Living through disruptive times, our family had to move thrice.  On September 21, 1969, Sau Ping  once again took the children to emigrate to San Francisco.  At Easter 1970, we went on a trip to Sacramento and took this in front of the Capitol Building for remembrance.
- Yee-Fat, Mexico City, Summer 1970

I’m often greeted with suspicion when I reveal to people that I’m Chinese. My last name “Luis” is the stamp left on my lineage when my grandfather & great-grandfather moved to Mexico City decades before the rest of my family settled in San Francisco. 

My dad uncovered this bit of family history a couple of weeks ago. Consider it real-life Instagram.

// Staggering Through Stagnation // I’ve been not developing my new music project BeastReality for almost a year now. I conceptualized it in March, and since then have only managed to squeeze out the skeletons of four beats, and the writing to accompany two of them. In my heart of hearts, I know I’m passionate about this – it’s not about being scared that it won’t be good enough, or that if I sat down to work on it that I wouldn’t be able to create something wonderful. It’s getting myself to sit down in the first place. The unfortunate blessing about my particular breed of creativity is that it thrives on inspiration. I love films, and music, and amazing museum exhibits. Archived deep in my brain are countless tidbits of the world that I’ve internally recorded – mental stickynotes that perpetually reblog themselves into each other. At times, the world can be so overwhelmingly captivating that I can put down my pen for months on end and just play the audience member. During these moments of digestion, am I doing my own productivity a disservice? Are these periods in which the universe is my muse the reasons why I’m not Drake? I don’t really want to be Drake. Forget I said that. Moving on. And then there’s life itself – family, income, love, rent, shitting, and sleeping. And chewing slowly. And remembering to breathe. And remembering to activate the extended warranties for your electronics. True, freelancing for a living affords me the freedom to own my time – to mold, twist, and spread it out however I theoretically please. But when you never have to clock in, you never can clock out. There’s no boss breathing down your neck – no job to limp home from, untie your tie after, and escape into your own world and passions beyond. Essentially, anytime I’m not working on my own creativity feels like another opportunity lost. It’s the most awesome yet daunting responsibility. It’s a life lesson I’m still trying to learn.
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// Staggering Through Stagnation //

I’ve been not developing my new music project BeastReality for almost a year now. I conceptualized it in March, and since then have only managed to squeeze out the skeletons of four beats, and the writing to accompany two of them. In my heart of hearts, I know I’m passionate about this – it’s not about being scared that it won’t be good enough, or that if I sat down to work on it that I wouldn’t be able to create something wonderful. It’s getting myself to sit down in the first place.

The unfortunate blessing about my particular breed of creativity is that it thrives on inspiration. I love films, and music, and amazing museum exhibits. Archived deep in my brain are countless tidbits of the world that I’ve internally recorded – mental stickynotes that perpetually reblog themselves into each other. At times, the world can be so overwhelmingly captivating that I can put down my pen for months on end and just play the audience member. During these moments of digestion, am I doing my own productivity a disservice? Are these periods in which the universe is my muse the reasons why I’m not Drake? I don’t really want to be Drake. Forget I said that. Moving on.

And then there’s life itself – family, income, love, rent, shitting, and sleeping. And chewing slowly. And remembering to breathe. And remembering to activate the extended warranties for your electronics. True, freelancing for a living affords me the freedom to own my time – to mold, twist, and spread it out however I theoretically please. But when you never have to clock in, you never can clock out. There’s no boss breathing down your neck – no job to limp home from, untie your tie after, and escape into your own world and passions beyond. Essentially, anytime I’m not working on my own creativity feels like another opportunity lost. It’s the most awesome yet daunting responsibility. It’s a life lesson I’m still trying to learn.

// M’kai’s World //

Throughout my four years living in Oakland, I had the distinct pleasure of living with M’kai, who was five when I first moved in. So much of my belief in the power of imagination comes from my experiences with him in the house. It’s nothing short of magical to see a person discover the vastness of the world around him, and the power within. 

Since moving to New York, missing from my life has been the energy and creativity that only young people can exhibit. Watching M’kai’s coming of age was a catalyst for my own.

