Over the next 2 months I will see corners of 3 countries. I'll sleep in a tent most nights, hostels only for the shower once a week or so. Yeah, so maybe it is a romanticized adventure, but it's me and not me in every way. I'm terrified to be honest. But that's not the point, nor has it ever been.
This is me, ready as I'll never be.
For tonight, this is my summation:
Sometimes I can't believe myself, which is fine, as long as I keep believing IN myself.
These words depict, what seems to be, a fine line. But in reality, I think the contrast is quite enormous. I believe it's easy, even thrilling, to not believe yourself. To make decisions that the you you knew yesterday may not have made.
Yesterday, as the water in the tub slowly drained at my feet I caught my reflection in a pool of water. Held back by the flattened arches of my feet, this improvised dam contained me. When it's not purposeful, seeing yourself can be all the more realistic. Examining the length of my hair, the age of my beard, I was seeing more truth in a focus-starved, Monet inspired puddle of water, than the foggy mirror just to my right had ever so disclosed. There I was, bathed and bothered by the facts of my decisions.
In a funny way, I couldn't believe where I was standing. Not just in a cast-iron bath tub, but the cast-iron bath tub in a prehistoric townhouse, in Argentina, in South America, in every latitudinal difference as can be...naked.
In another way, I couldn't believe that my time in this specific spot was almost through. That I was about to give up all of this, in order to put myself in a starker situation. I was scared, and I saw it.
I couldn't believe myself in a roll my eyes, you've got balls, not again, sort of way. And that's okay. Because I've got the other half; the contrast that can save a life: I believe IN myself. In ourselves. In each other.
...I opened my feet and the water fell fast.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
93 seconds in thought.
Whoa whoa never thought so much so little so fast about this route I call adventure. Never saw my conscious drifting so far south to a giant ice cube in the sky-blue lagoon. Where crash crash, boom boom, the chips of which are miles wide and smash into a pool of blue at the speed of sound like bombs over memory. Don’t hit me take cover let me take my camera out. Where am I but some place most people won’t see but I can sure as hell tell them, even show them, if I can get this bright shiny camera off my guilt and snap it like a polaroid, nothing natural but so crucial. In this white white piercing dream, thing after thing after mind-blowing rattle tell me everything is bigger than me and it will take a team bigger than can ever be to some day conquer all. Where am I but tomorrow, the end of the world the secret you wish you knew the future we couldn’t figure out the yesterday we blew like bubbles into sky and now here I am staring enormity in the back of the head tapping him until he tells me to go, until I think I know where to go, until this whole dam thing is over and these instruments start playing something worth a listen and my mind makes up a reason greater than what got me here.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Sometimes I miss.
Sometimes. It’s one of the words that make certain moments seem less meaningful, and others, all the more apparent.
Sometimes I think about what I left behind. Not all the time, but a veces. At times I focus so closely on the people, I feel like I’m threading a needle in the dark. My fingers hunt for what feels like a void, a space I can finally shed my thoughts and pull myself one step further into a seamless memory. Then I prick my thicker skin just enough to feel it’s pinch, like any kid might test their flesh to make sure nightmares aren’t souvenirs.
And just like that, I’m back in this old room.
Old not to me but to that greater perspective that none of us, who’ve yet to discover immortality, can ever completely see through. Old in the sense that the moldings were carved around the same time some family member, whom I’m told to call ‘great’ three times over, may have been alive for. Old in the sense that there are scratches in all the guilty places and quirky contraptions who’s only purpose now is to testify on time’s behalf. Old in a cliché fable sort of way, allowing modern souls to keep pretending foreign cities are still the way the seemed to be in that Keira Knightly period piece. Old in no sense at all but the senses themselves - the musty scent, rough edges, odd aesthetic, and neighborly soundtrack - that create my apartment.
In a place so telling of time, it’s hard not to think back.
I learn to not be shameful of nostalgia. That it’s okay to miss. That missing is really just a face of love. And although I’ve realized that what I miss is the time I could be spending creating ware and tare on the relationships I treasure most, I’m content just knowing they’re out there breaking-in their lives some more. Someday I’ll run back, hear about the creases, even help heal the scars. And vice versa.
Tonight, in a place where relationships are much thinner, I’m grateful for the few marks I’ve impressed upon this new home - the chips of paint and fractured wood that serve as evidence of my survival. And I think maybe this feeling, this small sense of miss, is in itself a scuff on the computer screen between you and I. It’s not an indication of imperfection, rather it’s a symbol of support.
