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On The Eve of Our Mothers

May 11th, 2008 by kasmoie

“How old are you” I asked. The scrawny kid with black hair that covered his eyes couldn’t be much older than 18. No one looked older than 20– they were baby faced, and the whole night was awkward like prom. “Sixteen” he said in a voice so perilously squeaky you couldn’t help but believe him. “What are you doing out here? What are any of you kids doing out here? It’s two in the morning. Aren’t your parents worried about you? Let me guess, you told them you were spending the night at someone else’s house… Snuck out of a window…”

He nodded and looked down at the ground– as if my chastisement mattered at all.

The all-ages-dive-bar/club that I had inadvertently found myself at that evening was closing. The children, drunk, high, and freshly clothed from Urban Outfitters stumbled to their cars and made their way home. I was still in complete and utter awe that a place that could serve booze to babies even existed. I quizzed a bouncer about it: “Oh yeah man, it’s crazy. And their parents drop them off too! A mom in an SUV just dropper her little girl off a minute ago– she was dressed all hoochie, and like, her mom just drove off… It’s crazy.” The bouncer was 28 and we both exuded our dissatisfaction at our self-imposed “look but don’t touch” policy. “Yeah, the girls who are even our age– they have the mentalities of sixteen year olds. They’re fucked up. You don’t even want to talk to them.”

The squeaky 16 year old kid I was quizzing. He looked up at me and smiled “You got a cigarette?” His buddy chimed in, “Yeah you got any smokes?” And as I picked my jaw off of the ground at the request it happened. “BANG BANG BANG BANG” I smiled. Someone had some good fireworks. The teeny boppers are pyros too. And then everything changed. The whole crowd that was ahead of me, some fifty kids, they turned towards me and started running right at me. Panic.

A boy in a black jacket with a black pistol in his hand. He rounded the corner and fired down the street. “BANG BANG BANG BANG.” Sequential shots with intention. He was but 150 feet away from me, I watched the flames leap from the barrel of his gun. The shots rung off of the walls of the near by buildings and echoed down the street for the whole neighborhood to hear.

I ran. Everyone ran. And as we ran shot’s ceased, tires squealed, and the whole scene died. Hundreds of kids disappeared into the night. The bouncers even got into their cars and made a hasty departure. I kicked beer bottles in an empty lot for awhile and wondered about the possibility of imminent death should some crazy teenager with a gun round the corner and decide to shoot me. I was obviously defenseless. What could I do? I could dazzle him with my charm… I made my way back to my car as the sounds of gun shots replayed in my head, like a song. I walked to the street where he had fired from and the glint of bullets caught my eye. Hollow point 22 Remingtons.

I got in my car and drove. I stopped at a 7-11 and bought a small bottle of milk. I went home, sat down, and had a bowl of Special K and pondered my existence.

eviscerate

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A Hairs Cut

Apr 27th, 2008 by kasmoie

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One of my favourite days of the month is laundry day. As the washing machine tumbles I sort through the months clothes and find remnants of the past. A receipt to a restaurant– a pretty girl who still calls. Some change from a late night 7-11 ice-cream run. A business card from the more than shady gentleman who sold tazers and “self protection equipment.” All of this and more are found in the deep pockets of my clothes. the same clothes that I’ve had since high school with only a few minor additions. The blue pants with the holes in the cuff from the melting sparks of welding, the same white shirts that seem to become dirtier and dirtier with every wash. The same stains, the same everything. I don’t mind it, I doubt I’ll change my wardrobe drastically any time soon.

Another thing I like to do on laundry day is get a haircut. I have a wonderful hairdresser by the name of Vanna. It’s a short car ride to San Pedro where I go to the most disgusting beauty salon I have had the pleasure of stepping foot in. The walls are greasy, the furniture mismatched and old. The windows are opaque from years of grime, the corners filled with little balls of hair and nail grit. The people who go there are equally as unsightly. Obese yet joyful black women come in making their demands for a pedi or a mani. The 40+, distinctly gay, hairdresser with an eyebrow piercing yacks on the phone. And the wonderful Vanna gently snips away at my hair.