He’s 10 now, and is making films. Prepare to get your mind blown. 

//Routine Check// I’m among those who have taken the “oh, I don’t do new year’s resolutions” path. In my mind, it’s a high road that indicates that I’m above scheduling my life commitments around the imperialist’s gregorian calendar. In actuality, it probably speaks more to my inability to commit. It’s incredibly difficult to avoid falling into some species of reset on January 1. It’s the one time per year when human society universally agrees that certain things can be let go, redone, or begun. Who can refuse to seize such a moment? Take, for example, this blog – which I got a certain gusto to suddenly start updating again. It happens every January. Of course, by June it withers away until this feed becomes nothing but trippy Youtube videos and reblogs of Janelle Monáe pictures.  May it be writing more, or reading more, working out more, or mending ties with family, we as a civilization maintain the archaic 365-day cycle primarily to have a finish/start line every once in awhile. Days like this allow us the first powerful strokes after the dive, when your lungs are filled with oxygen and your eye is on the prize – before your goggles fog up, your arms melt to limpness, and you realize you’re suspended with no firm surface around you. It’s thrilling and beautiful, as long as you know you’ll have a ledge to grasp at some point. So fuck a commitment. Hardly anyone will know whether you keep your resolutions through the year, and if you’re like me, you’ll forget about them quickly enough to avoid feeling bad. While you’re still at the ledge, push as hard and find out where you end up later. Here’s a dope report I heard today about making and breaking habits. απολαμβάνω!
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//Routine Check//

I’m among those who have taken the “oh, I don’t do new year’s resolutions” path. In my mind, it’s a high road that indicates that I’m above scheduling my life commitments around the imperialist’s gregorian calendar. In actuality, it probably speaks more to my inability to commit.

It’s incredibly difficult to avoid falling into some species of reset on January 1. It’s the one time per year when human society universally agrees that certain things can be let go, redone, or begun. Who can refuse to seize such a moment?

Take, for example, this blog – which I got a certain gusto to suddenly start updating again. It happens every January. Of course, by June it withers away until this feed becomes nothing but trippy Youtube videos and reblogs of Janelle Monáe pictures. 

May it be writing more, or reading more, working out more, or mending ties with family, we as a civilization maintain the archaic 365-day cycle primarily to have a finish/start line every once in awhile. Days like this allow us the first powerful strokes after the dive, when your lungs are filled with oxygen and your eye is on the prize – before your goggles fog up, your arms melt to limpness, and you realize you’re suspended with no firm surface around you. It’s thrilling and beautiful, as long as you know you’ll have a ledge to grasp at some point.

So fuck a commitment. Hardly anyone will know whether you keep your resolutions through the year, and if you’re like me, you’ll forget about them quickly enough to avoid feeling bad. While you’re still at the ledge, push as hard and find out where you end up later.

Here’s a dope report I heard today about making and breaking habits. απολαμβάνω!

