selfie Archives

Between work calls & filters

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I was scrolling through my Instagram page and saw that I share about the world around me a lot, but what has been missing on my page is…me. Since the pandemic hit, I have not gone out much so that has led to a decrease in photo-ops. And then there is the “selfie” option, what is it about the front camera that makes getting a good picture so hard?

I have been on a lot of conference calls lately, but when I got some down time I created my own photo opportunity. The first step to taking any great picture is lighting, and the window in my apartment was perfect. Now for a great selfie, you need a great filter. I landed on the Cherry Blossom one from Instagram, found my angle, and got my shot. #WFH

Weekend Selfie mode

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I think every home has a good “selfie spot.” I finally discovered mine while I was packing up my things, and getting ready to move to a new place. The sun always seems to shine brighter on the weekends. On this day, it beamed through the blinds on our kitchen window. So, I stood there and got my sun-kissed selfie.

When a picture is in black and white, it makes subtle details stand out more. The contrast between my eyes was prominent, even without color. One of my eyes was lit up by the sun, making my iris shimmer like a gemstone.

Gucci Donald Duck Bday gift to myself

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I have been collecting Donald Duck memorabilia for a long time. My approach to collecting shifted about 5-6 years ago when I decided to start decreasing my consumerism and environmental impact. A big change happened within my wardrobe. I started to simplify the items in my closet and vowed to only wear blue.

I began to only hunt for Donald Duck themed apparel so my collecting could align within my new buying habits. This shoe was the perfect birthday present to myself. The sneakers fit well and the design is adorable. It feels great to have Donald Duck back into my life!

I’m blue and that’s ok

#selfie #blue #headshot ???

Keeping with my “blue only wardrobe” theme, the latest update of my blog and complimentary emails carried through the same essence. If you are a first time reader and stumble onto this post, you may be unaware that several years ago I decided to curb my shopping habit and make my life easier by only wearing Blue clothing.

This year I have spent time to split out my brand of ZAMARTZ and my personal blog to this website. I was able to use this site to take a bit more creativity and really show more of my personality. I hope the blue on blue is not too monochromatic to some but I love the way this image turned out.

| Read Insta-comments -> https://instagr.am/p/CER-Z75FuGq/

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.

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.

Cooking with Koji

The first thing I notice is the quiet order of the room: pans hanging in place, utensils lined up, the kind of kitchen that feels lived-in without being loud about it. Three people stand around portable burners, aprons tied on, heads bent toward the small, careful work that turns ingredients into something warmer than the sum of its parts.

Cooking with Koji sounds like a lesson in a single ingredient, but it’s really an introduction to time. Koji asks for patience the way an old house asks you to listen—subtle changes, small aromas, a shift in texture that’s easy to miss if you rush.

In the photo, there’s a calm focus as someone offers a small dish across the counter, as if passing along a secret. A pot waits, a bottle stands by, and a tray sits ready for what comes next. Nothing looks dramatic, and that’s the point. The most memorable kitchens aren’t always the ones that perform; they’re the ones that hum.

Koji sits at the center of so much Japanese cooking—miso, soy sauce, sake—quiet foundations that make everyday food taste deeper, rounder, more complete. Watching it up close reminds me that tradition isn’t a museum thing. It’s a practiced thing, repeated until it becomes natural, like reaching for the same coat in winter without thinking.

If you’ve been curious about fermenting, start here: with a simple workspace, shared attention, and the willingness to let flavor grow.

Breakfast for 2

There are mornings that feel like they’re in a hurry, and then there are mornings that settle in—quietly, deliberately—like a house holding heat in its stones.

Breakfast for 2 was the second kind. A low table, two places set, and a spread of small dishes that made the moment feel larger than it was: bowls of rice, small plates of fruit and pickles, and warm soup—everything arriving in modest portions that add up to something generous.

Across the table, two people framed by a backdrop of pale, tangled lines, like winter branches caught mid-sway. The room feels hushed, and the food does what good breakfast does: it slows you down without insisting.

I keep thinking about how meals like this make time behave differently. The clink of ceramics, the pause between bites, the small decisions—what to try next, what to save for last—turn into their own kind of conversation. Not every morning needs a speech. Some just need a table and enough care to make staying still feel natural.

