Mariano Velez

INKBLOTZ

  • Life Is A Notebook

    I came across this idea the other day, and it stayed with me longer than I expected— the kind of thought that doesn’t just pass through, but settles in. Maybe it’s the way we hold onto moments—like scraps of paper,… more ›

  • Mariachi Me… Same Traje, Different Mileage

    Being a Mariachi isn’t just about the music. It’s about what you carry before you ever play a note. The traje—sharp, tailored, unmistakable—has a way of teaching you that.  At first, it feels like a costume. Something you put on… more ›

  • Little-Known Facts About Me

    If you look back long enough, you start to notice the strange little things that were always there. Not the big milestones. Not the obvious moments. The quieter details— the ones that didn’t make sense at the time, but somehow… more ›

  • Pieces of Eight

    Education has been my formal career for the last twenty-seven years—but teaching? That’s something I’ve been doing since.. geez I can’t even remember. Coaching, community art classes, day camps… if there was a group of people and a semi-organized activity,… more ›

  • Like Buttered Toast With Jelly and Coffee In The Morning 

    Sometimes, in my early morning musing with my coffee, I get philosophical.  That sometimes makes me want to kick my own ass.  I mean, why am I complicating a beautiful quiet morning with deep thoughts? That guy in the mirror… more ›

  • No Schedule, Just Sunlight and Shortcuts to Nowhere

    I grew up in the 70s and 80s, in a city that felt like it was still learning its own edges. Streets weren’t lined with development yet, and blank spaces—lots of dirt, weeds, and sun-baked patches of ground—were waiting for… more ›

  • Scraped Knees and Torn Jeans

    There was a time when play was king—not the quiet, sit-down kind, but the loud, dusty, borderline-dangerous kind that required sunscreen you never used and rules you barely followed.  It was the kind of play that guaranteed you’d come home… more ›

  • Stories from the Edges

    On moments that were never meant to be noticed… but never forgotten. We take photos for a lot of reasons.  To remember. To hold onto something before it slips away. To capture a moment we don’t want to lose.  People… more ›

  • The Making of the Self – Layer by Layer

    It doesn’t begin with clarity. It begins in fragments.A shadow here.A rough line there.An outline that almost feels like you—but not quite. You step back.Tilt your head.Erase a little.Darken something you were afraid to see. And slowly… it starts to… more ›

  • Throwing Words Into the Wind

    Let me tell you a story…something I learned about myself, and only fully recently acknowledged. This won’t be a confession of weakness, nor a tale of courage or inner strength. Those are just labels. And the truth is, labels are… more ›

  • Beer Sunset…

    The kind where the day exhales slowly, where the bottle sweats in your hand like it’s been working just as hard as you have, and the sky turns that dusty orange you only notice when you finally stop moving. It’s… more ›

  • The Longest Day – Sanitized, Signed In, and Socially Distanced

    I’ve had long days before. I mean, who hasn’t. Everyone has a horror story or two about work, some more drink worthy than others. A friend and I were recently comparing notes over coffee, as one does when caffeine doubles… more ›

  • Out of the Dark to Find Me Again

    So last night, I had a realization. Not one of those cinematic, lightning-strikes-the-soul kind of realizations. No dramatic music, no sudden gasp into the void. More like… sitting there, minding my business, and boom—my brain quietly taps me on the… more ›

  • A Little Bit of Us in Everything

    I saw this quote today, and it resonated with me deeply:“We are writers, my love. We don’t cry. We bleed on paper.”I have no idea who wrote it, but it hit me anyway. As a creator—writer, musician, photographer, cook—it applies… more ›

  • Kinder Chronicles, Room 3, 1974

    Teacher’s log, Kinder Day 31 I used to think I was in charge. That illusion lasted exactly four minutes on the first day of school—right up until Little Tommy licked a purple marker, declared it “grape,” and asked if we… more ›