Travelversary Part III: Let Go
I’ve been living out of a backpack for three years. Sleeping on couches, having adventures, being unfortunately poor, and man-handling jet lag.
The following is the final part a three part series on hitting the road! Read Part I here.
When I first started writing this part I spent weeks dreaming up all the tips and tricks on how to travel successfully. Here are the highlights:
+Have a bit of a plan and be prepared to drop it at a moments notice.
+Pack as close to nothing as possible. Save yourself the hassle of checking a bag.
+Talk to strangers, as many as will listen. Tell them what you need, they’ll help you get it. Be mysterious, they dig it.
+Be the last one on the airplane and sit in whatever seat is available. No one will bother you. Be the first one off the plane to avoid the line at customs.
+Bring something to comfort you. My staple is a 1 lb bar of belgian chocolate. It also makes a good present for the people who will comfort you even more.
+Do not judge, accept everything and everyone for who and what they are.
+Live in the moment. The past is long gone, the future is a mystery.
However, that’s only the distillation of thousands of words from the definitive “how to guide” that was supposed to give you some insight on how to get around effectively. I scrapped the whole thing after the third draft. Why? I realized that the document was essentially me bragging about my ability to find myself in incredibly unique situations. In order for that to happen it takes something entirely different…
Story time? I think yes!
There is no way to prepare for the moment a panamanian drug dealer stops you and in perfect english explains how “you will be killed if you go any further” because of the gang infestation down the road. I cannot further describe what kind of either stupidity or intuition it took to then ask, “Can I have a tour?” of said neighborhood. After years of dealing with strangers I felt he was okay simply by the way he looked me in my eyes. “You want to go down there?” he asked. “Yup.” He looked me up and down, laughed, then called me crazy.
Most every drainage grate and manhole cover was missing as we criss crossed through alley way after street corner “They sell em for scrap. It’s good money.” The gangbangers stood on street corners like vultures, my guide yelled in spanish to each of them as they stared me down. I couldn’t exactly tell if he was saying “he’s cool” or “don’t worry I’m going to bash his head and steal his wallet”.
“In that house the biggest drug lord was killed a few weeks ago” he pointed down a street with row after row of collapsed apartments. “Down that street a Canadian girl was raped. Stupid tourist.” He spit. “I’ve killed some people too. You got to. It’s how you survive.” I nodded my head, almost approvingly, as if I hear that kind of thing every day.
We stopped at the Central American equivalent of Kentucky Fried Chicken, I bought him some deep fried liver. He squeezed hot sauce into the bag, squished it around, and then dug in with his grime covered fingers. He took me to a bar where the girl commanding the front door didn’t make eye contact. “She’s cheap. She’ll suck your dick for ten bucks.” We wandered around, the whole place was lit in blue. He yelled at some of his friends in spanish. We passed the girl again as we walked out. “Ten bucks man…”
When he took me back to my original destination I gave him 5 dollars and he as he folded the bill to put it into his tattered jeans he looked at me, “You’re fearless kid.” I responded, “nah, I’m just an idiot- thanks for not selling me into slavery.”
After a bit of wandering, I found myself on the roof of a hotel drinking amongst a throng of well dressed men who jeered on the competitors of the future “Ass Queen of Central America.”
Let go. See where life takes you. You’ll always be surprised.
This is the final part of a three part series. Read Part I here: Why Haven’t You Left Yet?.
Travelversary Part II: Why the Youth Can’t Travel
I’ve been living out of a backpack for three years. Sleeping on couches, having adventures, being unfortunately poor, and man-handling jet lag.
The following is Part II of a three part series on hitting the road! Read Part I here.
For many, the following story is pounded into the collective consciousness as the guide to a successful life:
Go to school, so you can find a job.
Get a job, so you can earn money.
Spend money, because it makes you happy.
Nowhere in that list is there a mention of “live your dream” and for those that aspire for something a little more risque than the 9 to 5 there doesn’t seem to be many options… In fact, as I get older, I have watched as many friends exchange their aspirations for financial responsibility. They’re drowning in debt instead of a sea of adventure. For many of the people I am closest to the above story has played out like this:
Go to university and become saddled with tens of thousands of dollars of debt and a degree in something that may or not be an actually enjoyable career. Get a job (if you can find one in this economy) and immediately realize how the working world isn’t particularly interested in accommodating your dreams. Sick of the 9 to 5 life either (a) go back to school and rack up more debt or (b) start buying things– cars, a house, etc. for entertainment purposes. Both options ensure that you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.