There are two ways to approach regret – to vow never to feel it, and to vow never to do anything to need to feel it. Packed in the latter is the paradox of never not doing anything you’ll later regret letting pass by. The squandering of a moment is more tragic than wasting money, or other worldly specimens. But time is made unique by the circumstances that contextualize it. The power of a regret is not merely limited to the single snapshot action that was or wasn’t taken, but also all of the effects and noneffects that cause the dominos to topple throughout the universe.  To regret, you first have to surrender to the fact that you play a hand in the unfolding of the universe. That being the case, I should recognize the irony behind the fact that my regrets – mostly comprised of things I didn’t do – parallel the periods when I feel insignificant. I imagine that anyone who works hard at anything does so because they want it to mean something. How and when that meaning became so contingent on validation from other people is a mystery to me. As the internet sprawls, the instant gratification of being recognized, liked, poked, retweeted, reblogged, commented upon, and hit becomes that much more urgent and empty. Fleeting thoughts that once had no choice but to either be spoken aloud or forever swim in one’s mind have become the subject of a viral game of fetch where I want the ball tossed back to me before I’ve even thrown it. As always, I remain manic about whether anything I’m doing is making a difference. But in a world of snap reactions, I wonder how long I need to wait for my actions to echo before I realize I’m shouting into a void. It used to be typical for artists to get recognized after their deaths.  Nowadays, if you’re not famous by 19, you’re done. I’m well past 19, and the line that divides youthful sarcasm and bitter cynicism is getting blurry.  Every time I see someone younger than me doing something I wanted to do when I was that age, I simply turn my nose to the air and think, “I didn’t really want to do that shit anyway.” It’s a defense mechanism to avoid mourning what could’ve been. As one who is addicted to new experiences, there are more opportunities to regret in this manner than hours that I’ve lived to fulfill them. As such, it becomes less of a practice in savoring moments, and more of a disappointment in myself that I can’t do absolutely everything. And then there are those moments that I once coveted – and whether I feel like age and time has swallowed these opportunities, or I simply don’t want them anymore – I’m reminded of how badly I wanted a state championship in high school debate. And how much dust those trophies are collecting in my parents’ closet. It’s always those instances that I think of as keepsakes for a life having worth lived. But in this fleeting world, who really has the time and space to hold onto all of them?  So if you need to, mourn what could’ve been that isn’t, or what is that could’ve not been. And then bask in the magic that is – it’s really all we’ve got. Sade “Should I Love You” The Clash “Should I Stay or Should I Go” Rotary Connection “Life Could” Jay-Z “Regrets”
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There are two ways to approach regret – to vow never to feel it, and to vow never to do anything to need to feel it.

Packed in the latter is the paradox of never not doing anything you’ll later regret letting pass by. The squandering of a moment is more tragic than wasting money, or other worldly specimens. But time is made unique by the circumstances that contextualize it. The power of a regret is not merely limited to the single snapshot action that was or wasn’t taken, but also all of the effects and noneffects that cause the dominos to topple throughout the universe. 

To regret, you first have to surrender to the fact that you play a hand in the unfolding of the universe.

That being the case, I should recognize the irony behind the fact that my regrets – mostly comprised of things I didn’t do – parallel the periods when I feel insignificant. I imagine that anyone who works hard at anything does so because they want it to mean something. How and when that meaning became so contingent on validation from other people is a mystery to me.

As the internet sprawls, the instant gratification of being recognized, liked, poked, retweeted, reblogged, commented upon, and hit becomes that much more urgent and empty. Fleeting thoughts that once had no choice but to either be spoken aloud or forever swim in one’s mind have become the subject of a viral game of fetch where I want the ball tossed back to me before I’ve even thrown it. As always, I remain manic about whether anything I’m doing is making a difference. But in a world of snap reactions, I wonder how long I need to wait for my actions to echo before I realize I’m shouting into a void.

It used to be typical for artists to get recognized after their deaths. 

Nowadays, if you’re not famous by 19, you’re done.

I’m well past 19, and the line that divides youthful sarcasm and bitter cynicism is getting blurry.  Every time I see someone younger than me doing something I wanted to do when I was that age, I simply turn my nose to the air and think, “I didn’t really want to do that shit anyway.” It’s a defense mechanism to avoid mourning what could’ve been. As one who is addicted to new experiences, there are more opportunities to regret in this manner than hours that I’ve lived to fulfill them. As such, it becomes less of a practice in savoring moments, and more of a disappointment in myself that I can’t do absolutely everything.

And then there are those moments that I once coveted – and whether I feel like age and time has swallowed these opportunities, or I simply don’t want them anymore – I’m reminded of how badly I wanted a state championship in high school debate. And how much dust those trophies are collecting in my parents’ closet. It’s always those instances that I think of as keepsakes for a life having worth lived. But in this fleeting world, who really has the time and space to hold onto all of them? 

So if you need to, mourn what could’ve been that isn’t, or what is that could’ve not been. And then bask in the magic that is – it’s really all we’ve got.

Sade “Should I Love You”

The Clash “Should I Stay or Should I Go”

Rotary Connection “Life Could”

Jay-Z “Regrets”