Lifestyle Archives

Festival Fun Forever, my own Pride 2020

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In the virtual world of Animal Crossing, Festival Day is one of the most exciting events of the year! Since Pride 2020 was cancelled, I held my own version within the game. When I upgraded to the rainbow theme, it created the fun look and feel of the Pride March.

My character arrived in an all-blue outfit and sported a pair of heart-eyed shades. I spent hours interacting with all the activities at the fair. The bright, fun color scheme and snowy scenery created a really visually appealing experience.

My new snazzy sweater

There’s something quietly thrilling about a new sweater—like stepping into a slightly different version of yourself.

This one is snazzy in the way good winter things are: soft, sturdy, and a little unexpected. The knit is thick and pale, scattered with blue like weather moving in over an empty field. It doesn’t try too hard, which is exactly why it works. The kind of piece you throw on without thinking, and then later realize you’ve been wearing all day because it feels like a small shelter.

I caught myself looking down at it and smiling. Not because it’s “new clothes” new, but because it carries that calm, settled feeling—like something that can live alongside you. Like the familiar creak of boards in an old house, or the way winter air changes everything into a softer version of itself.

There’s no big story here, just a simple upgrade to the everyday: cuffs rolled, collar peeking out, the world a little brighter and bigger for an afternoon. Sometimes that’s enough.

If you’ve ever had a piece of clothing turn into a season—something you reach for when the light gets thin—then you know exactly what I mean.

Puppy Pool Party

There’s a particular kind of summer moment that doesn’t ask for much. A patch of sun on the deck. The wood warm underfoot. A small blue pool holding a thin, honest layer of water—barely enough to make ripples, but enough to change the day.

Puppy Pool Party is the name, and it fits in the simplest way. Not a crowd, not noise, not anything staged. Just a puppy standing in a fish-print kiddie pool, looking up with that steady gaze that feels like a question: is this all there is? And if it is—can we stay here a while?

The pool turns the ordinary into something a little brighter. The water catches the light. The painted fish float under the surface like a tiny summer world. The puppy’s paws make soft circles that travel outward, then disappear at the edge, like so many things do.

I like how animals don’t overthink joy. They step into it. They test it. They decide, in a moment, whether it’s worth trusting. And when it is, they settle in—not with grand declarations, but with presence.

Maybe that’s the whole party: a small body of water, a warm day, and the quiet permission to be exactly where you are.

Just a little cabana time

There’s a particular kind of quiet that shows up when you finally stop moving. Legs stretched out, sand bright enough to make you squint, and those blue cabanas standing like small, sturdy rooms against the open beach. The ocean keeps its steady line in the distance, and everything else feels like it can wait.

I like how simple it is: shade when you want it, sun when you don’t mind it, and the slow choreography of people coming and going near the water. Clearwater Beach has that wide, washed look—white sand, pale sky, and a horizon that makes your thoughts feel less crowded.

It reminds me that places have their own kind of living, the way a house creaks and settles. A beach does it too, just in softer ways: wind moving through umbrellas, waves folding and unfolding, footprints appearing and disappearing like they were never meant to last.

Cabana time is never really about doing nothing. It’s about noticing the small things that are usually drowned out—salt on your skin, the weight of warm air, the patience of the tide. For a little while, the day becomes as uncomplicated as looking up, listening, and letting the world pass by at its own speed.

Wedding Date is Set for Zachary and Angel

Wedding Date is Set, September 7th 2019

So its official Angel and I are engaged and have set our wedding date in September. We are so excited to celebrate with our friends and family and our beloved puppy Dyson.

Find us on instagram:

If you want to send us some best wish see our instagram accounts @takenbyanangel @zamartz and @dysoncyclone

We don’t have a registry because apartment space is limited and admittedly I (Zach) am a “particular person”… or so I’m told… lol

so you can Donate to the wedding with paypal:

send us a donation here : paypal.me/zamartz

Or Donate here on the website

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| #azwedding #wedding #loveislove

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Tokyo > NYC

Tokyo > NYC is the kind of comparison you can’t make with numbers. It’s something you feel in your pocket, in the quiet weight of a ticket stub, in the way a city follows you home.

I’m looking at a small skyline—an Empire State Building miniature—standing upright on a wooden table like it’s trying to prove something. Under it, a postcard flashes the familiar: lights, crowds, bright squares of color. There’s a paper marked “BROOKLYN,” and a small “I ♥ NY” tucked in close, like a charm meant to hold a moment in place.

Cities do that. They become objects, then memories, then a kind of weather you carry around. Tokyo feels like motion—clean lines, late trains, a sense of order that still leaves room for mystery. New York feels like friction—noise and energy and the strange comfort of being one face in a million.

Maybe “Tokyo > NYC” is just a mood, a snapshot taken mid-flight, when you can still hear one place while landing in another. But I like how the souvenirs argue quietly on the table. They don’t settle the question. They just remind me that travel isn’t about choosing a winner—it’s about noticing what each place wakes up inside you, and what follows you back through the door.

Just some Pearl Shopping

The showroom is quiet in the way a familiar house can be quiet—alive, but not asking for attention. Light pools along the ceiling in a soft ring, and the fixtures drift overhead like pale leaves caught midair. Below, glass cases curve around the room, holding their small, careful brightness.

There’s something oddly grounding about pearl shopping. Not the rush of it, not the “new thing” feeling—more the slow choosing. Pearls don’t shout. They sit there, patient, asking you to come closer and decide what kind of day you want to remember.

