The Haley House
Today a Haley House regular– the math teacher who’s on disability and needs our help keep him fed, he said to me as I toiled over boiling eggs, “You made the cut. You’re part of the Haley house now.” I took that as the highest form of praise. I’ve been serving at the Haley house, a soup kitchen that is more like a family, for a bit over two weeks. I come in at the crack of dawn, usually without any sleep because I’m a diehard nocturnal, and feed the homeless. And now I want to share some stories because I feel as if I’m qualified.
I’m an excellent chopper. They give me pounds upon pounds of onions, potatoes, and peppers. In moments they are julienned, diced, and sliced as needed. Chopping is a great job because it’s repetitive enough to get into, but not repetitive enough to get bored of– after all there is a razor sharp knife just inches away from delivering an amputation. I get to spend more time listening– to the roar of happy chatter, the man who comes in and quietly plays the piano, the sound of eggs snapping and sizzling on the grill. And then there’s the singing.
Every once in awhile a song will come on the radio, usually something old with a bit of a beat, stuff I’ve never heard before. It’s usually jazzy. The men who are waiting in line, or sitting, they’ll hum along. They’ll snap their fingers and say “man, I remember this jam, this is a great jam.” And they’ll turn up the speakers and smile big as they quietly sing to themselves– not loud enough to be truly joyous, but loud enough to let you know they’re happy. I love to make them happy.
Bill was wearing sweats and a low cut sweater. It was something like 35 degrees outside. A sprinkling of chest hair poked through a wifebeater, and a thinly knotted twine necklace wrapped around his gaunt neck. With a sparsely toothed smile he asked, “Can I get a jacket?” To which a lead volunteer started to respond with the usual answer about Fridays before Bill broke in again, “I know you give out clothes on Friday, but I just got out of prison yesterday and I don’t got nothing.”
Moments later he was wrapped up in a thick down jacket with wisps’ of feathers poking out the sides. He smiled at me and I asked the question that had been burning in my mind, “How long were you in for?”
He launched into a story about a police officer, a fist fight, and a total knockout. About seven years behind bars, and his newfound freedom– his plans for the future, and most importantly– his daughter.
“I know I’ll find her again. God will bring her to me.” He asked me how old I was and then looked me up and down after I responded. “She could be your girlfriend for all I know. She’s your age, June 28, 1986 she was born.” I nodded and wondered if I was seeing any orphans. I don’t think I am.
My most important role at the Haley House has nothing to do with food. My job is to listen with the utmost patience. I listen through rants about God, through theories about all sorts of insane things like how to solve global warming with salt, through sad stories about living a life homeless. By not undermining, judging, characterizing, or drawing any conclusions about the people I meet I allow myself to be open to every individual. I do not allow myself to show discomfort, I don’t fidget; I don’t make any assumptions in my questions. I just listen. Because I feel like it helps– by taking a moment to stop and listen I am allowing a bridge to be built between myself– someone with everything, and them—a people with close to nothing. And that is what the Haley House is: A place where the divide between social classes is lost and everyone is treated as equal. And that is a beautiful thing. You can’t judge at the Haley House, because if you do you will be proven wrong—again and again.
Sam was walking around with a bowl filled with orange juice. In it was a piece of meticulously peanut-buttered toast. My guess was he was marinating his toast in OJ because he was crazy. Finally—my stereotype of the crazy homeless had come to life! It had been a week and a half and I was beginning to wonder if there was such thing as a crazy homeless person. Sure—there were the eccentrics, the mildly loopy, the chatty cathys’, and the murderously angry. But I wouldn’t go as far as calling any of them crazy. But Sam, and his breakfast soup—now he had to be as nutty as the crunchy peanut butter that was spread on his submerged toast. I laughed to myself, proud of validating my assumptions and went back to work.
“Can you put this in the blender for me.” Sam asked me as I made my rounds cleaning tables. He was sitting around coffee cups filled with mashed up food. He was sucking up brown ground up food into a giant plastic syringe. I watched him fumble in his shirt with his dirty cracked hands. He pulled out an IV port, stuck the tip of the syringe into it, and I watched as he simultaneously blew my mind and drained a syringe full of breakfast into his gut. I gingerly took a bowl filled with peanut-buttered toast and orange juice, delicately dumped it into a blender, and pulverized the concept of drawing conclusions or judgments about anyone ever again.
New Portfolio
If you’ve ever been to the “Beastfolio” tab at the top it’s a bit misleading. It used to offer an e-mail address if anyone was inquiring enough to want to download a 60Mb portfolio. And who would want to do that?!
