30 October 2019

The Heaviness of Being

cinestill 50 | anza-borrego, CA

My grandmother has the softest hands. Growing up, she'd always compliment my slender fingers and my tiny wrists. She'd grumpily look away and tell me she has man hands, worked from raking the lawn or planting a garden, years of sewing sunflower halloween costumes and being her own man after the divorce. Last night, I was holding her hand on the couch while watching the baseball game. The Dodgers were playing the Cubs, game four in the NLCS. While I was dead-focussed on Justin Turner's ginger beard, she was focussed on picking away at my callouses. I asked her what she was doing, and was it really necessary? I need those for climbing. It's funny, how someone who loves me so much can make me feel so self-conscious about things I've worked hard for. I think it's her age. Though, maybe everyone thinks it and she's sick of filtering her thoughts. Decades of hesitation finally depleted. A liberation from thoughtful constraint. Or, darkly, a somber inability to sift what comes to mind, chunks of muddled responses escaping lips painted in coral which leave imprints on my forehead every time we meet and part. My aunt peeked in from the kitchen and told her that the leftovers of Chicken Maison can be her lunch tomorrow, and my grandma scoffed, "Oh, I don't care." and she doesn't. She eats because everyone around her wants her to eat. Everyone around her wants her to be the same as she was before the fall. Everyone around her, including me, worries. I sneak in voice memos whenever I'm around her, silently, secretly documenting the little things. I look at her face, and I mean really look at it. Not at the lines but at the shape and her beauty. She is so beautiful. Elegant. This morning, after I helped her use the bathroom, I tucked her back into bed. She was looking up at me with such innocence and love and admiration. Eyes full of joy, a warm twinkle. Cheekbones illuminated. I kissed her and she kissed me and I held her soft hand between mine. I don't want to ever leave her. I want to fall asleep on her shoulder every night on the couch while she picks away at my hardened skin. I want to go over to her house and bake cookies like old times, dumping in the chocolate chips and watching the old KitchenAid work its magic, chunks of dough sticking up on the sides, begging for clean fingers to dip in and lick. It’s seen pumpkin pie filling and cupcake batter. For my birthday one year, Grandma made chocolate cupcakes infused with espresso cream, quietly working to dig out the heart of the breading to fill with my favorite flavor in the world. I ate those until my stomach ached. Did I ever tell her how much I loved those? I wonder how long it's been since she's taken that out of the cupboard. It's collecting dust. That baking machine is older than I am, but tough as a bullet. It never misses a rotation  and works as well as the day she got it. She takes good care of it – a wipe down with every use, oiling the movable parts when they start showing signs of tensity. She wants it to look good. This focus on appearance exceeds kitchen appliances. She wants to look good for me. She'll look in the mirror after brushing her teeth and remark how old she's gotten. When my grandmother finds out I'm coming over, she'll spend an extra minute in the bathroom putting on lipstick. Shaky hands, but she's careful. Years of experience lining her lips with coral lipstick. Her recent favorite: Revlon Super Lustrous Lipstick Creme Certainly Red Number 740. My heart strings tug when I walk in and she has that on. It's flattering for someone to want to look good to see you, even your grandmother. I'll tell her my recent kick with food, she'll ask me if I'm getting fat, and in her rude way, she cares. It's an age thing, a generation of looking good for your man rather than feeling good for yourself. Sometimes I point that out to her, but mostly I let her kiss my cheek and mark me with coral love. 


As I'm holding her hand while she's in bed, I think of all the other times I've held her hand: crossing the street as she drops me off for second grade, on the couch watching the game, helping her up from a chair. She once told me that baby, newborn, premature Sarah took hold of her hand and could barely reach around her pinky. Purple, alien looking, 14 weeks too early Sarah with tubes attached to her skinny skeleton, oxygen giving her life, an incubator giving her warmth. I think about how that self got here, and what it took. The Dodger game is going, and we're losing, and I ask my grandma something when my aunt and uncle leave the room. "How often do you think about Shan?" She says often, but she's vague. She regrets not holding him after he was born. Those two brief hours of life. A nurse held him, gave him love and warmth and tenderness until he passed. I think about him nearly every day. I feel his presence with each dragonfly, and every time I touch the water. 
___________________