I met a young woman the other day who is paying $50,000 a year to attend photography school. I thought aloud, “for $50,000 we could send you around the world three times, for over a year, with the best camera to live the life of a National Geographic shooter. Why don’t you just do that?” She responded, “I wouldn’t have a degree, I couldn’t get a job.” I cried a bit on the inside, because my academic history is sordid to say the least, and I’m doing just fine. After four years of school this young woman is going to be $200,000 in debt, all for a piece of paper.
Essentially this is the basic reason why many young people who want to travel can’t travel: most are up to their eyeballs in debt because society tells them that having an education guarantees them a job, money, and ultimately happiness. Please don’t sacrifice your dream of travelling for a piece of paper. Don’t be an indentured servent to your creditors.
If this is your story and you’re stuck with an inordinate amount of debt the only solution for you is, you guessed it, to travel. In 1998 a law was passed that made it almost impossible for American students to discharge their loans by a bankruptcy. I’m not sure what the rules are for other countries, but essentially, those loans are with you for the rest of your life… Unless you move to a different country. You can wait several decades to pay off your debts to the man or simply expatriate and travel.
In my opinion if your choice is to go to college, don’t waste your hard earned money and time going to an expensive one. Give yourself enough room to ensure you have the flexibility to do as you please when you graduate.
Next up Part III: Let Go
Travelversary Part I: Why Haven’t You Left Yet?
I’ve been living out of a backpack for three years. Sleeping on couches, having adventures, being unfortunately poor, and man-handling jet lag.
The following is Part III of a three part series on hitting the road! Skip to Part II here.
I meet a lot of people who want to travel. They say to me jovially, “I’d love to do what you do Kosta!” and I ask, “why don’t you?” immediately they start rattling off excuses. The two major excuses:
- I can’t afford it.
- I’m scared (Biggest three fears: I’ll be lonely, I’ll get raped, what if I get lost).
The following bit of information is going to read like something straight out of the self help section. I apologize in advance.
For those who think they can’t afford leaving the comfort of home, I want to share with you a very short morbid story:
Once up on a time,
a woman was gently sleeping, safe and sound, in her puffy bed. Out of nowhere a meteor came blasting through her roof and ripped her in two.
-The End-
The odds of such a thing happening to you are pretty slim, but the reality is, your life is finite. It can be taken from you at any second, and so, every single moment of your life is a gift (as this blog tries very hard to illustrate). If any of those moments aren’t being lived to their fullest potential, you just may be doing yourself a tremendous disservice. You never know when it will be your turn to depart this planet.
And so, with all that in mind, how can you not afford to experience as many things as possible? I could get into the technical details of why travelling for a year is probably cheaper than the way you’re living right now (I travelled the globe last year and spent $6k) but I will spare you the details. Essentially: if you can hustle, you can travel mostly for free. It will not be very comfortable, but you’ll be having the adventure of your life.
Some things to consider:
- If you have a job now, you can probably get another.
- If you’re broke take a look at what you’re buying: short term consumer happiness can come at the price of living your dreams. You can buy that $30,000 car and spend the next five years paying it off, or you could buy a piece of junk and toss it the minute you have a few thousand dollars saved up for your travelling adventure.
- You can work under the table in plenty of places, and the cost of living can be substantially lower than what you’re paying now. For example: in Montreal Canada you can get by on $300 a month.
The other excuse I hear is “I’m scared.” I understand this completely. Three years ago you couldn’t pay me to get on an airplane. There was no doubt in my mind that the flying coke can would depressurize and I would be sucked from my chair into a jet engine to be shredded alive. I also used to be afraid of: elevators (metal death coffins), being away from my family (certainly mom and dad would come down with cancer and die the minute I left), being alone (how will I make friends?!), getting lost (this was before smart phones), and ninjas (okay not really.)
Some Solutions:
- Flying – I signed up to get a pilots license. After a tremendous amount of mental effort I got into a cessna, almost shat myself during take-off, and learned how to fly it. I also purchased aviation training manuals which taught me about how many fail safes are in an airplane (plenty). Every fear needs to be faced in order for it to be conquered.
