Kosta goes gliding, doesn’t die.
One mile of steel string is connected to a small clip on the bottom of the glider. It was explained to me: “Before they invented this brand of disconnect a lot of planes were going up, and slamming right back down into the ground. It was a bit of an issue.”
I took a deep breath and muttered, “Sounds like progress.”
A short man next to the plane waved his arms in a circular fashion. I made awkward faces at him. He wasn’t paying attention to me. The cable slowly slithered through the grass until it was taught.
And for a moment everything stopped.
I gripped the side of the plane,
checked the straps of my parachute,
and tried not to scream.
The ground rumbled.
The wind speed indicator climbed, the G-meter read a mere 2. My face contorted in all sorts of weird ways and I danced in my chair, trying to run– to where, hell if I know.
The rumble stopped as we lifted off, the wind made a hollow noise.
The nose pitches up to 45 degrees and we climb, climb, climb.
I’m staring at heaven, wondering if this is my express ticket there.
A loud “crack” resonates, we climb for a moment more, decelerate, and then start to fall back to earth.
The pilot pitches the plane to the right,
the ground comes rushing towards us.
I cover my eyes and start a prayer,
“To whom it may concern.”
He levels out, the altimeter beeps steadily, the slight rushing noise of wind flowing by fills the cockpit.
The disembodied voice of the pilot behind me spoke:
“See, you survived.”
I uncover my eyes and look around, “I bet that was hilarious, did you watch me try to rip myself out of my chair?”
“Yeah, it’s part of the reason I take people up. Just to watch them panic.”
“I will crash this plane right now!”
I grabbed the stick and pulled it to the right a tiny bit. I practically pissed myself when I felt the result.
“Ya. I can’t give you CPR from back here.”
I put my hands in my pockets.
Part V: Welcome Home
The following is Part V of V. Click for the beginning.
Alice pelted Martin with questions about the Scottish highlands and took notes while I explored his apartment. She had fallen in love with navigating, spending hours trying to find the optimum route to get us where we were going while green sheep-laden farmlands whizzed by. Martin had upside-down tomato plants hanging from ropes in his bedroom window. Electronics littered every surface of his room. His four other roommates fluttered about—all of them PhD students of some sort, all of them espousing some rhetoric along the lines of, “that idea is absurd, you are incompetent” in eloquent english accents.
While we prepared the couch in Martins kitchen for sleeping, Aiden, the wispy haired precocious roommate who knew too much about too many things, tried to stab a mouse who had taken refuge behind the microwave. “Oh fuck off bugger. I will get my bow and arrow and send you off to your maker.” He jabbed at something with a small knife. “Piece of shite.”
Aiden had been introduced to us as “the guy who can kill things.” He balked at the introduction, “That’s hardly true.” Martin went on to explain: “Aiden, all your hobbies involve ways to kill things. You have swords, a bow and arrow, a mastery of kung fu, and you’ve fired every gun the English army has—even though you never served.” Aiden chimed in “I also parked tanks for them, but let’s keep that between us.”
Aiden scampered off to procure a better killing implement and Alice and I attempted to fit us both on a couch designed for one. Tomorrow was a big day, tomorrow was Oban—gateway to the Scottish isles.
***
We arrived at 10 PM after a full day of driving. A text message from a complete stranger instructed: “Yes u can stay. Have 4 french folk tonite but theres space no problem. Bring sleeping bags beer and food. Ask anyone where “leo the lookout ganavan” is. Everyone knows me. I’ll be home bout 5pm.”
We had found Leo on couchsurfing.com a website that connects travelers with people who have a couch they can borrow—as you can imagine, it’s not for those with trust issues. Alice and I wandered around the dock of Oban looking for people who might know Leo. A fisherman and his son—both with thick Scottish accents offered to help us. “Follow my truck and I’ll show you the way. It’s not too far from here. Leo’s a good man.” I explained that I stall frequently, and it’s best we go slow.
