to convince me that photography is art. many a picture-maker has let out one exasperated breath or another at this sentiment, but i’ve still yet to hear a convincing argument that a picture is a piece of art.

then again, most modern art is pretty trash, anyway. duchamp posed the question what is art now? with the toilet. everything since has just been a re-phrasing in the same way every rock song since ’91 is just an echo of kurt’s voice.

i don’t think americans experience disillusionment enough—or perhaps they do only in the worst possible ways. after a few days in los angeles, you realize sunset boulevard is just another road. the hollywood sign kind of looks weird up there on the hills. nobody cares about the stars in the sidewalk. movie stars only sound intelligent reading words that have been written for them.

with texas officially bringing secession into the national conversation, i’m wondering if the country even lasts through the 2024 election. maybe photography is art & maybe nothing is anymore. a painting of the future will be the same as a painting of the past: pointless & bloody.