- Elevators/being away from family – Start small. I moved onto my cousins couch on the 14th floor of her Boston apartment. Taking the stairs got tedious, the elevator just made sense. And because it was my cousin it was still family. She’s required to love me no matter what happens. When mom and dad didn’t come down with cancer I realized this was a silly fear. They aren’t going anywhere, it was time for me to go everywhere.
- No friends/being alone/getting lost – The easiest way to make friends is to get lost. Go a bit off the beaten path and when you’re good and lost wander up to the guy/girl of your choice and in whatever language you choose announce: “I am lost/Ich bin verloren/Je suis perdu.” As a general rule the more vulnerable you are the more likely people will become close to you quickly. People want to help. Travelling alone increases your vulnerability, you will always have friends.
A note for the ladies:
Please don’t be scared. I have had the honor of spending time with beautiful women who have gone to the worst corners of the world. I have asked specifically if they have ever had any bad experiences no one had any stories to share. I’m certain it happens, and of course great care should be taken, but don’t allow fear to be your guide.
To sum it all up:
Life is a gift, don’t ever procrastinate on living your dreams.
The only thing to fear is fear itself.
Next up Part II: Why the Youth Aren’t Travelling.
Only a moment in time
Montreal, Canada 2011
From my journal.
All night she cried. It had nothing to do with me. They were existential tears, they had no reason, and simultaneously, all the reason in the world. I’m good at solving problems, but in this kind of situation, problem solving is about as comforting as a calculator. So I held her and asked questions that really had no answers- in fact, the questions were the answers.
Feeling useless, I took a break from the tears and moved to the kitchen, where I opened my laptop, and then for no damn good reason other than carelessness I dropped it on the floor. The hard drive chirped and the screen zig zagged into an inter-cosmic acid trip. Everything was lost. I sighed, picked up a banana, and munched on it couch-side while staring at my toes.
I went to the bathroom, the toilet wouldn’t flush.
I moved into the dark bedroom and tucked myself into her arm. I tried to sleep while she sobbed on my shoulder.
Three hours later, 6:00 AM, three alarms went of simultaneously. I put on my backpack, hugged her goodbye, and trudged out into the snow, it was -20 degrees. A stranger from the Internet was to pick me up and drive me six hours south. An hour later, as my toes turned to ice, she finally appeared- chewing gum loudly, and looking generally disorganized she apologized for her tardiness. As I chattered in the front seat I explained, “It’s good to be out of that mess, it’s good to be on my way to somewhere new.” And in that instant a pothole appeared out of nowhere and as fast as you can say “kathump kathump” the drivers side wheels were flattened.
“I don’t have a credit card, I don’t have money. They’re all maxed out.” She admitted as we pulled over to the side of the freeway. And so I pulled out my card and handed it to the sour-faced tow truck driver who seemed to appear almost immediately. $127 is a lot of money for a man living off of $500 a month. …The poor giving to the poorer, how egalitarian.
While the car was dragged by winch onto the back of the tow truck the dark sky opened up and snow flakes started to pepper the windshield– like dandruff from God. My only thought was how the saying “when it rains it pours” applied to snow. “When it snows it snows” even that sounded defeatist.
From there it only got worse. Tires needed to be ordered in from another store which took three hours to arrive. My 42 year old driver needed to call her mom to get a credit card number to pay for the $500 worth of new wheels. When we finally hit the road a blizzard stormed on the highway while we inched along.
When I arrived home, I dropped all my bags and hurled myself upon my bed. I turned the electric blanked up to 9 and buried myself deep into the sheets.
And although I was tired, I couldn’t help but think: Today was a gift, and tomorrow will be a treasure.
Greece Riots 2010
On December 6, 2008 a Greek police officer fatally shot 15 year old Alexandros Grigoropoulos with no cause. The officer was convicted of homicide on October 10, 2010. His partner was convicted as an accomplice. The riots that happened in 2008 lasted for over three weeks. Today was the two year anniversary of the death of Alexandros.
Thousands of protestors took to the streets.
Many armed with gas masks.
Using hammers, large rocks, and clubs they beat at the marble curbs, statues, and walls of buildings in an effort to create stones to throw.
Thousands of stones.
And throw them they did…
At the police, at windows, at anything and everything.
And from there…
…it went to hell.
The Flowers of Hiroshima
You don’t need to be reminded of what happened when the Enola Gay opened it’s cargo bay doors and let fall The Bomb that hazy August morning in 1945.
But I will remind you, if for some reason you had forgotten: 70,000 men, women, and children were instantly vaporized. Square miles of sleepy buildings were ripped from foundations and exploded into matchsticks.