As the waves crash against the pier, and the waking sun turns whipped cream clouds a soft pink, my mother tells me what happened the day we were born. Her and her husband holding each other, balling under the fluorescent lights of a hospital room that's a touch too cold and smells like disposable gloves. How, even if she wasn't recovering from surgery, she wouldn't be allowed to hold either of her newborns. The firstborn, me, was sent to the NICU, while the other was held by a nurse. Blue Shan, in his 120 minutes of living, swayed back and forth in the arms of a 5'10" Scottish beauty, red hair illuminated by the morning light. Dr. Miller, an angel if there ever was one. I feel bad, walking along the shore, starting my mother's day with a question so heavy. These are things we never talked about, though. I learned at an early age that I was a twin, that I was born early, that I was a miracle. How uncomfortable it made me, when my mother brought it up with every small baby and guardian she ran into. The baby with a skull shaper wouldn't look at me in that long elevator ride, and we lingered once the doors opened and closed on our floor, a quick encounter turned into a conversation, turned into me looking for the fire escape. We'd stop at Starbucks on the way to a soccer game and she'd see a baby, and suddenly I'm stuck with the "compliment" that I'm such a big girl, and what a miracle it is that you're alive, and there's nothing wrong with you. But it didn't feel that way. How am I to act grateful when, at 5 years old, I'm burdened with survival guilt? Sad Sarah, swinging during recess while the kids who I haven’t yet become best friends with trace white paint on a bumpy tricycle ride, staying within the lines, passing one another, sharp turns and all. 

It's been nearly four years since I've pumped my legs back and forth on a swing. The slow shuffle of gaining momentum was an every-day ritual a baker's dozen years ago. I never had rhythm, could never time the leg positions right, but when I finally got that speed and that height that shifted dragonflies in my gut, I'd shift my hands down by my belly button, tilt my head back and let my hair brush against the sandy gravel underneath me. I was all about the upside-down before Stranger Things was even a forethought to the Duffer Brothers. Head back, I'd watch 3rd graders and 2nd graders play tag or kickball on the grass ceiling until the blood whooshing through my face brought me right-side around. I do the same in pools, now even. Legs kicked up to the ledge, arms fighting against the volume of water to swim me down until my back touches the concrete wall. Lungs comfortable under the pressure, nostrils carefully balancing a bubble of air. My life changed when the Cushmans' left a pair of goggles one sweltering day. Floating hair, wavy telephone line clarity. I like the support of a wall against my back, less anxiety inducing than the open air of a swing. There's more silence, which I lean towards.  

I'm a leaner by nature – give me a wall or a ledge or the ground and I will find a way to rest uneasily on it. I went climbing last weekend in Malibu Creek Park, where the sun shot hot rays on our shoulders, and my fingers blistered blood, and chubby smokers took pictures of us top roping with their phones, squinting through the glare of 3 PM light. My back found a tilted boulder, a perfect spot to rest between climbs. Hand behind head, I closed my eyes. The hand feels so much, filters touches and grazes. Fingers can be the source of  butterfly brushes, a tinge of touch so delicate, it requires attention to notice. It's odd to feel your hand rather than feeling things your hand touches. My palm fell asleep in cold tingles, electric blue pulses, cold under a pure azure sky. It's a blue I take for granted. It's a color so pure, I forget it exists until I open my eyes and it's all I see. I feel small but safe, and all at once relieved. A good hug does something similar to me. When I'm in your arms and my head fits perfectly in your neck, I am overcome with the heaviness of being. And when you look at me, and your eyes reach my lips, there's this moment of limbo, of in-between, where anything can happen. That's a blue sky with no clouds in sight. 
I adjust my hand for comfort, sending shocks to my wrist. Sweat drips down my face from an indian summer sun, but my hand tingles blue. When was the last time I saw the snow? Actually went in it? I've hiked in Big Bear recently, though “recent” is relative, it’s been nearly a year, but falling and slipping on dirty ice isn't what good-winters makes. We'd be in the car for hours, asleep, shifting uncomfortably. Usually I got stuck in the third row with the luggage and pillows falling on me every sharp turn. Hours of indian music and Kenny Chesney, and finally the windows fog over. I rest my cheek against it, the cold side of the pillow. I draw hearts that are never symmetrical. I write "Sarah Serrano" or just "Ambreen," testing a name to see if I fit it, to see if it fits me. Snow trickles the sides of the streets, dirty, black. A slow transition to white the further we climb up the mountain. We're getting restless, seeing all the powder. It's begging for deep footsteps, crunches, wet socks. Dad parks the car on the side of the road. He looks behind him at all the women in his life, breaks out a grin and starts running. We shove blankets, wrappers, pillows away, digging for shoes in the cave that is a car on a long drive. Dad's prepping. I lunge myself over the back of the second row, spring open the door, racing my sisters across a field. And we're pummeled. My dad throws things. Launches. Pillows when we don't expect it, the bird when he's pissed on the freeway, a fit when he doesn’t take his blood pressure medicine, and now: packed snow. He was all around varsity at boarding school, and clearly hasn't lost his aim. Sofia's laughing the only way an 8 year old can: pure, unfiltered, unapologetic. Samira's hugging herself for warmth. I'm digging my hands in, cupping cold into a shape that's anything but spherical. I hear mom's voice by the car, "Irfan, be careful!" We're all in this now, each on our own team, everyone missing throws too short to maim a loved one. Our hands turn numb and our teeth chatter. Sofia and I make snow angels, competing for a prettier wing. Snow trickles down my back into my jeans as we gorilla hop back to the car. The heat is cranking. Pink hands hurt to move, hurt to warm up, though try as we do with the heater on max and blankets spread. There are some colds that only time and movement heal. Polar-bearing at camp, competing to out time other girl scouts holding breath in winter mountain run-off. I never got past 18 seconds. The swim in Catalina, jumping in the water and forced to swim to shore, shocked into shallow breath. It's a cold crush. Surfing in a January sea, the El Segundo waves guiding me up and down as I float on my back, grinning despite purple hands. The first quiet night after heartbreak. It's summer outside, and there's no air conditioning inside, but my fingertips are white-cold, and it hurts to take a deep breath. It hurts to get up to pee because her hair tie is still next to the sink. And every attempt to drown thoughts out with music just ties all lyrics back to her. No amount of oversized shirts or warm tears can break the electric numbness of a broken heart. Only time. And movement. And a drive through car wash. The mind cannot think of past-lovers while a hum surrounds a metal safety bubble, giant sponges swish, water spurts, and rainbows pop up in corners of the eye.