Sometimes I think about what I left behind. Not all the time, but a veces. At times I focus so closely on the people, I feel like I’m threading a needle in the dark. My fingers hunt for what feels like a void, a space I can finally shed my thoughts and pull myself one step further into a seamless memory. Then I prick my thicker skin just enough to feel it’s pinch, like any kid might test their flesh to make sure nightmares aren’t souvenirs.
And just like that, I’m back in this old room.
Old not to me but to that greater perspective that none of us, who’ve yet to discover immortality, can ever completely see through. Old in the sense that the moldings were carved around the same time some family member, whom I’m told to call ‘great’ three times over, may have been alive for. Old in the sense that there are scratches in all the guilty places and quirky contraptions who’s only purpose now is to testify on time’s behalf. Old in a cliché fable sort of way, allowing modern souls to keep pretending foreign cities are still the way the seemed to be in that Keira Knightly period piece. Old in no sense at all but the senses themselves - the musty scent, rough edges, odd aesthetic, and neighborly soundtrack - that create my apartment.
In a place so telling of time, it’s hard not to think back.
I learn to not be shameful of nostalgia. That it’s okay to miss. That missing is really just a face of love. And although I’ve realized that what I miss is the time I could be spending creating ware and tare on the relationships I treasure most, I’m content just knowing they’re out there breaking-in their lives some more. Someday I’ll run back, hear about the creases, even help heal the scars. And vice versa.
Tonight, in a place where relationships are much thinner, I’m grateful for the few marks I’ve impressed upon this new home - the chips of paint and fractured wood that serve as evidence of my survival. And I think maybe this feeling, this small sense of miss, is in itself a scuff on the computer screen between you and I. It’s not an indication of imperfection, rather it’s a symbol of support.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Entrepreneur
Besides gracing my top ten list for words most likely to be underlined by a red squiggle, it’s also a new adjective I can use to describe myself. Well not just yet, but very soon. As of this Saturday morning I will be a small shop-owner. And by small I mean stall. And by stall I mean 10 cast iron poles, forming the skeleton of a box, beside a few dozen others at a weekend flea market. And my merchandise? The clothes off my back. I take that back, it's actually the opposite. It's all the clothes I don't wear. I’m selling more than half my wardrobe in what I call a ‘clothing detox.’ My reasons are four fold.
Fold 1.
Space. I have too many meaningless shirts, vests and accessories that can only amount to one thing: baggage weight. Pounds I don’t need, which will cost money I don’t have, to even check on a plane home someday. Plus, once I sell the clothes that go in said baggage, I can sell the baggage itself.
Fold 2.
Experience. From the very first day I began going to the weekend feria, I was warmed by the impression the performers and vendors had left on me. Not only did they know each other, but they did this for each other. A social life no nightclub or sorority can ever say they so naturally reproduce, it’s exactly as it appears: street love. And entering that world was something I only comically imagined (in another life sort of way) since I bore witness.
Fold 3.
Pesos. The bottom line of so many built up stories, money rests at the seam of what makes sense. I’m going on what may be the most challenging journey of my young life in a few short weeks, and every last peso to make the travel more traversable, is duly appreciated.
Fold 4.
Español. I need as much practice as possible, and nothing says ‘cuanto cuesta’ like a small business venture. Whether it’s my customers or my entrepreneighbors, I’ll squeeze out every bit of Spanish juice they’ve got to offer. (You have such a dirty mind…)
Maybe I haven’t followed the most orthodox path post-graduation, but in my own tiny way I’m living in a manner I never knew I could. I take smaller steps in a much bigger world. It may not be a boutique on Park Ave or even a storefront in my hometown, but there is a salesman behind a counter with something to offer. In other words, it’s enough for me to believe in.
Fold 1.
Space. I have too many meaningless shirts, vests and accessories that can only amount to one thing: baggage weight. Pounds I don’t need, which will cost money I don’t have, to even check on a plane home someday. Plus, once I sell the clothes that go in said baggage, I can sell the baggage itself.
Fold 2.
Experience. From the very first day I began going to the weekend feria, I was warmed by the impression the performers and vendors had left on me. Not only did they know each other, but they did this for each other. A social life no nightclub or sorority can ever say they so naturally reproduce, it’s exactly as it appears: street love. And entering that world was something I only comically imagined (in another life sort of way) since I bore witness.
Fold 3.
Pesos. The bottom line of so many built up stories, money rests at the seam of what makes sense. I’m going on what may be the most challenging journey of my young life in a few short weeks, and every last peso to make the travel more traversable, is duly appreciated.