Anyway, please meet beta version 1 of my new online portfolio, visit it here:
http://iamkosta.org/kfolio
My Hero
I became familiar with the work of legendary photographer James Nachtwey when I stumbled upon the movie “War Photographer.” This incredible man has given his life to informing people about the realities of war. Risking his own life, and witnessing atrocities of a scope and scale that I can’t even begin to fathom– he is truly an individual who believes in serving a greater good. For as little as my endorsement means to a man of such character– he is a hero to me.
I’ve discovered TED– an annual conference that believes in bringing “Ideas worth spreading” into the public’s eye. If any single group exemplifies the idea of “changing the world” it is these individuals– the smartest, the brightest, the most capable people who all share one thing in common: a vision or idea that can change the world. I aspire to be of this ilk, if not in this lifetime– then the next.
C’était un rendez vous
(Purchase Film) | (Claude Lelouch)
Claude Lelouch (born 30 October 1937) is a French film director, writer, cinematographer, actor and producer. In his 1964 film C’était un rendez vous he drives a Ferrari 275 GTB through the morning streets of Paris.
A gyro stabilized camera captures his 8 minute trek from city block to city block as he speeds in excess of 140km/h. This piece touches my creative soul. The ending is astounding.
From 11 to 5
A text message from an almost complete stranger told me to take the Green line to the far end of town– to leave my house at eleven. The amount of mystery was numbing. A train I had never been on, a destination I’d never seen, a girl I had met only once– and for only a brief moment. But when eleven rolled around the evening moved like destiny.
My pockets, packed with credit cards, money, a notepad, and a pen. With the thickest jacket on my shoulders, and music in my ears I boarded the elevator. I fell for 9 stories. Out of the front door and into the night cold I moved. I rushed past evening goers and down into the pit of the Green line subway. I smashed my way through a crowd and stood neck deep amongst a mass of Friday partiers. We swayed quietly through the tunnels as the train slipped from stop to stop– the fabric of our jackets touching, a girl who smelled like cinnamon mixed with the exhaust of the subway.
A girl and a boy squeeze aboard. He finds a handrail to hold onto, and she wraps her arms around him, “I’ll just hold onto you.” she whispers to him.
I pushed my way out of the train at Northeastern University. I made a call that was not answered. So I sat and waited patiently.
It’s four AM and we’ve arrived at their apartment– her and her roommate. We managed to walk for miles and chat about most everything and seemingly nothing at the same time. They give me ice for my ankle, they give me a granola bar, they bring me a pillow and some blankets, and they offer their floor to me. I thank them. I tuck them both in and tell them they are worthwhile. As they slept I wrote them a note: “Thanks for the great evening.” I shutoff the light, I leave.
A taxi pulls up as the front door to their complex closes behind me. “How much?” I ask “Under 15″ he says in a thick accent. The seat is still warm. It smells like a rich oak mixed with pipe tobacco. It is soothing; it smells like the wisdom from an aged man. The driver turns up the music– a beautiful Haitian chorus fills the backseat. We run red lights and take fast turns. He makes it home well under 15– only 11. I give him 15 anyway. He turns to me as I edge out of the car and with his wise Creole accent he says:
“I get you there like it was your destiny.”
Mecca for me
There were two girls standing in front of me and the instructor, in a sincere tone said, “You both can’t dance with him.” To which I replied, almost whimsically, “we could try.” A little more standing took place before one shuffled off and I was left to attempt the Salsa. It’s a good thing we didn’t try, because it would have been a disaster. Now let me tell you something– I am only good at dancing when I’m intoxicated, and I think it might have something to do with impaired judgment. There is a musical bone in my body somewhere, I can play guitar, but get me on the dance floor and my feet end up knotted and limp like spaghetti. I can’t quite explain it. Following instructions and following a beat, two requirements that elude me. As I tried to follow the footsteps I kept tripping over myself and reversing steps. And this is the Salsa we’re talking about here, it’s not that hard. Left foot forward, right foot up, left foot backward right foot back, and left foot up. I have it in my head, the concept is there— but making my body listen is much like asking a dog to tell you a bedtime story– it’s not going to happen, and if the dog even makes an attempt it’s not going to be very soothing.
So I made a lot of apologies for myself, and spent a lot of time laughing. It was good fun. Unfortunately I never looked a single dance partner in the eye, I was too busy watching my feet. So much for that idea of female interaction; Maybe next time.