10 October 2019

STRANDED

I sway in a space of isolation – wading through water, wanting to leave this textual conversation that dragged me in as an afterthought. I do not feel the earth in all of its uneven glory today. Instead, I float. I float on my back, chin up, facing the blue sky but not really seeing it. I sink. I plug my nose and push myself down until my back feels the grainy concrete of the bottom of the pool, and the blue sky ripples off outside of a clear circle. I stare. I stare at the altered reflection my arm makes to the surface. I stare at the bee I saved from drowning, toweling itself off, flicking microdroplets of salty water free from micro legs. He pulls his glossa  down towards his belly, rubbing his forelegs until it bounces back. I push off the wall, cut away from the surface, and swim along the floor to the other side of the pool. My ears feel 7 feet of pressure and I think, "I wonder how my body will react to deeper waters." My hand taps the deep end wall, and still on one breath, I head back to the bee in the shallow end. I pop up, lungs aching, legs tingling. I look at where I am. Alone. In a pool. Waves of light casting rainbow ripples by my feet. I hate my body. I hate that all my friends are in your jeep, and I'm here. I think about unfollowing you. I delete instagram instead. I think about leaving the group chat. If this were a family, I'm the cousin people tolerate. I put my phone on airplane mode instead. Later, I log into instagram on my laptop after watching an episode of The Handmaid's Tale. I hit unfollow, and pause when they ask me if I'm sure. My legs are giddy for a run to clear my head, but the coyotes are out. They're howling hits playback in my mind. Am I sure? I'm sure that this will feel really good right now. Yes. Is it easer to be forced into isolation or to create an island of pity?

some time in june, 2019


26 September 2019

SEPTEMBER 26 2019


May 2019 | telluride, co

11 June 2019

my body, on a road trip

19. my body on a road trip
open window, breeze
fingers making waves to sea
electrifying

coastal days in a salty haze, I watch wild horses roam seaside fields along a faded horizon of dusty blush that melts like butter into the soft rippled whispers of eternal water. How does this place exist? My teeth feel dry from smiling and a hint of wind hits my eye. I wipe away a tear that blurs the horses’ grazing. I fixate on the bluest of blues but wow this grass is something that could only be manufactured out of a tube of paint, I swear it. My eyesight feels wasted on concrete commutes. Four-hundred miles from home, and I could do it, but I don’t want to miss a minute of a view like this. One more deep breath; one more roadside pee. I drive a bit further down and find a nook to watch the sunset. What does this feel like? Falling asleep on a blanket in summer while tibby eats grass. The first night that the touch of bare feet feel warm on the steps leading to the front door. A big ole sniff of rose petals fresh with morning dew. The utter glee my niece showcases as I hold her hands and spin her around and around on the hardwood floors. Pure. No gimmicks. No filters. No phones. Present. 