Fold 4.
Español. I need as much practice as possible, and nothing says ‘cuanto cuesta’ like a small business venture. Whether it’s my customers or my entrepreneighbors, I’ll squeeze out every bit of Spanish juice they’ve got to offer. (You have such a dirty mind…)
Maybe I haven’t followed the most orthodox path post-graduation, but in my own tiny way I’m living in a manner I never knew I could. I take smaller steps in a much bigger world. It may not be a boutique on Park Ave or even a storefront in my hometown, but there is a salesman behind a counter with something to offer. In other words, it’s enough for me to believe in.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
I'm so twenty ten.
Over the past month I’ve grown accustom to this new skin. I’ve been letting my hair grow long, and found the sense in catching its wave in the tie of headband. I’ve been tugging a belt too long toward a knife-made hole and patching the soles of my shoes with the nearest spool of tape. I see the narrow space between productivity and resourcefulness.
I’ve been laughing at the shadow, cast in a brand new maturity, that graces my face at the end of each day and let it rest on the smile of my cheekbone until I itch like a child to be young again. And perhaps in it’s own little way, spread thin across this boy’s complexion, a twenty ounce bottle of shaving cream has become the only fountain of youth I need.
The greatest lesson I took from that van is that age is so god dam relative.
I’ve been laughing at the shadow, cast in a brand new maturity, that graces my face at the end of each day and let it rest on the smile of my cheekbone until I itch like a child to be young again. And perhaps in it’s own little way, spread thin across this boy’s complexion, a twenty ounce bottle of shaving cream has become the only fountain of youth I need.
The greatest lesson I took from that van is that age is so god dam relative.
For the first few minutes...
I'm skipping the middle, giving you now.
Spanish has become another concept to wrap my head around. Immersed as I may be, learning the ins and outs of a whole new language can rest uneasy on my jaw. I speak English for the greater portion of my day, as the tremendous influence of the ‘States’ is undeniable. But both before and after I reach for my headset, my world is of a different dialect. Castellano. And turning its terms and phrases on like a switch can be more like lighting a candle with a whimpering wick. Match after match, I attempt to get it right, but it takes time.
For the first few minutes, I can’t hear. I don’t know what the noises mean or accents are. I’ve been thinking too long in my own dam mind, in tones and phrases familiar to a far, northern climate. And for the first few minutes I need to stay still. I need to surpass the basic replies that normalcy and memorization have allowed me to breathe, and reach for the idiom under my tongue and the fancy palabra down my throat. For the first few minutes I feel stupid. I make noise without words and sound with no sense. I’m choking on a spanglish I thought was forgotten. My mouth dries out. Eventually I grow comfortable with what I know I know, but I still feel so far from second nature. I’ll get there, I’m sure.
Spanish has become another concept to wrap my head around. Immersed as I may be, learning the ins and outs of a whole new language can rest uneasy on my jaw. I speak English for the greater portion of my day, as the tremendous influence of the ‘States’ is undeniable. But both before and after I reach for my headset, my world is of a different dialect. Castellano. And turning its terms and phrases on like a switch can be more like lighting a candle with a whimpering wick. Match after match, I attempt to get it right, but it takes time.
For the first few minutes, I can’t hear. I don’t know what the noises mean or accents are. I’ve been thinking too long in my own dam mind, in tones and phrases familiar to a far, northern climate. And for the first few minutes I need to stay still. I need to surpass the basic replies that normalcy and memorization have allowed me to breathe, and reach for the idiom under my tongue and the fancy palabra down my throat. For the first few minutes I feel stupid. I make noise without words and sound with no sense. I’m choking on a spanglish I thought was forgotten. My mouth dries out. Eventually I grow comfortable with what I know I know, but I still feel so far from second nature. I’ll get there, I’m sure.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Bright Blue
I’ve been busy with travel. Fleeing the country, sailing back to the country, cycling up bodega-lined roads, repelling down the Andes; basically a book of short tales and tall stories waiting to be written. But I still feel the need to color in these introductory pages. Because in my over-embellished world of over-thought concepts, if my autobiographical blog were a coloring book it would be the first coloring book in the world to include a detailed introduction. So let me be with my crayons…
New digs. I dug. I lived in a place called Palermo with two Argentine siblings (Magda & Francisco), a British gal named Rachel and Tim, a German guy with an ear for reggae and a mind of doubts. Same names don’t mean much, but I could tell that this Tim, this European student with an ever-changing perspective on his post-textbook future, was a friend worth keeping. As for my particular quarters, well, I wrote this next passage on one of my first nights in that short-lived home:
----
I live in Buenos Aires on a badly paved road on the outskirts of city center. I live in the middle of that road in a tall, thin house, three stories high. From the bottom you might look up, all the way to the chandelier plunging through the roof. If you did, you’d be looking toward a lofted hallway. And in that hallway, at the end to the left, there’s a door to my room.