Which then ignited,
and burned,
for weeks.
Hundreds of thousands writhed as their cells were swiss-cheesed by nuclear radiation– they vomited their insides out until they died.
It is a horror story, a horror story that everyone knows. Why? Because it demonstrated that we, as humans can kill more people in one second than we had ever been able to kill before. In a few hours, we could kill the population of planet earth, without much of a problem.
But I’m not hear to tell you this story. I’m here to tell you about the week that followed, I’m here to tell you about the flowers:
“Over everything – up through the wreckage of the city, in gutters, along the river banks, tangled among tiles and tin roofing, climbing on charred tree trunks – was a blanket of fresh, vivid, lush, optimistic green; the verdancy rose even from the foundations of ruined houses. Weeds already hid the ashes, and wild flowers were in bloom among the city’s bones. The bomb had not only left the underground organs of plants intact; it had stimulated them. Everywhere were bluets and Spanish bayonets, goosefoot, morning glories and day lilies, the hairy-fruited bean, purslane and clotbur and sesame and panic grass and feverfew. Especially in a circle at the centre, sickle senna grew in extraordinary regeneration, not only standing among the charred remnants of the same plant but pushing up in new places, among bricks and through cracks in the asphalt. It actually seemed as if a load of sickle-senna seed had been dropped along with the bomb.” — Excerpt from “Hiroshima” by John Hersey
I want to remind you, that with every bit of bad news, comes the good news. I want to remind you, that no matter how bad things may seem, it gets better. I want to remind you, that you do not need to fear your own mortality– because even after the treachery of Hiroshima– there will always be flowers.
Adventure
Edinburgh, Scotland, 2009
“Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it.
Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.”
-Helen Keller
October 2009
“YOU REMEMBERED TO BRING YOUR PASSPORT?” they asked as they stuffed us into the idling bus. To where we were headed, no one knew.
Most thought we were going to Poland, after all it was the closest country to Berlin. I hoped we were going to the Czech Republic, and was taking bets. I curled up in my chair and tried to sleep, only to be awoken an hour later as the bus pulled off onto a dirt road. A man ducked into the bus and announced in a thick German accent: “You will now need to put on life vests. We will go down the river.” I asked, “We’re kayaking to Prague?” But my voice was lost in the zipping noise of heavy jackets being put on. It was 50 degrees out.
Some of us were more skilled at navigating our yellow canoes than others.
…And then it appeared: The Schloss Tornow castle. Through chattering teeth I thought to myself: “It better have internet access.”
It didn’t. It had a sauna in the basement, tens of bedrooms, a magnificent fireplace that crackled day and night, a piano room, ball rooms, living rooms, room rooms, staircases, and secrets– like the freshly killed and skinned boar we found in the kitchen..
Lunch was being served, and while our guides laughed about how they managed to trick everyone into packing their passports, I went exploring, and picked a room on the top floor.
It was Halloween and although most of the group had been tasked with a big project, a few of us dressed up as Americans (scary), and went out trick or treating. We soon learned, as we knocked on the doors of the seven houses in the square mile surrounding the castle, that Germans adhere to the idea that Halloween is only for the kinder. Arguing that I am 12 years old at heart didn’t get me very far. A man with a junk heap in his backyard gave us four shots of jägermeister, a kind woman gave us each a bottle of beer. We needed it. It was cold.
The others were hard at work creating a face made out of wood. It was destined to be burned to the ground in a ceremony. They had commandeered a tractor and were busy hauling wood cleared from the forest. They brought in load after load, tools were distributed, and they got down to business creating a two-story tall wooden face
Ernst the project leader approached me as the others built, “Kosta, you must make the fire! The eyes, they must glow like a beast. It is very important!” I asked for clarification, and instead of explaining further he pulled out a bag of red powder “Dragon’s Breath” (essentially ground up road flares). The pyro in me twitched with excitement. I asked if he had any gun powder, or explosives, for added effect. “I will make a call,” he said.
Soon I found myself in the backseat of a beat up Volvo driving to the home of a hunter named Paul. He looked me up and down and unceremoniously handed five vials of black powder to me. “You must be careful.” He warned. I could barely blow up a mailbox with the miniscule amount, I don’t know what he was worried about.
The team was frantically trying to put the face onto its support structure. Hans, a severely ADHD wonder, was teetering on a ladder trying to hacksaw through a branch that was in the way. Everyone shouted their opinion on how he should be doing things.