This roll is a slideshow of what I want in life. A fever of road trips behind westfalias in forest groves while I take grainy photos of foggy sunrises and sip milky coffee out of a steaming thermos before finishing the roll as dawn breaks over my lover’s shoulders. I’ll finally read, 100 years of solitude in a hammock under a forest skyline and go to bed smelling like a fresh fire, watching embers fade in a sea of stars, stretching silently above my own little eternity. 

June 11, 2019






10 April 2019

Maybe I can only write when...



I used to think I could only write when I was depressed.
So I searched for it.
I shut the shutters and hid under the covers. I lived void of light, dwelling in darkness, scratching at scratch paper in some sad poetry until ink bled like the veins I didn't dare nor care to touch.

Then it happened  – I fell in love.

I let light into the dark corners of all my nooks, read books with romantic hooks, wrote about her lips and hips, traced my fingertips over every dip and sipped the cup dry of all of it's gifts every cold drop.

I dive deep, Love is the water in which i deeply dive, throwing my heels over my head, legs open, drowning in desire until my feet hit the deep end and my lungs bleed for air. I pull myself out of this pool of love, shake off any heartbreak, and up the ladder I climb.

Toes wiggling on the edge of the platform, I brace myself for the fall i love. to fall in love. Over and over until my eyes are bloodshot and every pore reeks cries tears of chlorine.

And I think: maybe I can only write when my heart is broken.

April 9, 2019. 21:20
written on the commute home with a podcast on low,  reflecting on the source of my flowing thoughts as they string together. 

13 March 2019

fuzzy chalk board

"is that all you talk about?"
i am a human driven by emotions. I start nearly all of my sentences with, "I feel like..." – a trend in which I am deeply annoyed of, but somehow can't stop doing.

Here's the monkey brain of the fortnight:
1. I don't know how to behave around my ex, and I've told her so. Sometimes a door appears on the fence that guards her heart, but when I reach for the doorknob to peak inside, it vanishes.
2. I have this deep desire to write and direct, yet each time I open up a screenplay, I see everything and nothing. My mind pictures scenes so vividly, with character and light and angles that stay tight, but when I attempt to write, it's mud.
3. My future is a hand-wipe over a bullet pointed chalk board. I'm unsure who wrote it, but I keep erasing it for a reset as the chalk breaks into smaller pieces.
4. Today's sun felt like summers on the blanket with Tibby out front - a plate of wheat thins, breaking up mini soft pine cones as pollen dust blows across blades. It was the kind of warmth that glowed peach through closed eyelids. Youthful. For a brief moment, anxiety and shame and schedule vanished, all on a car wash bench with the news blaring and hoses screeching.
5. Oh, how I wish someone could tell me my next steps.

24 January 2019

25 things I tried to do before turning 25


Turning twenty-five terrified me. It meant getting a real job and settling down, becoming stationary, predictable. That's not the case. I've met loads of people who are upwards of a decade or two older than me who find a lovely balance between truly living life with all its wonders and also paying the bills. So, which my excellent fico credit score, I had a quarter life crisis prematurely, as is my nature. This list was always in the back of my head, and while I didn't complete everything, the adventures I went on are one for the books.

Today, on my 25th birthday, I'm making pasta and a new list. The adventure continues.