And then, eventually, the day starts moving again. But for a while, it was simply breakfast, for two—quiet, warm, and complete.

Golden Ice Cream

Two cones, two hands, and a little shimmer that feels almost out of place in the plain daylight.

We tried Golden Ice Cream—soft serve crowned with delicate flakes of edible gold. It’s the kind of treat that looks like a dare: too pretty to bite, too bright to be real. But the first taste is familiar and simple, the way good soft serve always is. The gold doesn’t change the flavor so much as it changes the moment.

Standing outside with the street behind us, it felt like one of those small travel scenes you keep longer than you expect. A regular afternoon made slightly stranger, slightly more memorable. The cones catch the light; the gold clings to the ridges and settles into the swirl. For a minute you pay attention—really pay attention—to texture, to warmth, to how quickly something ornate becomes ordinary once you start eating it.

If you’re in Japan and you spot a shop offering gold leaf on ice cream, it’s worth stopping. Not because it tastes like luxury, but because it turns a quick snack into a quiet story: something fleeting, sweet, and bright enough to notice before it disappears.

Dyson is just as good as Hachiko

Dyson is just as good as Hachiko, or at least that’s what it felt like standing there in the bright Shibuya light—one world pressing up against another.

The Hachiko statue has a gravity to it. People orbit, pause, smile, move on. Bronze made warm by hands and time, set against the everyday rush of Tokyo. It’s easy to arrive expecting a simple photo spot and leave with something quieter: a reminder that loyalty can become a landmark, and that a city can hold tenderness in plain sight.

Dyson, meanwhile, is not cast in metal. He’s living and impatient and funny in the way a dog can be—present tense all the time. The comparison is unfair, and still it makes sense. Hachiko is the story we carry around; Dyson is the small, real version of it that waits at home (or in your mind) and makes the idea feel possible.

I like places that do this—where the mundane and the meaningful overlap without announcing themselves. A statue in a pocket of shade. A person posing beside it, trying to be lighthearted. A memory taking shape while traffic moves and the city keeps humming.

If you’re in Tokyo, go say hello to Hachiko. Stay a minute longer than you planned. Listen to the noise and see what it leaves behind.

JFK > SEA, first leg of the trip to Japan

The cabin light has that familiar, late-afternoon glow—the kind that makes everything feel a little softer than it really is. I’m stretched out in my seat, shoes tucked forward, the screen in front of me running an ad about comfort and legroom, as if it’s trying to narrate the moment while I’m living it.

JFK > SEA is only the first leg, but it already feels like the threshold. Airports have their own weather: recycled air, muted announcements, the low tide of people moving with purpose. On the plane, time becomes something you can fold up and put away for later. The tray table clicks. The seat settles. A small pocket of stillness appears.

There’s a strange comfort in these in-between hours—suspended over the country, watching the world reduce itself to patterns and light. It’s not Japan yet, not even close, but the trip has started in the only way trips really start: by leaving.

Seattle is a pause, a breath, a handoff. Soon there will be different signs, different streets, different morning sounds. For now, I’m content to let the hum of the plane and the quiet choreography of travel do their work—carrying me forward while I sit still, thinking about the distance ahead and the stories waiting on the other side of it.

Robe in Hotel Bed

A robe left on a hotel bed always feels like an invitation and a warning at the same time.

The room is quiet in that careful way conference hotels are quiet: carpet swallowing footsteps, air conditioning breathing in measured sighs, the hallway’s life kept at a distance. Inside, it’s just the bed—white sheets pulled tight—and the simple weight of fabric waiting where a person should be.

Travel does that. It compresses you. Days become lanyards and schedules, small talk and bad coffee, a loop of elevators and meeting rooms. Then you come back to the room and everything you carried in your head finally sets down. The robe is there like a placeholder for rest, a soft uniform for the hour when you’re no longer presenting anything.

I think that’s what I notice most in places like this: how the ordinary becomes briefly strange. A bed that isn’t yours. A mirror that doesn’t know you. A silence that feels rented.

And still, there’s comfort. The room doesn’t ask for your history. It doesn’t creak with the ghosts of old years or hold the familiar scuffs of a life lived. It just offers clean edges, a lamp glow, and the chance to be anonymous for a night.

Somewhere outside the window, the city keeps going. In here, the robe waits. So do I.