I spent much of February and March in California, my spiritual home. I traveled first to San Francisco, where I was opening a new installation on artificial intelligence, nootropics, and psychedelia at the de Young Museum. Afterwards, I went to Sebastopol, a small town an hour’s drive north of the city. I stayed with an old friend, and we spent our time walking along beaches, hiking in the Redwoods, cooking, smoking weed, and going to gay bars in the forest. I was in Los Angeles by the start of March, my favorite American city and where I lived for a good chunk of my 20s. The mood turned quickly as awareness grew of the virus’s presence in the US. When my flight back home to London got canceled, I quickly made arrangements with family in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. I spent my last day in LA with dear friends; we took acid, walked in empty parks, laughed, and ate Thai food. I’d like to laugh like that again soon. Now, I’m staying with an elderly couple in Chapel Hill, as they happily offered me their spare room. It’s strange to be back here in the South, a geography that has weaved in and out of my life many times. My parents are close by, but I can’t visit them. Instead, I find much of my attention still on California, or rather, my interests–and commitments to–the potentialities of psychedelia. I’m particularly attracted to this thorny history in California, colored with both hippies and tech entrepreneurs, of which I have my critiques and pleasures.