Generally I have the most amazing time at this hole-in-the-wall beauty shop. No one speaks to me except to ask for “what length on sides? What clipper?” in a distinctly Vietnamese accent. Vanna has the hands of a mother and she parts and cuts my hair with such tender care and gentleness that I practically fall asleep every time. The place is quiet save for the black women on their telephones “ohhh no he dident!” the outbursts are limited and few. As my hair is parted, and snipped, and my scalp is caressed and I feel adored. Vanna quietly chats with her sister in Vietnamese– one of the most delicate languages I have ever heard. They speak almost in a whisper and sometimes I strain to understand just the sounds they are making– the melodic rising and falling of their voices coupled with the gentle caress of a haircut always lulls me into a place of such ecstasy and enjoyment. I always leave smiling and content with myself and the universe– Vanna’s ability to touch me like a mother touches a child is not only comforting but uplifting. You can hear the whisper sound of her scissors cutting through the strands of my hair and the click of a comb pulling my hair back. A whisper and a click, a whisper and a click. The buzzer turns on and my ear is folded over and the side of my brain is vibrated with the pulsating buzz that the clippers make. The experience of a six dollar haircut has never been worth so much to me.

I could totally see myself curling up with a younger version of my hairdresser and falling asleep in her arms to the quiet sound of Vietnamese chatter and the caressing of my scalp.

Todays haircut was a bit different though. Vanna’s sister wasn’t there and the usual quiet was interrupted by mild–broken english– questioning. “How old are you?” And of course I looked too young to be 22. I asked her about herself, how long she’d been in this country– Since 1976. She has seven sisters, and one brother. Lots of nephews and nieces, a son, two daughters– all of them older than me. We talked about marriage, how she raised her 3 kids by herself. It made sense, her motherly touch– her gentleness, it comes through in her haircuts. As a client I feel like her child. And then she opened a cabinet and pulled out the photo album… A beautiful wedding, a smiling family, warm south Vietnam. “It rains a lot there. It’s raining now.” She wanted to show me a picture of her nieces. Two stunningly gorgeous girls who’s mother had passed away three years ago, “she got the flu and then three days later she dead.” Vanna made it sound so straightforward it was as if family members died everyday. “The husband, he committed suicide. Three months ago. He drank the poison. Died quick. He missed my sister.” He left his children, Vanna’s nieces, to fend for them self and Vanna was planning on petitioning to bring them over here. “My nieces beautiful. You’d like them.” And she smiled at me. “When they come I’ll show them to you, you’re a nice boy.”

We talked more about Vietnam as she cut my hair. And sensing my interest in the country she invited me to come with her on her next trip there in a year. “When do you have vacation? We go then.”

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Apr 12th, 2008 by kasmoie


I dreampt I tore my heart out of my chest last night. It was more of a science experiment than an overtly melancholy thing. I had a small pocket knife, and because I didn’t particularly feel very happy I decided to make a small incision underneath my rib cage. Then with quite a bit of force I reached inside myself and pulled out a small rectangular object with two ports in it. It glowed red and hummed quietly in my hand, it oozed a little. I peered inside a port and I noticed some dangling white matter, a piece of fat, some cholesterol that would probably mean the end for me in my forties. So I did the logical thing, I reached in and tried to pluck it out. And as I did I thought to myself, “how proactive of me.” And I didn’t feel so bad anymore. I felt like my heart was mine, and I was in control. It was a delightful feeling. Gone was all the whimsy of lost loves and heart ache, my heart was mine. I gave my heart a visual check, inspected it’s sharp rectangular corners. I put it to my ear and listened to it whirr quietly, it’s finely tuned clockwork never missing a beat. I turned it over to look at the backside of it, the blood inside my whirring heart spilled to the floor as I turned my heart over and I giggled at the site of what looked like carnage but was more of a happy moment than anything else.