Salsa class was at the end of the day. It was the very last segment to a very long day. I woke up early this morning 20 minutes before my interview with Greenpeace. I called in and rescheduled, then proceeded– after hearing that I’d have to work five days a week for six hours a day trying to get people to sign up for Greenpeace (for 12 bucks an hour mind you) to negotiate my way out of a job offer. I would consider myself the perfect person to be yelling at strangers from a street corner getting them to do something for me, that’s like my forte. But not for six hours, and not for five days a week. They wouldn’t let me volunteer! All I wanted was to volunteer! Not some day job! Do I look desperate?!
So it was back into the tunnels with me– the subway has lost a bit of its allure. How things change in 24 hours. I did come up with a brilliant idea: in Boston the subway is called the T. I want to have a Boston T party. How appropriate is that!?!? It will either consider of a sophisticated re-enactment of Englishmen dressed as Indians tossing tea from open subway doors at subway stops. Or it could be a bit more metaphorical and we can hire a DJ; get down and funky subterranean style. Either way, it’s probably been done already.
At Kendall/MIT station I made a hasty departure from my day dreaming. It was time to visit the Mecca for engineers. I said a short prayer to Newton and Einstein asking for forgiveness for only getting past Algebra 2. Then I cleansed my body and soul with a chicken, ham, and swiss cheese crepe from the crepe factory. As I ate I stared at the educational environs that lay before me. MIT has been a place that has only lived in my imagination. As a child I read about the school and fantasized about being there, about playing with all of the equipment, building gadgets, designing new technologies, and interacting with the best and brightest. MIT was truly a glorious place in my mind’s eye, and as I witnessed it’s vastness in front of me for the first time I was delighted. it’s ingeniously designed buildings, the students milling about on the sidewalk, the cute girl who was sitting next to me talking about what it was like being a neuroscience major at MIT (consequently she was having boyfriend problems as well which struck me as odd, you’d think they’d have developed a way to engineer themselves out of bad breakups. Anyway I digress.) I was in a state of heaven.
I could not enter the campus after that crepe. It wasn’t enough. I know it seems silly, but to me, this was Mecca, and I was not yet worthy. So I went to the Broad institute instead. Yes it is part of MIT, but it’s the Broad Institute, it needs no other name. A gentleman in line at the creperey mentioned I go in and check out some of the equipment on display. And of course the front doors were locked. I peered over at the cute secretary sitting gingerly at her desk and I knocked on the window, motioning for her to let me in.
“Did you forget your badge?” She said.
“No I don’t have one.” I replied with Candor. “I’m here to look at the neat stuff.”
“Well sir it’s past hours and if you do not have a badge you cannot see the showroom. I’m sorry.”
The rest is tedious and tremendously entertaining but let’s just say that I am now the proud owner of a new fact: “Boston girls like to make out with hot guys. All you have to do is dance with them.” Also: a new phone number burning a hole through my pocket. We’ll see what I do with that.
I WAS FINALLY WORTHY OF MIT!
So off I went. I had no idea where to go. I just started walking onto campus. And what do I spy, a mere four hundred feet down the street? The MIT Media Labs. It was if the hand of Feynman (the most playful of famous quantum physicists) was guiding me to the holy land of exciting research and edutainment. I didn’t even blink. I walked through the front doors like I owned the place– and straight into the Lifelong Kindergarten group.
The MIT Media Labs are pretty famous. Started in 1984 to put together technology and media a lot of startling achievements, and people, have come out of that place. Ever heard of Rock Band? Guitar Hero? Yeah the guys who invented that graduated from the Media Labs. It’s like this interdisciplinary world where art and science get mashed up into brand new things. The program was practically tailor made for a person like me– someone who can’t sit still.
I fell in love. It was exactly what I want to experience: A place where the ultra smart get together and play. There are little projects all over the place. Weird homebrew WiFi enabled cameras dot the ceilings, strange suits padded with all sorts of electronics, students and teachers sitting around and just chatting about the possibilities. If you’ve ever seen a James Bond movie and been introduced to Q’s laboratory– this was that place. All sorts of strange and unique high tech experiments were going on all around me. The place was playful, full of energy, and inviting.
I talked to a few people, but I wasn’t ready to sell myself yet. I need to read more about the different groups and get a better background on the place. If I play my cards right it just might be my new home for the next couple of years.
Have a look: http://labcast.media.mit.edu/?p=27
And yeah… I’ll probably try salsa again.
From Costa Rica with Love
I was the only Gringo on the soccer field, and I was happy with that. I was a benchwarmer at first—thank God, the guys who were playing were practically professional. Bench warming is fine; I’ll take that over a soccer ball to the skull any day.
