Morning artwork

Intersting enough the day before I saw this I went to a nude beach. 

A Life of Illusion

Sometimes I don’t know who to blame—whether it’s my old friend Diego’s fault or my old friend Patrick’s. One day, Diego convinces me to buy a month-long bouldering pass at a climbing gym in San Diego; the next, I’m driving my white Volvo to Moab to learn how to climb outside. How dare they introduce me to this hobby, which I’m not even sure I can call a hobby anymore? I’ve traveled through numerous states for climbing, and my job now revolves around it. It’s completely taken over my life—it’s become an obsession I can’t shake off, like a crack addict eyeing the walls in Yosemite (only the real ones will get that joke).

I always joke that I was introduced to climbing and suddenly woke up in a van, aching from my shoulders to my fingers, with skin that looks like it was run through a cheese grater. Do I have any idea what I’m doing? No, actually I don’t. But the important thing is walking through life feeling like you have some clue. If you can confidently say you know what you’re doing, and every day feels preordained because, again, you know what you’re doing—then, goddamn, whatever you’re taking or eating, keep it away from me.

There’s a certain degree of delusion that seems healthy for all of us. If you’re not dreaming at all, it means you’re always awake, staring blankly at life, living a life of illusion.