I was feeling a bit drowsy without my heart in place. Several minutes had passed by and my body was missing the oxygenated blood that keeps it happy. I took my heart, and very gently, I placed it inside my rib cage and re-connected all of the fittings and valves that make it operate. I thought that was the end of it, and I would be fine. I had given my heart a tune up and I felt like a better man for it. And then I blacked out.

I awoke to my mother screaming. “What have you done to yourself!! What are you thinking!?” Barely a moment was I unconscious before she stumbled into the scene of her own son trying to fix his broken heart. She thought it was suicide, I knew my purpose for attempting such a potentially deadly thing was out of a sad desperation, but also because of curiosity. Most things I do that are potentially dangerous happen because I feel I have nothing to lose and the curiosity is overwhelming. My mind was groggy, shapes were starting to lose their form, and my mom continued to scream for help as my skin turned from white to blue. I did not know what I had done wrong, I did not know why my heart had stopped working, I thought I had installed it perfectly. The neighbor, a nurse, came over with needles, scopes, and doctorly tools. She dug her tools deep into my skin trying to get a reading, the sting of needles, the burn of chemicals.

And then it occurred to me. My heart had been re-installed without a drop of blood in it. It was a pump that had not been primed, a pocket of air now filled its cavities. So I dug under my rib cage yet again as the nurse and my mother looked on in horror. I found my gooey heart and I squeezed it with great care. I squeezed it again and again. I gently massaged it, caressed it, loved it and as I did the blood was sucked in and I could feel the pitch of its whir change as the internals became soaked with blood. My mother sighed, the nurse with her scopes and meters watched my vital signs go from bad to better to fine. And after saving my own heart, after breaking it and fixing it, I felt much better. As if no one could ever hurt me as bad as I am capable of hurting myself. As if love, for me, was something in my control.

And then I woke up.

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I once killed three men with a stare.

Jan 25th, 2008 by kasmoie

Part 1 — Berkeley.

Work wasn’t the same today. I screamed home on the I-5 laughing at the rain, tailgating all those who travel at slow speeds, and building and breaking relationships with every genre of car that tried to keep pace with me.

Whenever I drive to the bay area I always try to start a car gang on the highway. That usually entails following the guy who’s tailgating the hell out of everyone– weaving in and out with him. A car dance of sorts. We pick up other fast drivers too. We weave together. And soon we’re taking turns passing cars and trucks on the right and left hand lanes of the I-5. Today we were three cars strong for over 100 miles. The blue truck, the silver truck, and me in the taurus. The blue truck had a habit of pulling over to the right hand lane on the highway if there was an open stretch. I would pass him, then i’d slow down and he’d pass me. There was no communication. We didn’t look at each other. We just drove the way we wanted to drive.

In Berkeley I slept in the trunk of my car. The hotels were booked, and to be honest, I wanted to do it. I found a street I’d never driven on before. I curled up in my comforter that I’d brought from home, and then I proceeded to destroy my back by sleeping on the spare tire. To a lot of people that may not be anything to write home about. But for me, it was. You see a long time ago I couldn’t even leave my home for fear that I may become lost. I used to afraid of the unknown– of being helpless, of being anonymous, of being out of control. So I didn’t go places with friends. I opted out on vegas trips, I said no thank you to ski trips up North. I didn’t want to embark to a place where I wasn’t sure what would come of it. And that was a long time ago. But never have I ventured so very far out of what I’m comfortable with.

I wanted to be a bum for a night. That’s why I did it. In Berkeley there are lots of bums that no one looks at and no one talks to. There’s a good reason for that– most of my experiences with bums have been them asking me for something. I don’t want to give it to them. So if I don’t look at them maybe they wont ask me. And I think a lot of people think that way. Ignore them and they’ll ignore you. But it’s a lie. They play the game with the general public very well. They aren’t shy and they know most of us are. So they yell at us and with toothy grins they ask for some cash. And I say “do you accept credit cards?” Or they’ll say “Change?” and I’ll say “no thank you, I don’t need any right now.” I am a callous individual. But I do have a great deal of respect for the derelict. I wanted to try and be one for a night.