looking towards my future while a dog shits in the background
~poetic~


January 25th, 2018
11:24 AM

  1. Go skydiving
    1. Aug 10. Best day ever. Truly. Went with nick in santa barbara. So much fun jumping out of a plane, doing flips in the sky. There's so much adrenaline, i wanted to kiss every single person around me.
    2. Oct 6. Paraglided in Ponte Caffaro, Italia. I literally signed no paperwork and received life or death instructions in an unfamiliar language, but it was a beaut. My camera and I were quite content.
  2. Longboard on a long stretch of road
  3. Beekeep or woodwork or ceramic or forge
  4. DP  or AD 3 projects
    1. DP M GIRLS -- first experience. Enjoyed it, and by the third day didn’t feel like a fraud
    2. AD LOVE NOT LIKES - pilot
    3. AD WEDNESDAY - short
    4. AD Just One Night - short
  5. Write a book
    1. Jan 22 Editing book of shorts
  6. Float in a sensory deprivation tank
    1. Aug 16 - Magical, beautiful experience, but wasn’t completely mindful of where i was. Focussed on my body too much, what i didn’t like about it.
  7. Do Shrooms
    1. March 29 / 30 Where do i start. The world is such a beautiful place. From mountains that fade into clouds to trees which open up in warm nooks, burnt by fire yet still standing strong.
  8. Catch a fish
  9. Road trip across the states
    1. Aug 17 - sept 1. Left from los angeles, went up to vancouver, cut across through banff, down to glacier park, then minnesota, chicago, nashville, virginia. 15 days of camping, a couple air bnbs, loads of stories.
  10. Skinny dip
    1. Aug 22. Fraser Valley, British Columbia, Canada. I stopped at the tunnels after someone in a grocery store parking lot said they're a sight to see. after walking through these massive old train tunnels, I hiked down to the stream below. There was a little damn, and I figured: now's my chance. Secluded, I stripped and dipped into mountain water run off. Frigid but freeing.
  11. Be naked in the wilderness
    1. Telluride, river goddess remake
  12. See Jazz live
    1. Jason Moran, Nov 9
  13. Get a photo published
    1. Shop in the city magazine, torino
  14. Feed a deer in Nara, Japan
  15. Make a longboard
  16. Get a headstone for Shaun
  17. Run a half marathon
  18. Move
    1. Moved to italy. Sept 18 - Jan 11
  19. Learn to crochet
    1. Jan 23 2019 - learned to knit at sara’s -- i’ll take it! But def not for me.
  20. Finish a book in a day
    1. Jan 17. Devotion by patti Smith. 4 pm - 7 pm
  21. Reach 100% Duolingo
    1. Not completed, but 235 straight days of italian duolingo is something to be celebrated.
  22. Go camping and don’t touch my phone
  23. Make bread
    1. Made bread on sunday, Feb 2! Grinded up whole red winter wheat using an attachment for kitchenaid, waited a whole long time, used molasses and a touch too much flour, but man oh man did it taste amazing. Finally finished up the loaf today, feb 7
    2. Made another loaf Feb 10, but the grinder did not grind fine enough so it was a pretty chunky piece of bread. Tasted good, just dense.
    3. Made sourdough (2 loaves)
  24. Make a fort
    1. Korina and I made a fort in Yucca 3/3/18. We were pretty analytical about it, questioning whether the fan can take that much weight. It ended up being more of a teepee, but fun nonetheless. Hung some fairy lights, cuddled. Very sweet.
  25. Listen to silence
    1. Jan 6, 2019. I sat in an alcove outside of the spanish steps in roma, listening to the footsteps of boots on stone, to the wind, to birds cooing, tires on cobblestone. Silence is an orchestra.

15 January 2019

everything i've consumed in 2018



everything i've consumed in 2018*

*not including tv shows


Books

Jan 16. Too Much and Not the Mood by Durga Chew Bose

Jun 8. Wind, Sand and Stars by Antoine de Exupery

Aug 25. The Handmaid's tale by Margaret Atwood

Aug 26. Works War Z by Max Brooks

Dec 27. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury



Films


Jan. 2 - Call Me By Your Name [i wish i'd been in a mutual heart-breaking love before watching this]

Jan 5. Meyerowitz Stories (New and Selected) (2017)

Jan 5. Bring It On (2000)

Jan 6. Moana (2016)

Jan 6. Mr. Roosevelt (2016)

Jan 13. I, Tonya (2017) - so much fun, loved the mix of media and the interview concept

Jan 14. The Big Sick (2017)

Feb 11. The Florida Project (2017) - great insight to life in the projects, desperation parents go through to fend for their kid and protect them from knowing hardships, childhood curiosity

Mar 7. What We Do In The Shadows (2014)

Mar 10. A Wrinkle In Time (2018) - horrible acting, simple and boring dialogue that doesn’t move the plot. Disappointing.

Mar 31. Take Your Pills (2018 documentary)

Apr 1. Bend it like Beckham (2002)

Apr 5. A Fantastic Woman (2017, spain)

Apr 10. Mulan (1998)

Apr 15. 20 weeks (2017)

Apr 16. In search of Fellini (2017)  - very amelie esq,

Apr 17. A Quiet Place (2018) so entertaining, great use of sound

Apr 20/21. Guardians of the Galaxy (2014) entertaining, funny, exciting, cute characters

Apr 26. Kodachrome (2017) shot on film about film with elizabeth olsen, what’s not to love

Apr 27. Disobedience (2018) beautifully shot film. Fast pace in beginning, lots of CU with movement, cool shot of rabbi behind glass, refracting light.