It cost exactly 1500 colohns or 3 dollars to play a game of soccer. I was there with the managers of the hotel, Gaiya. I had been staying in their beautiful accommodations in southern Costa Rica for the last three days and I had accidentally asked them what their plans for the evening were; they exclaimed “Football!” before I could say “no.” My shoes were being inspected for worthiness: “Too heavy, no good.” I thanked them and asked for my orange and yellow Nike’s back. They were starting to smell. In Costa Rica if something gets wet, it tends to stay that way then rots. I heard a story about a kid who lived in the jungle—he had to walk 45 minutes to get to school, and in order to mitigate the rotting away of his books he wrapped them in plastic, then placed the book in a bag of rice, then sealed the bag with tape. Tedious, but necessary.
The indoor soccer field was exactly 6 months old. This was the first indoor game for the team I was playing with, and that was a good thing—they were just as anxious as I was, except for entirely different reasons. Before I left to go play soccer, my dad, who has been traveling with me through Costa Rica, stopped me and said, “Kosta, I’m really worried you’re going to get hurt. Please don’t get hurt.” I found this fascinating because he was completely indifferent when I was about to go out to a discotecka at 10 pm, located 30 km North of our hotel, with two complete strangers who may or may not have hated Americans and were promising me a good time in an attempt to get me out into the jungle so they could tie me to a banana tree on a Dole plantation and pelt me with guavas. I digress…
Our T-shirts were yellow or amarillo depending which language you prefer. At first I heard it as “armadillo” and was slightly confused at what an armadillo was doing in the jungle, but I’d seen stranger things (the transsexual in a wedding dress wearing a crown while slow dancing to old techno the night prior comes to mind). The shirts read “Ojachal”—the town in which everyone was from. I was at first proud to be sporting the armadillo colored top, but then I wondered if there were any gangs in Costa Rica, and if I was wearing something equivalent to a “Bloods” t-shirt.
We started playing. For the first half of the match, I was benched, which was just fine with me. We scored three points, and they scored two—it’s interesting to note that the other team had a serious fan club up in the stands. When they scored, the crowd went wild. When we scored, I yelled and clapped but sat my ass down when I realized nobody else was joining me. I wondered if I should cover the “Ojachal” on my shirt to avoid any gang wars.
Our goalie, Edgar, just happened to be my best friend in Costa Rica. He’s 43, has a wife, and a little boy whose name has escaped me and is probably never coming back. He has worked at our hotel for 8 years and speaks more English than I speak Spanish but not enough to cause me embarrassment for my inability to pay attention to new words. “How do you say food again?” I say with a mouth full of steak. “Oh yeah, comida—I asked you that before we got the food.” Edgar, my best friend goalie, wanted to swap out with me. He pointed to me to come out on the field. I pointed to the guy next to me and mouthed “him?” hoping that I was just there to pass the message along. Edgar firmly shook his head and mouthed “You.”
I trotted out onto the field with the synthetic grass crunching under-foot and thought about how nice it was to know that I wasn’t going to find myself knee deep in mud if I stopped paying attention to where I was putting my feet. There’s something about mud in Costa Rica—it is everywhere, and it wants to be on you.
Sandro, one of the professional soccer players instructed me on my tasks as a goalie, “See line?” He pointed to the half circle around the goalie net and informed me, “No hands outside of line.” I nodded. I played soccer for six years as a kid, and I was well aware of the rules. Hell, my mom was a soccer mom complete with the minivan packed with lawn chairs and water bottles always ready should the occasion arise. I kept up the facade of being incompetent to lower everyone’s expectations of me. I wanted to be as close to zero as possible, so that when the Gringo fucked up, it wouldn’t start some sort of soccer riot. Soccer may be globally appreciated, but it’s not that big of a deal back home. For instance, I recently heard the story of the guy who accidentally scored for the opposing team during the World Cup and was killed a week later for his mistake. Yeah, I know it’s a little bit much, but when everyone except you speaks Spanish, the only thing left to do is fill in the blanks—and I have a very active imagination.
I wish I could finish this story by boasting about how I saved the day and how each passing soccer ball was deflated by the lasers in my eyes before having the opportunity to score a goal. But I don’t have lasers in my eyes, and I think that is to my detriment. I also have this tendency to close my eyes when speeding objects are traveling toward me, which is again to my detriment as soccer balls need to be watched in order to be caught. I let 2 goals slide by me, but I deflected somewhere around 9 using what was probably magic.
We won the game and to celebrate the first win of the season, we went to a local bar and had some beers. I didn’t have any beers, but I did have a chicken Caesar salad. A player asked to try a piece of chicken, and then told me, “It’s dog. No good.” I agreed with him, told him I preferred cat, and remarked that it will have to do for now.