And it was everything I imagined it to be. Freezing cold. Mildly hungry. Uncomfortable. And most of all: lonely. It was me alone in a city, only accompanied by my outdoor friends– a folk who I consider to be the loneliest people in the world.

At seven A.M. I awoke bitterly cold. Three jackets and a blanket did me little service throughout the night. I went to the internet cafe down the street. Bums are early risers too. They were already up mulling about tending to their business. Goodluck.

Part 2 — babes.

I was dancing between rain drops. Two jackets thick I was impenetrable. I danced through book stores, up streets, between steaming cars and chilled people. I had no place to be and everywhere to go. I had time to waste and didn’t want to waste any of it. So I danced through the salvation army and picked up a book. Then I put it back. Then I picked up a jacket. Then I put it back. Then I danced back into the rain– where I belonged.

gray gray gray clouds spit down at me. I stuck out my tongue and it’s like we made out. Wet, sloppy, spittle. A girl with a brochure gets in the way of my dance. “Save the bay.”

“Shave the bay? Is it in need of a shave?” I respond.

A pause, a moments breath. The splat of a raindrop on my forehead. As if she’s been diligently trained to ignore sillyness she goes straight into her shpeel. I thumb through a pamphlet she’s handed me. I don’t even know what she’s talking about.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask. She was in the middle of taking a breath. “it’s my first day doing this. I just started. It’s worth it. The California Coastline is important.”

Then she hits me up for cash. And immediately I think, but don’t say, “Incredible. You’re like a sophisticated bum. What a fancy way to part me from my money!” I fumble for a story. “I have a cocaine habit, I’m all out of money today. A whole weeks paycheck just went up my nose. But damn I feel good. Can I borrow a dollar? I need a coffee. I promise I’ll recycle the cup.”

That conversation abruptly ended.

And I dance to a bus stop and cuddle a cold girl. Her feet are wet. My feet are cold just looking at her wet feet. She shivers. Two dollars later a bus driver tries to kill me with a blanket of warmth. I’m unprepared for this sort of thing. I’ve just been dancing in the rain. I steam in my seat. “We stop here” she says. She motions for me to pull the wire rope chord. I am apprehensive. The red emergency handle that magically turns a glass window into an exit is right next to the wire rope. I could pull that handle. A pane of glass would crash to the street, the bus would stop. Everything would stop– even the rain. I climb out through it– my shoes crunch on the glass. I offer her my hand, “we’re here,” I’d say like a gentleman.

Gingerly she climbs onto the sill of the window and lowers herself into my arms. Warm air blasts from the open orifice– through her hair, into my eyes. Movement.

I pull the wire rope instead.

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An Evening In LA.

Jan 12th, 2008 by kasmoie

At work it’s about what you know not who you know. It’s about the facts, the math, the proof of something. We build rocket. You have to know something to do that.

On Sunset boulevard it’s not about what you do or what you think you know. It’s about who you know and who you are. It’s about status. About your Mazeratti, your porsche, the watch that is made of diamonds, whether or not you hung out with Justin Timberlake tonight or not.

With Kosta it’s about how you think. How you see the world, how you exist. What you adore, what you hate. How you sleep at night, what you dream about. Tonight, after climbing two stories of scaffolding on Sunset Boulevard, after blatantly hitting on the girl in the front seat of the Porsche– the girl who was watching me climb and laughing. After handing her my card, asking her about her driver and what kind of re-financing deal he had to do to afford that fancy vehicle… I found myself at a 24 hour diner, where the security guard asked me “you looking for hot girls?” Where I responded, and semi-lied, yes. Where I ambled up to a table of three of them and asked if they were looking for some company. Where they giggled and said yes. Where they told me about how they danced with Justin Timberlake, they told me they were models– and I asked them all one question: What are you passionate about?