After a few hours of experimentation we decided to fill aluminum pouches with dragons breath, gunpowder for sparkle, and use bomb fuse. They pyrotechnics were wrapped up in bailing wire and tied to the face in the exact location where the mouth and eyes were to be. We dipped them in kerosene to make sure they would catch fire. My contribution was done, and the others were busy writing a note and affixing it to the face. We were to burn our fears, our insecurities, and our egos. The face was not a stranger– it was our own.
I was uncertain whether our pyrotechnics would light. We hadn’t made done any tests—we simply assumed they would work. I affixed a torch to the end of a long stick and leaned it towards our creation. The lips crackled to life, and the eyes soon followed. Everyone cheered.
We huddled together in the bitter cold and watched as our hard work, our fears, and our egos turned to smoke and drifted into the night sky. The moon hung full, watching over us. All was perfect, as it always is, and always will be.
–fin–
Palomar 5 was a “social-experiment” designed to understand how groups can innovate in unique environments. 30 participants from around the world came to Berlin Germany for six weeks in the fall of 2009. The event described was part of the Palomar 5 experience.
Gaining perspective
Germany, 2009
Get lost,
so you can take some time,
and find yourself.
Germany, 2009
Dumpster Doven
Scotland, 2009
We were sick of the pasta mornings, middays, and evenings—
as we passed by it called to us,
it’s mouth beckoning “climb in”,
so we could taste each other.
Pigeons and doves who had been standing guard scatter walked away,
as it pursed its lips, and smiled wide,
revealing its treasures.
We dove inside,
and stuffed our pockets with new flavors,
our faces gaunt and smiling.
We threw some to the birds,
inviting them back to their post.
And while they neck-walked to us,
the giving mouth closed.
THE GREAT DISCONNECT
Simi Valley, California, 2010
We use the same tools and social networks, fitting into the same templates, designed by companies to maximize page views and profits (with some notable exceptions like Craigslist).”
PROJECTORS AIMED AT STADIUM SIZED BALLOONS THAT FLOATED IN THE SKY. ON THEM A MOVIE DEPICTED SOCIAL INTERACTION AS THEY WERE BEFORE THE INTERNET. A DISEMBODIED VOICE ECHOED THROUGH CITIES AND EXPLAINED HOW PEOPLE USED TO SHARE WITH ONE ANOTHER.
“Most online experiences are made, like fast food, to be cheap, easy, and addictive: appealing to our hunger for connection but rarely serving up nourishment. Shrink-wrapped junk food experiences are handed to us for free by social media companies, and we swallow them up eagerly, like kids given buckets of candy with ads on all the wrappers.
These experiences are sensitive neither to individual humans nor to the human collective, but only to page views and growth (in a corporate, not personal sense).”
AT FIRST PEOPLE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO IN THE PHYSICAL PRESENCE OF EACH OTHER. ONLINE THERE WAS A RATIONAL TO CONVERSATION– A SCRIPTED COMMUNICATION THAT MOST FELT AT EASE PRACTICING. BUT KEEPING ANOTHER’S GAZE , AND SAYING THINGS WITH MEANING, THAT WAS DIFFICULT.
“It is fitting that these companies call their customers “users”.
As we fill in the same boxes, answer the same questions, and express ourselves in the same generic ways, we might think this convergence of identity is a good thing, leading to some kind of global unity or mass empathy. But true empathy comes not from forcing people all to be the same, but from helping people to appreciate their differences.
Our online tools do a great job at breadth (hundreds of friends, thousands of tweets), but a bad job at depth. We live increasingly superficial lives, reducing our relationships to caricatures and our personalities to billboards, as we speed along at 1,000 miles an hour.”
THEY SOON REALIZED THAT THEY HAD FORGOTTEN THAT THEY WERE, IN FACT, QUITE DIFFERENT. THIS WAS COMPLEX TO COMPREHEND, FOR ONLINE– THEY ALL SEEMED THE SAME.
“We trade self-reflection for busyness, gorging ourselves on it and drowning in it, without recognizing the violence of that busyness, which we perpetrate against ourselves and at our peril.
For the last 100 years—from letters, to phones, to faxes, to emails, to chats, to texts, to tweets—communication has been getting shorter and faster, but we are approaching a terminal velocity.”