Edgar and I got to chatting and had a very tedious conversation where we tip-toed around the words we didn’t know. He explained to me how he grew up in the jungle with no electricity, no fridge, and (because I had to ask the obvious questions) no TV. He has 4 brothers and 4 sisters. His father built his house, and his mother was a baby factory. He had his first girlfriend when he turned 20—this was because he lived solely with his family and no other eligible chickitas were to be found for miles—that was his excuse, at least.
As he finished his beer and I finished my Caesar salad, he told me about his house. His father-in-law had given his wife the plot of land, and he and his brother had built the house by hand. This impressed me. I explained, “In America, people take out a loan that they are supposed to pay for 30 years, but they get greedy and re-finance after the first year to buy a jet ski/boob job and consequently own nothing but keep paying the same interest over and over again.” This made no sense to Edgar. I chuckled as I began contrasting the slightly-above-average American who thought interest-only loans were a good idea with Edgar, who makes two dollars an hour yet owns his house in full because he built it.
Edgar had earlier stated that he would have liked to show me his casa. I was, of course, flattered because even though I’d only been here for four days, I still had not made it inside a Costa Rican or “Tika” house. I see them everywhere. Their corrugated aluminum roofs, wooden or concrete frames with cloth used for door frames, thin foundations and seepy looking windows intrigue me. Most of them screamed home-made, but they all have this sort of inviting nature—they seemed to be saying “there’s a happy family and good food inside of here, and our mosquito nets will save you from malaria.” Some of the houses were nicer than others, but it’s pretty safe to assume that most people in southern Costa Rica make the same 2 dollars an hour just as their neighbors do. The more extravagant houses were strictly the result of raw talent.
We pulled into Edgars driveway at about 10 o’clock. A little yip yip dog scurried out front and began to bark. I resisted the urge to punt and instead patted. As the dog licked my hand, I took a look at Edgar’s home, and I was genuinely struck by the beauty of his little house. The front door was stained a light red, and the outside was stuccoed and painted white trimmed in pink. I took off my shoes at the tile entrance and was greeted by a very excited 7-year-old boy.
On my way to Edgar’s, I’d made a quick pit stop at the grocery store. I asked Edgar what his wife and child liked, and he pointed me to some yogurt kept in the refrigerated section. As we entered Edgar’s house, I tried to pawn the yogurt off, so he could give it out to his family, but he was having none of that. I pulled the two bottles out of the bag and gave one to his wife and one to his child. They looked genuinely impressed—as if nobody thought to give them yogurt as a gift before. I certainly wouldn’t have thought of it. The mother and child said “Gracias.” The child practically yelled it. His mother gave him a small bowl, and soon his mouth was smeared with yogurt. I wondered when the hell this kid was supposed to go to bed. Shouldn’t his teeth have been brushed by now?
I was given the grand tour, and it was quite grand, especially for a house that was built by hand. The bedroom and living room floors were all tile. The kitchen had a small stove, the fridge was fully stocked, and the bathroom was broken. You could see how the house had evolved—it was explained to me that the kitchen had been built first. It was by far the least elaborate room, the windows had cracks in them, the floor was un-tiled and green, but as you moved from the kitchen you could almost read the story of the house. Edgar had hand painted the trim around the doors—a bright green. The dining room had a beautiful table that “cost $600″ which is a huge sum of money for a guy who makes 2 dollars an hour but was probably a wedding gift or something. The child’s room was immaculate which freaked me out a bit—kids rooms aren’t supposed to be clean. We pulled out English flash cards and stopped for a while to play. Edgar’s son knows more English than I know Spanish! He was unstumpable.
I won’t bore you with any more details—but I have to say that I have never felt so impressed. I was invited to this beautiful home that had been built by hand, by a family that didn’t—and still doesn’t—own a car. Unbelievable. Just unbelievable.
On The Eve of Our Mothers
“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.
A Hairs Cut
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.”
A Dream
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.
I once killed three men with a stare.
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.
An Evening In LA.
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.
The Fervor of the Mind
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.
Unrequited thought.
“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.
The Notion of Loss
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.
the theoretical theory of theory as a theory.
There is a cat, his name is Schrödinger. He lives in a box and he was put there by a group of scientists conducting an experiment. From within his box he can see four square walls around him. He can also see a strange machine, a can of poison linked to a radiation detector perched precariously above a single atomic nucleus. The scientists can’t see inside of Schrödinger’s box, they can’t see if he is alive or dead, breathing or not, sleeping or pacing. We can assume that he is in the box however, because we put him there.