I have a simple room. Stark white walls and shaky wooden furniture, there’s a lot left to the imagination I guess you might say. But a room so sleek does call attention to those, more overlooked pieces of existence. Like the sea-green mattress lying unevenly across the floor, or the bright blue coat rack hiding in the corner, or the aristocratic glass of red perched atop my desk.
Above me there’s a window. The rain still rests. Winter is yet to leave as tall, scrawny branches, shake uneasily back and forth. In the streetlamps’ glow, the trees become fierce and their shadows wave along the wet glass. When the lights are out the shadows grow, brushing against my face and scratching against these walls.
----
I enjoyed that place; London’s blonde across the hall, the echoing name through wall, the sweet vegetarian with bohemian taste that lived beneath my feet and her brother, the kind athletic type, strung across the hall from her if only by a blood-line. They gave me peace of mind. The sort of mind you hope to settle into after a long day’s work or a longer night’s revelry. And more often than not, they never ceased to humor me. On my very last weekend I arrived one night to see Rachel hung upside down, her feet tangled in bright blue cloth, wiggling just a bit as she welcomed me home.
Fabric trapeze. An impromptu purchase by Magda, it was one of those ‘first by the tools, then learn how to use em’ scenarios. Thankfully, Youtube had allowed for instantaneous lessons and within just a few minutes there was inverted liftoff. Growing up as a chubster, so to say, I was never quite the sporty type yet I seemed to get a hold of this pretty quickly. I credit my titanic calf muscles and my discreet fascination of circus folk for these unforeseen abilities.
I like to think that evening signifies what my sublet was to me: a comfortable home with great people, and the sincerely unique invitation to just hang out.
New digs. I dug. I lived in a place called Palermo with two Argentine siblings (Magda & Francisco), a British gal named Rachel and Tim, a German guy with an ear for reggae and a mind of doubts. Same names don’t mean much, but I could tell that this Tim, this European student with an ever-changing perspective on his post-textbook future, was a friend worth keeping. As for my particular quarters, well, I wrote this next passage on one of my first nights in that short-lived home:
----
I live in Buenos Aires on a badly paved road on the outskirts of city center. I live in the middle of that road in a tall, thin house, three stories high. From the bottom you might look up, all the way to the chandelier plunging through the roof. If you did, you’d be looking toward a lofted hallway. And in that hallway, at the end to the left, there’s a door to my room.
I have a simple room. Stark white walls and shaky wooden furniture, there’s a lot left to the imagination I guess you might say. But a room so sleek does call attention to those, more overlooked pieces of existence. Like the sea-green mattress lying unevenly across the floor, or the bright blue coat rack hiding in the corner, or the aristocratic glass of red perched atop my desk.
Above me there’s a window. The rain still rests. Winter is yet to leave as tall, scrawny branches, shake uneasily back and forth. In the streetlamps’ glow, the trees become fierce and their shadows wave along the wet glass. When the lights are out the shadows grow, brushing against my face and scratching against these walls.
----
I enjoyed that place; London’s blonde across the hall, the echoing name through wall, the sweet vegetarian with bohemian taste that lived beneath my feet and her brother, the kind athletic type, strung across the hall from her if only by a blood-line. They gave me peace of mind. The sort of mind you hope to settle into after a long day’s work or a longer night’s revelry. And more often than not, they never ceased to humor me. On my very last weekend I arrived one night to see Rachel hung upside down, her feet tangled in bright blue cloth, wiggling just a bit as she welcomed me home.
Fabric trapeze. An impromptu purchase by Magda, it was one of those ‘first by the tools, then learn how to use em’ scenarios. Thankfully, Youtube had allowed for instantaneous lessons and within just a few minutes there was inverted liftoff. Growing up as a chubster, so to say, I was never quite the sporty type yet I seemed to get a hold of this pretty quickly. I credit my titanic calf muscles and my discreet fascination of circus folk for these unforeseen abilities.
I like to think that evening signifies what my sublet was to me: a comfortable home with great people, and the sincerely unique invitation to just hang out.
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