AND THE REALIZATIONS ABOUT EACH OTHER AND THEMSELVES WENT ON FOR A GOOD LONG TIME. PEOPLE NEWLY REACQUAINTED WITH CONCEPTS LIKE CANDOR, TACTILITY, AND LAUGHTER EXPLORED THE DEPTHS OF ONE ANOTHER. FOR A BRIEF MOMENT THEY BECAME VULNERABLE.
“I doubt there is a shorter means of communication than the tweet, unless we start to make monosyllabic grunts at each other or communicate silently, brain to brain. Brief gestures of communication can be beautiful, but can also be shallow. So what will happen next? Will we stop at the tweet, or will we bounce back in the other direction, suddenly craving more depth? I’d bet on the latter.
But even if we start to crave more depth, we cannot run away to a more primitive time.
The momentum of technological growth is too strong for us to prevent it from defining our future. Like it or not, our future world will largely be digital.”
MOST WERE STUNNED TO FIND THEY HAD THE CAPACITY TO SHARE A DEEP AND MEANINGFUL CONNECTION. FOR MONTHS THEREAFTER MILLIONS TRIED, AND FAILED, TO DESCRIBE THE EXPERIENCE IN 140 CHARACTERS OR LESS.
“Instead of fleeing to the forest, we must find the humanity in the machine and learn to love it. If we decide the humanity does not yet exist there in the ways we expect, then we must create it.” -Jonathan Harris
A Tribute to Doug Cloney
Doug Cloney died yesterday. His things were gathered up, piled into milk crates, and put out to the curb. You’d think that would be the end of it. You’d think a nobody like Doug Cloney, a schizophrenic living in a group home, surviving off of social security and welfare, prone to violent outbursts, medicated into remission—you’d think that his passing would be hardly noticed.
But stacked milk cartons, full of an assortment of collected goodies—it’s hard to just pass that by, and to the darling girls who lived a few houses down— well curiosity called.
As they rifled through Doug’s keepsakes they memorialized his life, this was the unabridged obituary of Doug. A photo of the Manhattan skyline with a screaming newspaper clipping taped to it—“UNION WORKERS DEMANDING MORE MONEY!” he had written on the article: “Cheapos, you just want to get in on the action.” Stacks of pictures, articles, and drawings of his favorite people: the pope, princess Diana, and Brittney spears.
As the girls explored a box fell to the ground and newspaper clippings fluttered into the street—each article had taped to it the bold date from the front page of the newspaper. Doug had taped the labels from his prescription bottles on the headlines of clippings that seemed threatening, “DEATH OF DIANA, PRINCESS OF WALES”– Novo-Olanzapine “BRITTNEY LOSES IT” — Lorazapan.
He wrote poems:
The monkey fashioned for himself a stylish stool
Led a procession of several scores of mules,
Saying, “In this land that is speckled with trees
With the great eagle I soar free.
There is one watering hole, one sky.
The day is done; the top banana is I”.
Books for children and adults, a ceramic lumberjack, plastic dinosaurs—these were Doug’s things, the things that were dear to him.
As the girls filled their arms with copies of “Curious George” (soon to become a gift for a nephew), the ceramic lumberjack (that now rests on the mantle), and a nice shelf (currently holding coffee cups in the kitchen)—they noticed that Doug didn’t have any letters from anyone else. In all of these things—nobody had written him anything worth keeping, or simply, nobody thought him worth writing to.
“Look at this,” one of the girls announced. She palmed a small envelope that was taped to the underside of the ceramic lumberjack with the words “To Doug” written on the outside. The card was embossed with silver balloons on the front. The words inside, written quickly in a light blue gel pen, read: “Happy Birthday Doug. Love, Heather”
It seemed appropriate.
Sleep tight.
I sit stationed at the front desk, writing e-mails and handling my business. Outside they wander from city sidewalk to mailbox. They lean against windows, spit, sputter, and laugh. They aren’t afraid to make eye contact—because most aren’t willing to meet their gaze. They are the forgotten, the ugly, the sleepless.
They set up camps in doorways, one is dozing off right now—he apologized as I opened the front door, “Sir you can stay, but I don’t want to wake you up when I leave.” As the glass door whined shut he muttered, “I haven’t slept a whole night in two years, another night won’t matter.”
He left room, he sleeps sideways tonight.
Underneath a blue sleeping bag his body rises and falls. Whisps of bright gray hair peek out from a red cap, his battered foam mat curls up around him—holding him tight.