We know that the atomic nucleus inside the box has some very distinct properties. For example, within one single hour the atom inside the box will either decay or not, there is a fifty percent chance that it will, a fifty percent chance that it will not. If it decays, the detector will take notice and promptly release a noxious poison which will kill our poor cat Schrödinger. If it doesn’t, Schrödinger will live.
Here lies the problem: When one hour is up and the experiment is over, is Schrödinger dead or alive? Has the random decay of an atom ended his life or has that atom decided to remain whole sparing Schrödinger’s life? To assume anything would be catastrophic, to make wagers would be appropriate, and to leave it up to God has its own ramifications.
When the experiment has ended, after one whole hour has lapsed, we haven’t a clue as to what state of life Schrödinger may be in. Because we have not observed the death of Schrödinger there is no evidence to support that he is dead. Because we have not seen Schrödinger alive, there is no evidence to support that either. The unobserved state is something that one cannot, with dignity at least, make any assumptions about.
Due to the precarious spot that science has left our cat there is no definitive way to speculate, guess, or assume whether Schrodinger is dead or alive. The only thing that you can say about Schrödinger, while he is in his state of being unobserved, is that he is both dead and alive. Only when we open the box and partake in a grand observation of Schrödinger’s fortune, only then can Schrodinger move from a state of in betweens to a quantifiable dead or alive.
This paradox is the basis for Quantum theory, the theory of the very small and finite world of atoms, particles, light and how they behave. The paradox of Schrodinger also nullifies any notions of something I call: the reasonable conclusion.
A blind man named Ishmel walks in from the cold and wet and sits down. His arse finds itself upon something firm, and to him it seems comfortable. He passes his hand across a smooth surface looking for the sharp edges of a utensil. A breeze blows past him as the sounds of rubber squeak against a hard floor. He asks the breeze how her day has been; he knows it’s her because he can smell her distinctly feminine scent, lilacs.
She responds, “Dreary.” After a short reflectory pause an interjection, “Would you like a menu?” As she taps her pencil against her waiters wallet she gestures towards the cook to bring the man a menu.
What is a menu to a blind man? What is a sunset to a blind man? What is the color blue to a blind man? By definition of the sighted a menu is a list of the dishes served at a meal or a bill of fare. But to a blind man what good is a list of dishes if he cannot read it? To him a menu is something that must be felt or heard in order to be understood. To a dog what is a menu, it is a piece of paper to chew on.
The cook, reeking of grease, places a slightly soiled menu in front of Ishmel. The waitress exits and Ishmel stares blankly at the parchment placed before him: An infinite selection, an infinity of compromise.
To the blind man what is a menu he can’t read? Perhaps it is a buffet of possibility, perhaps the menu will be the only thing served to him that evening. To the scientist what is a reasonable conclusion to draw about the state of his cat?
Perhaps the scientific homage, the great Theory, will shed some light on all of this ambiguity. After all, it is the theories that help make some sense of this existence in which we live; Right? Let’s review: Gravitational theory keeps us, well, grounded. The theory of evolution does a good job of explaining our heritage, and the big bang theory takes a stab at how it all started. The Heisenberg principle of uncertainty throws a wrench into the idea of the absolute stating that the interactions of matter at the atomic level cannot—will not be predictable, no matter how fancy a microscope you buy. Matter enjoys living in its probabilistic soup, unwilling to share what it plans on doing next. These theories are some of the roots, the pillars, of understanding that make up what we as humanity think we know as a whole, but what is a theory? Webster, enlighten us:
the‧o‧ry [thee-uh-ree, theer-ee], plural -ries.
- A set of statements or principles devised to explain a group of facts or phenomena, especially one that has been repeatedly tested or is widely accepted and can be used to make predictions about natural phenomena.
- An assumption based on limited information or knowledge; a conjecture.
“An assumption based on limited information or knowledge.”
How can this be?!
I have a theory as to why. My theory is that there is nothing factual, definitive, truthful, and that the ever so thoughtfully perceived understanding is in fact, a misunderstanding. I theorize that to classify anything as fact is to in fact make an assumption about the fact in question, thus nullifying said fact. A theory is merely an idea waiting to be told that it’s wrong.
The crunch crunch crunch of gears, the hum of motors, and the squeal of tight belts: They scurry, they rush. A gentleman, clad in a blue apron frantically rushes from machine to machine—wrench in hand he weaves between fast moving belts, ducks between dipping and diving armatures and slips into the guts of a beast.
Inside he searches for the soul of the machine, a single bolt that needs constant attention. Without it the whole contraption comes to a screeching halt, but tighten it too much and the gears will choke and the motors will sputter. Forever it has needed tightening at consistent intervals. He knows it is time to tighten by the sounds the enormous machine is making. Its whine has gotten louder, it is whining for attention.