I keep thinking about how places carry their own weather. Outside could be loud and sharp, full of errands and screens and speed, but in here everything feels muffled, as if the room has its own snowfall. Even the reflections on the counters seem to move more slowly.

Maybe that’s why I like it: the calm attention, the small ritual of looking. The way the ordinary act of shopping can turn into a brief, private moment—standing under clean light, considering something simple that’s lasted a long time.

Just some pearl shopping, then. Nothing dramatic. Just the quiet pleasure of choosing a little shine to take back out into the day.

Deep Deep Thoughts

A small dog sits with its back to me, ears lifted like two questions, watching the day through a bright window. Outside, everything is washed in light—soft greens, a pale street, the faint suggestion that the world is continuing without asking us to keep up.

I keep thinking about how dogs practice attention better than we do. Not the frantic kind that chases pings and updates, but the quiet, steady kind. The kind that can sit on a favorite bed and simply stay with what’s there.

“Deep Deep Thoughts” sounds like a joke until you meet a moment that’s too ordinary to be anything but true. A window. A pause. A creature whose whole philosophy is presence.

Sometimes a home teaches the same patience. It holds warmth, collects routines, and turns them into something like memory. In that familiar stillness, you can feel two worlds touch: the inside where you’re safe enough to soften, and the outside where everything keeps moving.

Maybe that’s what the dog is doing—listening to one world press up against another, making sense of it without words.

If you need a thought to carry today, let it be simple: sit for a minute. Look out. Let the light arrive. Let the quiet have its say.

Morning coffee

Morning coffee doesn’t ask for much—just a quiet table, a little light, and the patience to let the day arrive at its own pace.

There’s a small still life here: a cappuccino capped with foam, an iced latte turning pale around the cubes, and two plates that feel like an unhurried yes. One slice of cake, tall and plain in the best way. One dark dessert with a ribbon of sauce and a bit of cream that looks like it was set down carefully, as if someone didn’t want to break the calm.

I like mornings like this because they make ordinary things feel settled. The clink of a spoon, the thin paper of a wrapped biscuit, the condensation on glass—small sounds you only notice when you’re not rushing past them. Even the table feels like it’s holding the moment in place.

In Takayama, the day can open softly. You can sit, listen to the room, and feel one world press gently against another: travel and routine, sweetness and bitterness, warmth and ice. It’s nothing dramatic, but it’s enough—a simple pause before the streets fill, before plans get loud, before the morning turns into everything else.

Weekend Office Work

The weekend has a different kind of quiet when you choose to work. Not the quiet of sleeping in, or drifting from coffee to errands, but the steady hush of doing what needs to be done while the rest of the world pretends time is endless.

Outside, Takayama feels composed and patient. The old wooden house stands in clean lines and dark beams, white walls tucked beneath a deep roof. Pine branches lean in from the edge of the frame like they’re keeping watch. Everything looks built to last: not flashy, not hurried, just held together by craft and years.

I like that contrast—trying to answer emails and finish tasks while a place like this sits nearby, unconcerned. It reminds me that work is rarely dramatic. It’s repetitive and ordinary. And still, it shapes the days.

There’s something grounding about being around buildings that have weathered seasons without announcing it. The wood darkens, the roof carries its own history, and the whole structure seems to say: keep going, but don’t rush.

So the weekend office work happens. A few loose ends get tied, a few plans become less vague. And when I look up from the screen, I’m grateful for the calm presence of Takayama’s traditional streets—quiet proof that time can move slowly and still get everything done.

The Dyson Guardian

The Dyson Guardian sits low and steady in the shade, a stone animal softened by time and moss. It’s the kind of figure you can pass without noticing if you’re rushing, but if you stop, it starts to feel like it has always been there—watching a narrow stretch of path, holding its place while everything around it grows.

The woods are bright with green. Leaves crowd the frame, ferns and small plants filling every gap, as if the forest is patiently reclaiming every edge. Behind the statue, a red fence runs along a stone wall, clean and geometric against the uneven rocks. That red line feels like a quiet reminder that this is a human place, even as the trees lean in.

I like how shrines do this: they make the ordinary feel slightly wider. A set of steps, a damp smell in the air, the faint suggestion of incense or rain—small details that open a door in your attention. The guardian doesn’t perform. It simply stays. Its face is worn but still expressive, a calm snarl frozen into something closer to patience.

Maybe that’s what I mean by “The Dyson Guardian.” Not a brand or a joke, but a private nickname for a sentinel that seems to pull stray thoughts out of the air and leave the mind a little cleaner. You walk on, and the forest sound returns, but you carry that stillness with you for a while.

Village in the fog & rain

The valley looks like it’s holding its breath.

From above, Shirakawa-go sits gathered in the lowlands—dark roofs, pale roads, small squares of green—while fog drapes the mountains and loosens the edges of everything. Rain flattens the light, turning the village into a quiet study of soft color and distance. The farther the forest climbs, the more it disappears, as if the day is gently erasing what it can’t quite hold.

I like places most when they feel lived beside, not performed. Even from this vantage point you can sense the steady, practical rhythm below: homes set close, fields stitched into orderly patches, paths running like thin lines of intention through wet air. The famous shapes of the gasshō-zukuri roofs read as simple geometry from here, but there’s warmth implied in them—work, meals, voices, a life continuing while the weather makes everything else hazy.

Fog does something generous. It keeps the scene from becoming a checklist of details and turns it into a feeling instead: a muted, rain-scented calm, the kind that makes you slow down and listen. In a place like this, even the modern road looks temporary, like it could be swallowed by clouds at any moment.

Village in the fog & rain—exactly as it sounds, and somehow more.