And they blunk (plural of blink) and stared. And said “what a strange question.” And responded individually:

“I want to go to Africa and help.”

“I don’t know what I’m passionate about, maybe I’m passionate about school.”

“I’m passionate about dancing.”

And we talked about that and what it was like. And they asked me what I was passionate about, and I had no answer other than I am passionate about experiencing life to the fullest of it’s potential. And they said that wasn’t a passion. And I’d had enough of talking to them in the first place so I got the check, paid for myself, and while they glared at me for not paying for them– I ambled on.

And aside from the social engineering– pretending I worked at a hotel so I could get into it’s fancy bar. Besides the window washing platform that I managed to climb up onto and dance. Besides the myriad of girls that I chatted with who had nothing particularly in particular to say. Besides all of that, my evening was a tremendous failure in the pursuit of the connections I seek so desperately. Because I met the man who owned the Mazeratti and he didn’t have much to say. And I met the girls who spent a few fleeting moments with Justin Timberlake and they hadn’t much to say either. And I met a few people in between. But nothing that stuck.

Except for one thing.

At work it’s about what you know. On Sunset boulevard it’s about who you know. With Kosta it’s about how you exist.

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The Fervor of the Mind

Jan 8th, 2008 by kasmoie

In my twenty-two years of life experience I can say, with absolutely nothing to backup my claim, that the purpose of life is to experience it. To exist is to experience, to experience is to exist. The greatest sin a human being can perpetrate is to deny experiences to someone else or to deny it to themselves. Experiences are what define the way you see the universe, your world, yourself. Experiences are minute and small, and huge and breathtaking. A huge variety of experiences lay in in every moment of every second of every hour of every day. They are random, beautiful, and open to every form of interpretation. And if every moment of every second of every day is filled with experiences, how can I sit here and write that I am demanding more? How is it even possible to experience more than to live and breathe and think?It’s the quality though. The quality of the experiences drives me. Expecting a new experience out of my hometown is a fruitless endeavour for me. I’ve been there, I’ve done that. Having the expectation that I’m going to gain something fantastically new and fresh is a lie. So I lament every time I go home. Why lament though? There are experiences to be had.

So I’m at this crossroads right now. My whole future is available to be teased, molded, built, destroyed. I am creating my existence through my experiences. And there’s just too much to do. I desire so much from my existence. To truly live the life of a renaissance man, to create, feel, explore topics and things that I don’t even know exist yet. To explore the infinite world of possibility– of existence, of experience. But that’s not possible. For I am one human, with one mind, and one life. A life of unknown length, a mind with a limited capacity, and a body that can only withstand so much.

I work as an engineer. My job is to solve problems. Each day brings me a new set of problems, and each day I provide a new set of solutions. Intrinsically my job is experiental and, as far as I can tell, limitless. But it is of a practical nature. The problems I solve are for one purpose and that one purpose is a practical one. I am not solving abstractions, I am not creating art. And that is the problem. For the artist in me is crying for attention. My talents in sculpture, music, writing, photography, and other things that can’t even be classified. They are begging to be expressed. And I do not have the energy to feed their needs. And conflict arises. So internally I am now fighting an abstract existential battle. Where my soul is crying for experiential diversity but my body doesn’t have the energy to even fathom starting something else, something new, something grand. And so I am faced with a new problem: the torturous nature of talents. Each one deserves to be a professional. I could be a classical guitarist playing in orchestras– if I simply devoted the energy required to pursue such a thing. And it would take lots of energy. I could become a photographer that captures stories for the news. A master of my craft. I could do that but that would require more time then I have to offer. All of these possibilities are available to me because the talents exist– they just require time to be nurtured and explored to their fullest potential.

I’ve become empowered by the idea that I can be anything I dream of being. But I dream to be so many things that I can’t decide what I want to pursue. If only I could live a thousand lives… Maybe I have already.

And such is life.