As he frantically passes under pipes carrying molten grease, over thick wires that monitor and control the beat of the machine, through humid air that carries with it the acrid smell of progress, he winds around a corner and stops to catch his breath.
Deep within the bowels of mechanized endurance a moment of human silence is observed while the machine rumbles on all around him. A single moment where the man stops and reflects upon the task at hand: I created this machine, yet I am slave to it. Onward he rushes, progress is now.
The final stretch is upon him and he dashes to meet his mark. Crankshafts spin as pistons brace themselves for explosions. Gasoline drains into gaping valves and is immediately consumed, then belched out in an entirely different form. He spies his bolt thirty feet ahead of him and he quickens his pace, it is dancing in its socket, seconds away from unseating itself and bringing the whole operation to a halt.
As his legs lengthen in long strides, as he chokes down air, a spray of scorching liquid finds itself upon his face and before he can scream he is flying.
Through the air and over the grease spill he travels upwards and forwards. His arms helplessly reach out for something to grab onto. Deep within fast moving belts they find themselves. Immediately he is caught and upward further he is jerked. He soars 20, 30, 40, 50 feet. He pleads and curses the machine but it’s not listening.
The cogs are ahead. 64 feet is the altitude of the first set of pulleys. The machine was specifically designed to have pulleys at 64 feet. All machines are specifically designed. Not an inch before 64 feet did the gentlemen in the blue apron find his hands, which were specifically designed also, between the tight space between a thick rubber belt and sharp pulley. This situation is off nominal.
In one instant the skin and ligaments of his wrists were being torn into. In the next instant the bones of his wrist crackled then snapped. Shortly after, the belt met the apex of the pulley, complete separation. Without the slightest interest in self preservance the machine and its belts and pulleys screamed on as the machinist screamed in chorus.
And then he tumbled back down. His hands continued on their journey through the machine but the gentlemen pummeled down 64 feet towards the ground, a warm mist of blood filling the air. Meat slaps concrete, scalding hot oil sears skin, blood—thinner than oil sinks and oil languishes in its victory. The bolt, with the most ironic of timing, unseats itself and the machine comes grinding to a complete and total stop. Crimson silence—an awkward reality for the living, daily life for the dead.
The ramifications of rounding a bend to do ones job can be disastrous.
The uncertainty of a man’s life, dashed to bits by the certainty that is machine. The notion of control exercised by the act of human creation—I will make this machine to do specifically this, I will design this experiment to show me exactly this. I have written this theory that proves that there is no such thing as proof. I am a menu and have been designed to tell some people exactly nothing. I am human, I am in control. I am human I create. I am human I exist. I think, therefore I thought. I thought and now what? I assumed and I was wrong. I lived therefore I died.
A blind man couldn’t tell you if Schrodinger was dead or alive just by peering into a box. A dead man couldn’t tell you even less. A machine—man made indifference—could care less.
Certainty is nothing more than the assurance of uncertainty; uncertainty is nothing more than life itself. And I can prove this by the simple fact that I can prove nothing at all.
Balloon Project Launch Video
Going through some documents today I stumbled across some onboard video footage from launch. Might as well make a movie out of it!
New Business card!
I’ve had these for awhile now. For some reason unbeknown to me the girls seem to adore them. I’m off to go live in a hotel for a week.
A belated birthday post!
It’s never too late to write your birthday post. But I will tell you it is symbolic of the state of my existence at this particular moment in time. This year for Kosta has been a year of transition. A transition out of school and into life, out of my parents house and into my own place, from paying for nothing to paying for everything, and from being in a relationship to miserably single.
The Balloon Project launched this year. I remember going to sleep for a nap that day. The launch was over at about eleven a.m. but I had been up since four, and I was exhausted. I took a nap and I dreamed of nothing, absolutely nothing.
After a full two years of chugging away at my project my mind took a well deserved moment to rest. And when I awoke– possibly three hours later– I remember crying. Great tears of happiness for my accomplishment and tears of sadness because there was no more project to keep me busy. I cried for all of the struggles of my past– the idea that I had been diagnosed as Bi-polar, the idea that I had been diagnosed as Attention Deficit. Those ideas that shaped so much of how I saw myself. Those ideas that no longer existed anymore. They had been overcome. In that moment I made the realization that all that junk in the past was gone and over. That I was someone completely different than a doctors diagnosis or prescribed pills. That every single self deprecating notion of who I thought I am was completely null and defunct. As my balloon lifted off it took away with it so much more than just a payload I had designed. It vindicated the things that I had thought about but had not yet chosen to believe: The fact that I am intelligent, the fact that I am capable, the fact that I am worthwhile.