Apr 28. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 (2017)

Apr 30. Thor Raganok (2017) Fun

May 1. Porto (2017) wonderful, miss anton yelchin

May 4. Her (2013) so sad and lovely, relatable

May 7. Tampopo (1985) so much fun, great ramen western

May 9. Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975)

May 9. Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979)

May 13. Avengers: Infinity War (2018)

May 13. Bring it On (2000)

May 14. Goldfinger (1964)

May 19. 2001: A Space Odyssey (imax, 70 mm. Stunning. monumental)

May 20. Deadpool 2 (2018) amazing, holy shit balls

May 20. Amelie (2004)

May 25. The deep place (short doc) 2018

May 25. A woman captured (feature doc) (2018) many tears

May 25. Around the world shorts:
Yojani
Amo
Persian powder
Born of stone
Beyond the horizon
In perpetual motion (fabulous)

May 25. RBG (2018) tears, I want someone to look at me, love me, and support me the way her husband did

May 26. Climbing Shorts:
Break on through
brothers of climbing
choices
chris sharma: above the sea
life couch
stumped

May 26. The Game Changers

May 26. The Long time

May 27. Adrenaline Program:
San Juan Stories: The place
Rogue Elements: Corbet’s Couloir Segment
Hayley: 90 seconds on fear
Cult of freedom: australia segment
Drop everything: michelle parker segment
Ski the world
Trek c3 project - brandon semenuk
Natural playground
Moonline
Racing winter
The dock
Frontier of firsts
Sky surfer
The world’s best belayer (hilarious)
Travis rice rides epic spine in japan
Surf the line

May 28. The human element (2018)

Jul 4. The Incredibles 2 (2018)

Jul 4. The Clapper (2017)

Jul 5. Set it Up (2018)

Jul 16. Drinking Buddies (2013)

Sep 2. Crazy Rich Asians (2018)

Sep 15. Hot Fuzz (2007)

Sep 26, Like Crazy (2011)

Sep 30. Call me by your name (2017)

Oct 4. Duck Butter (2018)

Oct 8. To all the boys I’ve loved before (2018)

Oct 8 sierra bourgeois is a loser (2018)

Oct 26 American pastoral (2016)

Oct 31 Mountain (2017)

Nov. 1 Valley Uprising (2014 doc)

Nov 3. The Holiday Calendar (2018)

Nov 12 Before you go (2014)

Nov 13. Alex Strangelove (2018)

Nov. 15. The Parent Trap (1998)

Nov. 17. Sleepy Hallow (1999)

Nov 20. It’s kind of a funny story (2010)

Nov 20. (500) days of summer (2009)

Nov 21. CAM (2018)

Nov 21. The Dawn Wall (2018 documentary)

Nov. 23. The princess switch (2018, so dumb)

Nov 25. Wildlife (2018)

Nov. 27. All these small moments (2018) eh

Nov 28. Nervous Translation (2018, japan / philipines) beautiful film, felt connected and inspired. World through eyes of a child

Dec 3. Julie & Julia (2004) still good

Dec 26. Trainspotting (1996)

Live shows


Jan. 4 The Comedy and Magic Club New Year, New Acts

Jan. 9 Black Rabbit Rose Stephen Harris; We The Folk

Jan. 21 The Plant Room (his living room, echo park) Lo fang

Jan. 25 Masonic lodge at Hollywood Forever: Bahamas

Jan 30. Black Rabbit Rose songwriter night - dee

Feb 22. The Echo Girlpool

Mar 6 The El Rey Jordan Rakei

Mar 20 Bootleg Theatre milk & bone

Apr 12 Mayan Big Thief & Perfume Genius

May 10 Belleville, Pasadena Playhouse

May 12 Huntington Beach Like Totally 80’s festival

Oct 27 Blah Blah, TO, Dark Rooms

Nov 9. ORG, TO Jason Moran

Nov. 18.Alcatraz, milan  Hozier

Dec 11. Giovanni Agnelli Auditorium Antiqva Form

Dec 20. Jazz Club Torino, Blues Night ft. BIG Harp & GIOIA’s Family