The theatre across the streets empties quickly and soon the night is filled with those who can afford the luxury of tickets. While the revelers fill the streets, his body rises and falls with the same cadence, he is indifferent to the noise.
Two young men, they sneak up to the sleeping man, and I watched in horror as they kicked him in the legs as hard as they could. They roar with laughter and run like cowards. The old man struggles up yelling and shaking; spitting and cursing.
Ripping through the haze of sleep, he screams: “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT, WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT YOU MOTHER FUCKERS?” On the curb he stands drooping as they laugh at him from across the street. They don’t know why they did it, they don’t have a clue. And how could they, how many of you have slept on a sidewalk?
I run to the kitchen and grab an orange, I lean out the front door, and I hand it to him as he settles back into bed. “Have it for breakfast, whenever you wake up” I say.
And with sad eyes he looks at me while cradling the fruit in his cracked hands, “I haven’t slept a whole night in two years.”
The Night Before
Last night there was this girl—who reminded me of the night before.
She smiled at my jokes,
enjoyed my self-deprecation,
and touched my arm to console when I told her:
“I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I’m looking for something.”
This heart of mine, I can’t even keep it tucked into a sleeve.
I hand it out on business cards to all I meet.
But this one was blonde, and yesterdays was brunette.
The one on Wednesday had big aspirations,
while Tuesday had a super-human intellect.
Monday had feet that smelled,
so we took a bath together.
Sunday only wanted to dance,
So she taught me how to tango.
“We all want the same thing.” I said, as we
sprawled across the bed/
lathered up/
danced tightly.
My hands caressed spines,
and kneeded collar bones.
“We want to be adored, to feel special—if only for a brief moment.”
Her eyes
looked away from mine/
glazed over/
closed.
My thumb rested on a racing pulse,
while the tips of my fingers weaved whisper-fine neck hair.
“And I can do that for you; if only for this brief moment.” I said;
as if to declare something.
But, all the while I knew.
When tomorrow came, when I saw her again,
Her glossy eyes, shivering spine, and polished neck—
None of it would remember me.
So I’ll do what I always do when reminded of the girl from the night before.
I’ll start over again.
Whom
All day I push through people, to touch, to talk, to share. Eyes locked, peering inside of each human in front of me I ask the same question:
Who are you?
Who are you?
Who are you?
But no matter how firm the handshake, how long the hug, the length of a conversation—I never come to a full understanding of
who
are
you.
We travel alone inside our skin; these billowing bags filled with holes.
I open my mouth to share
and as the words are built by slimy parts,
my ears close.
My thin hands reach out to touch your essence—
only to fall short upon your soft skin,
the bunker between us.
From within my fleshy bubble,
I peer out at you and wonder what it means,
to be you.
I watch each of you do the same simple things,
in so many different ways.
The silent breathing,
the click and whirr breathing.
The pulse on your neck—
fast then slow,
thick then thin.
Your feelings buried within your wrinkled brow,
your nose,
your cheeks…
They are the only clues I have to unraveling
who are you.
Do you wonder, too?
How To Be a Man
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man my son!
—Rudyard Kipling
Word play, like foreplay
We came here, amongst the empty smoke stacks, re-purposed rooms, and the broken skylights to find ourselves.
The brick buildings, crimson and patient.
We make the choices not because they are easy, but because they are hard. We take up the slack of life in the form of the infinite challenges that we face each day. It’s never enough to look in the mirror each morning and say “This is all there is.” It’s the boldest lie, the greatest distortion, an incredible oversight.
The question remains, while the steam floats from the shower, the bags under our eyes billowing, the toothbrush in hand: “This is all there is?” And then—you’ve done it, you taken the first step, now take the next:
Roll your eyes to the back of your head, as if to die. Throw your head to the ceiling, as if to sing. And jump as high as you can, as if to fly. And for that small moment, while you’re suspended in space and time, drop whole words and letters and leave yourself with something simpler: “Here! all this!” and open your eyes again to look at the world for the gift that it is.
Words From a Friend
Of all the people you will know in a lifetime,
You are the only one you will never leave nor lose.
To the question of your life,
you are the only answer.
To the problems of your life,
You are the only solution.
Look to yourself.
The Future
In the future, after a tremendous effort to save the world from our mistakes, there will be sustainability. And we’ll all be quite bored by the whole idea. I imagine the world will be a lot like Stockholm Sweden is now—entirely too perfect, yet filled with many who still manage to complain about something.