I sit here and type this and I want to cry some more. It has been such a journey.
With the Balloon Project launched, a vindicated spirit, and zero finals to take during my last semester of my “formal” education I celebrated. A party was thrown in my honor and Balloon project enthusiasts and supporters poured into a small house in the heart of Camarillo. If I recall correctly I think I made out with three beautiful girls that night. Perhaps I’m not as shy as I thought…
And that story, the story of the Balloon Project, has been closed.
…and a brand new chapter has opened.
I think I was out of school for 1 month before I got my job. I had been in communication with SpaceX for a whole year before I was actually granted the opportunity to interview. Last summer I sent an e-mail to SpaceX asking for an internship. Thank God I didn’t get one! Those interns work so hard and get paid hardly anything! Fortunately I made a contact and I nursed it– I sent along progress of the Balloon Project and after the project was all said and done I sent a link to the brand new http://iamkosta.org.
I had an interview a few days later.
I don’t really know how to describe the time between the finale of the Balloon Project and the start of my new job. It’s been almost like a dream. Completely surreal. It’s has been like the dreams in my minds eye were slowly taken away from inside my head and laid out in front me. As if I controlled my destiny and everything I could think to ask for was mine. And I think that’s the way it is now. If I can imagine it I can make it. If I can dream it I can create it. I would encourage everyone to embrace the simple truth that our life is ours to use however we plan to use it. All we have to do is plan on using it. It is a tremendously empowering idea.
One of the last things I did before I left school was make thirty or so photo-copies of a document I had been writing for over four months. It was a manifesto of sorts, my revelations about schooling and the ideas I had to improve the process– ideas that would enable people like me to be successful in an environment where I think few would. I photocopied that document and bound it and I handed it out to every influential person on campus. The president, esteemed members of the faculty senate, the provost, all of the vice presidents… I ran out of photocopies and I made more. I hiked around finding mail boxes and chasing down people to tell them that I was leaving, and that I wanted to leave something for a school that had given me so much– even though I kind of had to steal it. I did have to steal my education.
The other day I was invited to come speak. I was called by two different people asking for me to come and talk about my experiences at school for incoming freshmen and parents. I wish I could have done it but I had to decline because of work. The next week the annual school alumni newsletter came out, a full color page detailing the balloon project. It would seem that the CSUCI’s aptly named “rebel without a cause” went from being the thorn in the side of many an administrator and faculty member to plain old all star student. It’s totally weird. I recall on graduation day a faculty member who openly criticized the balloon project citing “fiscal tyranny” congratulating me on my success. Quizzically i puzzled over the idea of being congratulated by this particular individual but I quickly thanked him, “I couldn’t have done it with you. Thank you so much for your help.”
And it was totally true, because if everyone believed in me than what’s the use. I’m about breaking the mold not fitting in it! The man who criticized also added in “I read your document. I wish education could be like that.” I agreed– then decided if he was buying into my work then it was officially done.
So my work, the chapter of my life in education is done. I gradumuated– I walked on stage and gave high fives to every VP and the president. I wore my orange pants. My parents went nuts. It was amazing. It’s over.
New work has started and now I pay for all sorts of ridiculous things that no one should have to pay for. Example: rent and car insurance. I asked a gentleman today what time he woke up to go to work, he responded: “4:30 in the morning.” I laughed out loud. It is incredible the things that real adults do. I guess I have a new appreciation for it… I wake up at 7:20 in the morning. It’s deplorable. And then I work until 8:00 p.m. Hopefully it’s only for this week. Change change change. I’m restarting… I’ve set even bigger loftier goals for myself at this stage in my life. We’ll see what becomes of them. I just bought a piece of land in Costa Rica. That’s part of my “become financially independent by the age of 28″ plan… I have to dispose of my disposable income somehow… If I lose it than I lose it, such is life. The whole working to live thing seems ridiculous. I want to work for fun and live for free.
And there’s another thing I want to do: I want to be the idea guy who follows through. I want to have the ability to take my dreams– whatever they may be– and turn them into reality. I don’t want to work, I want to keep dreaming. I’m going to keep dreaming.
I’m twenty two now, I’m actually twenty two and three days. The future is now. I’m excited.
With love,
Kosta
First Post (kind of)
Welcome to iAmKosta.org– a brand new fresh and burgeoning blog, portfolio, and general home for the junque I put on the internet. I hope you enjoy.
-Kosta