My biggest goal in life is to change the world. In my spare thought time I’ve decided that I don’t know what “change the world” means. It’s so broad, so abstract. I could kill a butterfly and change the world, I could save Darfur and change the world too. Changing the world is more about changing me than changing the world. I want to be able to experience life to such a level that I am able to understand the human condition. To understand the very large picture, the abstractions, the effects, the challenges. I want to have enough experience to understand maybe one, or many, facets of existence to such a level that I am able to improve upon it. I am able to say “we can do things this way, it will make it easier. It will be a change, but it will improve our condition.” And then I want to be able to express that idea to the rest of the world and show it’s usefulness. Empower and embolden those around me to the potential of ideas. And finally execute a plan to change something about the world that improves upon the human condition, our understanding of it, and the joys of existence. Understanding and experiencing enough is the hard part, change is easy. HA!

But seriously, give me another month to think about what changing the world really means. It’s so abstract. I think the people who change the world the most are those with a vision for how they want things to be. Ghandi and his bold ideas of “Satyagraha” — the practice of nonviolent resistance, Martin Luther King and his vision of equality. These ideas were not random, the leaders in question understood the need for these changes and developed a plan to implement them. As leaders they expressed their ideas to the public, and change was had.

And that’s not an easy thing to do. But it’s something I want to do.

 

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Unrequited thought.

Dec 24th, 2007 by kasmoie

“How are you” is probably the most inconsequential question of all times. I understand its purpose. Too gauge the general sentiment of the person in question. But come on. How cliche.

Why not “How aren’t you?” go about it in a reverse fashion. How about “why are you?” a little Descartian introduction. Perhaps a completely existential introduction, “Are you?” So many different ways to approach these things.

I find myself being prohibited from posing such jarring questions to individuals I barely know because I am afraid that they will find me to be challenging them. I am afraid they will reject me, I am afraid they will not find the humour in my approach to casual conversation.

And then I ponder the purpose of fear. Fear is worthless. Fear is so high school.

I had an interesting opening conversation with a guy the other day. I was at a party and was absolutely sick of the status quo introductions, “Hi my name is kosta. What’s your name? It’s a pleasure to meet you. What do you do? I fix fenders. What are you drinking?” So I decided to break into the literal world of literalism with one gentlemen I ran into. “Isn’t it interesting when you first meet a person how much time it takes to get down the real nitty gritty of who they are? Isn’t the conventional meet and greet a meticulously slow way of finding out whether you want to actually take the time to get to know someone? My name is Kosta. What’ yours?”

I would have like to have taken the “What’s yours?” out and replaced it with “Impress me.” but I know its nobodies job to impress me and if they went out of their way to do it I would be appalled. The guy was a little stunned. He agreed that casual interaction is more or less worthless. Getting a meaningful conversation at random is hard.

And then we digressed to being children. On the playground, in the sandbox. We could talk and interact with everyone. There was no complexity because of ideology or personal philosophies or all of those issues that are related to “identity.” You met a kid and you played. It was simple, it was straight forward, and it took very little thought or effort.

Not so much anymore. Alcohol has taken the place of the sandbox, a new catalyst for social interaction, and people are much more skiddish. I guess as kids we had no expectations of the people around us. We just wanted to do our thing and interact. Now you can never be too sure what someone wants from you. The complexities of adulthood have crept in and robbed us of our ability to be socially amicable. My heroes are those who rise above superfluous social constructs and talk to everyone they meet as though it’s the last person on earth. Probing for a connection with each and every person. My heroes are those who find those connections wherever they go. A way to bond with any person they meet.

I love a connection. I strive to meet someone and bond on any level, find something of interest, and just relish in the fact that there is another person in this world that I understand–even if it’s a small portion of who they are–and who understands me. I think that’s the purpose of relationships, the purpose of friends. Eh, probably just a part of their purpose.

But connections are rare, and facsimile rhetoric is all that is left in it’s place. I’m not trying to impress anyone anymore. There’s no purpose in that. I’m trying to connect.