When I wander around that city I have an unsettling urge to start a riot. There are certainly complexities, but the place rings with an overture of perfection , and soon this earth will be too perfect as well. And when it does, we’ll all wonder, “Where’s the suffering, where’s the new issue to tackle? Where’s the next big project?”
So we’ll do something amazing, something incredible… something that changes everything. It will start as it has already, a minute curiosity: the itch to explore the universe. We’ll begin simply, with a weekend to mars, a day trip to the moon. And then someone like Richard Branson or the modern day Christopher Columbus will say “forget this planet; there’s a whole universe out there.”
And before you can recite the first four digits of the speed of light (2997) you’ll be bragging to your friends about how you scored a cheap space-flight to somewhere into the unknown. You’re off to start a new life—you adventurous spirit!
With that new pursuit we’ll all be on our way– to committing a whole new set of mistakes that will inevitably lead to the potential destruction of the universe. But I’m sure we’ll solve those problems as well—we’re good at that kind of thing.
Ideas
There’s the sizzle of a bacon hitting a hot frying pan, a single thought. And as it’s edges curl inward, while the fat runs, she decides– that it wasn’t such a good thought. And the frying pan is emptied, and a new thought is cracked open, to be pondered and scrambled. As it bubbles and pops, turns from opaque to clear, and steams into finality, the mission is understood: Cereal would be better.
…And as the spoon clinks against her teeth she wonders if pancakes would have been the superior choice.
I Am Not a Donut
Stockholm, Sweden
I’m in Berlin, I left from NYC. I’m living in a warehouse with an innovation group called “Palomar 5.“ It’s fancy shmancy. Summary in a sentence: 30 brilliant weirdos from all over the world cohabitate and come up with big ideas, small ideas, and all sorts of things in between.
In entirely different news: It has been brought to my attention that my love letters aren’t just loving, but also worthy of publication.
“Hi Kosta, I did something a little bad… I entered one of those lovely e-mails you sent me in a writing letter contest, more specifically, a love-letter writing contest. It was so sweet I simply couldn’t resist when I heard about the contest. Well, it got chosen to be published for a book (a compilation of love-letters called Mille mots d’amour) that will sold for a charity called Les Impatients, an organization benefiting people who suffer from mental health problems (an issue that i believe you sympathize with?!). you can read more about them here and here.”
Does this mean that my love cures mental illness, or am I overstepping the lines of spin? …I’ll talk to my lawyers.
We got so high
We came to conquer,
The towers built by cranes.
We asked directions from the locals,
Who wearily pointed us underground.
And there we waited.
From 70 stories we surveyed the night sky.
We thought about spitting, we thought about throwing pennies,
we jumped instead.
To sleep
I crawled under the piano, the disassembled cushions from various couches supporting my thin body. Around me, like cut down soldiers, the sleeping men littered the room. An hour earlier we were howling—the floor our drum, a guitar, the piano: our voices filling the space with our inner torments, our love, and our mysteries.
We sang for the women who never loved us, we sang for our mothers, we sang for our futures. Our voices were loud, strong, and bold; while our hearts leaked torment into the choruses. What we believed was buried deep in our cores—it showed itself. It changed our voices. It made us men.
They stunk of wine, whiskey, and beer and settled quickly. The piano loomed above me—a black hole. I thought of home, my bed, my dog. It’s been a year. Home used to be hours away, now its days. For weeks I’ve wiped the sleep from my eyes only to wonder where they will close again.
In Aberdeen it was the roof of a man whose hair would fall out, grow back, and then fall again—for no good reason.
London, the Goldman Sachs banker; In Amsterdam, the two who had infinite freedom.
Stockholm, the couple who made their own jackets, the beautiful German girl who found me a last minute place in a college dorm party room, the hostel on a boat that rocked me to sleep, and now….
And now my body settled into the cushions beneath the piano of an opera singer and his friends after a night of joy and sorrow.
Hacking At Random 2009 Presentation
(Download Presentation) | (Eyeborg Project)
This was a presentation given to some serious hackers at the “Hacking At Random 2009” conference. What is more nerve wracking than giving a presentation to a couple hundred people? Watching the video of yourself giving a presentation to a couple of hundred people. If only they had a mic out for the audience, than you could hear what kind of a stand up comic I’m turning out to be. eeeep!