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On growing up

Nov 27th, 2007 by kasmoie

It is so good to be back in Carson. I feel either I’ve outgrown my peers, or they’ve outgrown me. Simultaneously I encountered individuals who were tremendously happy to see me and those who wished me dead. I finally realize my impact on some of those around me. Jealousy is something that is out of my control, out of my hands, and something I have no desire to contend with.

I learned so much from coming home to Simi. That the opinions of others are just that– the opinions of others. Not worth much of anything to me. I learned that I am my own person, finally, and that I can stand for something. Believe in something. Act on something. And if need be– defend that something. My peers can doubt, articulate their distaste, get angry, and a multitude of other things but the fact remains that I am free to live as I see fit. And I plan on doing it. I care to keep those around those who support me in my endeavors. Who encourage me to accomplish. Those who want success as much for themselves as they do for me. I promise the most sincere form of reciprocity.

I feel strengthened in my resolve to change the things I dream to change. Create the things I want to create. And dream the most fantastic dreams I can think of.

I left Simi with an understanding that I truly have left Simi Valley. I pass not an ounce of judgment on those that remain. I wish every friend–former or current the best of luck in everything they do. I hope that each and every single person I know becomes the person they dream of being. I will support you in everything you aspire to be and do. I refuse to bring down those that surround me, I refuse to succumb to the negativity and incredulity of those who choose to be victims of their own lives. Let us lift each other to the greatest heights we can achieve.

We live but one life, to waste it lamenting an existence and failing to see the potential available in each and every moment is the greatest form of masochism.

The future started a long time ago.

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A long winded advertisement for Seagull Lovers of America.

Oct 29th, 2007 by kasmoie

Once a week or so I’ll stop what I’m doing at work, get in my car, and go get lunch. Lunch once a week; that sounds about right. I drive my car through the tree lined streets of El Segundo and make a brief stop at my favourite sandwich shop that seems to be everyone elses favourite sandwich shop too. I wait in line, I order my food, I wait for food.

And while I’m waiting I like to sit around and make up stories for people– I invent little plots for who they are and what they are doing. This generally is an exercise in complete sillyness. The man picking his nose actually eats through his nose and is clearing out the meal he just ate– akin to picking one’s teeth. The two girls sitting and giggling at the man clearing out his left nostril are actually spies for a Columbian drug cartel. They are beautiful, and obviously bisexual. They plan to woo and kidnap the nose picker– with impish daring they will sweep him into Columbia under the cover of night. What’s next you ask? They enslave and use him to test the purity of their cocaine through his nose-mouth.

My food is ready. OFF TO THE BEACH!

I nibble on my sandwich and side salad. The waves build and break on the shore. The seagulls are getting intimate. I feel pretty popular. I throw croutons at them and watch them duke it out amongst each other. I am perpetuating seagull violence, but it’s a good show so I keep throwing croutons. It’s the irresponsible thing to do. For a brief moment I wonder what it would be like to be a king. Then I stop wondering because I am lord and master of the seagulls. They do my bidding, all they ask for is croutons. LET THEM EAT CROUTONS!

It’s serene, quite, beautiful. A spine tingling breeze blows through my hair. Life is exquisite. My sandwich has pickles in it, I wonder if the seagulls will eat them because I’m not a fan.

A Boeing 747 screams 100 feet over my head belching out burnt jet fuel. The seagulls don’t seem to mind. I bet the bisexual Columbian drug cartel girls have got their man and are flying home. I wonder what it would be like to eat airline peanuts through your nose.

“Why is life so incredible?” I pose this question to the seagulls. They flap around and disregard my question. I’m on an empty beach, I have a sandwich, I am the benevolent emperor of seagulls, the Columbians have their man, and I am so freeeee. Free to exist as I see fit, to dream, to create, to draw the genitals of both male and women in the sand without any apprehension. It is a life, it is a wonderful life, it is a life worth living, a life worth dying for.

A life worth dying for? I jot that down in the sand. What an idea. Then I reverse it, a death worth living for. I decide that that’s morbid. The seagulls pace around. I think they agree.

As of late life has been like this. A series of moments in time. I share them with myself and the universe, I live in every second, I revel in it. It is such a zesty way to live. There is an art to living. For me it hasn’t been something that has come easy. It’s so simple to fall victim to a hellish existence. One full of misery and doom doom doom. But today, now, it seems as if for every single one thing I could sit around and lament about I find ten things to be in awe of– no matter where I am. It has made me more patient, more accepting, and more adventurous.

The sandwich was delicious. another plane screams above me. The seagulls squawk at me for more croutons. I go to my car and go back to work. Could anyone ask for anything more?
Yeah, I bet this is illegal somewhere.

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Oct 14th, 2007 by kasmoie

There is simply too much to say. I have made so many discoveries in the last few weeks that trying to describe them in words has continually been a vexing proposition. It’s been too much.

For the last two weekends I’ve spent a few hours watching a documentary series on WWII. There’s always been something that has fascinated me about that war. The gruesome reality that is war, it breaks my heart over and over to know that humanity is capable of such a thing. It breaks my heart because of the reality that hate and fear plays in our daily lives. I don’t want acts of war to discolor the beauty that is existence, living, breathing, loving.

I am the owner of a tender naivety towards the things I wish to not add much value you too. There are things that happen, that have happened, that are tragic and relentless and grueling. But I don’t want to give those things much weight, they take away from my vision of a beautiful life. The idea, the reality that war and death and loss embody is completely counter to the reality that I choose to live in. I feel I have made a very conscious decision to find the beauty in all things. To find the joy in every moment.

But I can’t find the joy in war. There is no joy. And it’s driving me crazy.

For heaven there is a hell for joy there is loss for hate there is love and for answers there are only questions.

I can sit here and resent the fact that these tragedies happen. That people die. That there is loss. I think about that often– the reality that everyone you know and love will die someday and what a sad thought that is. But at the same time everyone you know was born, and they were concieved, and they have lived. I think one moment of loss negates the lifetimes of shared existence. For every man that dies there is a child who is born. It’s a balance. A balance of existing.

So I am naive to loss. And I am living vicariously through the long since forgotten loss of others trying to comprehend the purpose of it. It has an existential flavor. It is bitter and sharp. And I’m still confused. Do I live every moment as if it’s the last one– savoring and reveling in it because I know there are no more to be had. Living a life with the reality of imminent death gnawing away at the back of my soul. Or should I live every moment like it is my first one– brilliant and new with awesome potential. Callously naive, irreverent, and solemnly disregarding the “reality” of finality. I’m driven to choose the latter. There is so much more potential.

I was driving to LAX today to see if I could somehow get on the runway and take a photo of an airplane landing on me. Unfortunately I seem to have grown up as of late and decided that I didn’t feel like being labeled a terrorist threat. And as I drove home I thought about this. About being naive. About living each moment as if it was my first or my last.

I have to give credit to the idealists because they change the status quo and they suffer tremendously for it by those who embrace reality. I have to give credit to the realists, those who embrace reality, because they embrace the status quo and the idealists make them suffer tremendously. And I cannot help but discredit the nave completely and embrace them whole heartedly. For they are the idealists who are making their own status quo. They are running onto airport runways because they think its a good idea. They aren’t paying attention to the idealists who are yelling about how there is no such thing as terrorism and even if they could take the time to rationalize the status quo they’d subjugate it to their own interpretation which would nullify it in the first place.

Am I making sense? I hope not.

When loss comes into my life, and it will, it is inevitable– I don’t want it to take away from the beauty that is my life. As I get older I do not want to lose my naivety and callous disregard for the reality that most people live in. I want to live like I’ll never die, I want to love as if I’ll never lose, and I want to dream like a child. I want to find a place where fashioning my own status quo out of my own idealism is natural, and then I want to re-invent it everyday.

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