As the road turned from asphalt to dirt, the lights from the city faded, and soon we were making our way up a mountain with only the tail lights of a Ford to lead us. “He’s going to kill us, you’re driving us to our death. You know that right, we’re going to die.” Alice fidgeted in her seat. I drove on and tried to not stall the straining car.
“Welcome! How do you take your tea? Have a beer?” Leo exclaimed as he opened the front door of his two story mountain top shack. Four French couchsurfers, still in their jackets, sat in the small living room and looked around sheepishly. Our shoes were soaked from a ten minute hike up the mountain. A stove burned loudly, fed from vegetable oil procured from the deep fryers of restaurants. One of Leo’s big accomplishments. Electronics and mechanical parts littered the shelves—I was beginning to wonder why the places I found myself staying at seemed to be the homes of hackers. Leo was a repairman, known all over Oban as the guy to call when you were having computer problems.
“Lets go see where you’re sleeping.” He said to me with a smile, as if he wasn’t sure either. “Sure.” I said.
Leo opened the door to the camper behind his small house and we walked into the cramped space. The place had probably been his lab a few years ago. Old computers, monitors, batteries, motherboards, dangled from shelves and littered the floor. A small bed in the rear of the camper was covered in bare cushions. “Sorry there are no sheets, I hope you brought sleeping bags.” Of course we had none. Leo continued, “The last couchsurfer bled all over them, I had to burn em’.” During the seriously awkward pause that ensued I wondered if he burned the couchsurfer as well. He continued: “It was her time of the month, she ruined the sheets.”
Thank god, never before had the idea of menstruation put me at such ease.
“I’m going to bed now, come brush your teeth—tomorrow we’ll get up early and figure out where you’re going from here.”
Alice laughed as she stepped inside the dimly lit camper, “More electronics…” and began unpacking her things in the camper. She didn’t mind the mess at all. In fact it was quite obvious that I was more uncomfortable with the disarray and lack of vacuuming than she was. She brushed her hair, I made the bed with some sheets I found. The clouds opened up engulfing us in the ting tinging sound of raindrops on the camper roof—the loveliest noise to fall asleep to.
***
The French travelers were already packed and mulling about the front lawn with their packs. Leo sipped on a warm cup of coffee. He managed maps and pointed out what was where. “Leo, what is this shack you live in? Did you build it yourself?” His home was perched on top of a hill and we were surrounded by an amazing panoramic view. Two stories, the first floor had a micro kitchen and a bathroom where you practically had to be in the shower to take a piss. The second floor was accessed by a ladder, it had windows that allowed for a panoramic 365 degree view. Water on one side, dense greenery on the other.
“It’s an old bunker built during WWI. I rent it for dirt cheap. Pretty view eh?” I pointed to a rusty bathtub seated twenty feet from his house. “Do you take baths in that?”
“Sure do. It’s the most beautiful bath in the world.” It was.
Alice and I got in our car and went on our way. With the windows down and the morning sun drying up the wet asphalts we drove. It was quite a trip: A random stranger, a five day trip extended to eight, and the thrill that comes with taking a big risk and having it pay off. It was an adventure not soon to be forgotten– and certain to be continued.
–Fin–
Part IV: Creamfields and the Tasting of Dan Flavin
The following is Part IV of V. Click for the beginning.
We had finally found each other in a London McDonalds. I had been chugging McNuggets and desperately trying to check my e-mail when she walked in with a big smile on her lovely Czech face. I resisted the urge to feel her up as we exchanged hugs. I appreciated the irony that kind of behavior would elicit though—girl travels thousands of miles for an absurd blind date, guy turns out to be a creeper, she’s stuck with him for five days. I imagine it can’t really get much worse than that.
We had disembarked and were on our way to the Creamfields festival. “I’m scared for my life. You can’t tell how far you are to the left. I don’t feel comfortable in cars.” she said in her New York accent as I slowly merged onto the highway.
Apparently Alice’s brother is the kind of driving maniac who, when frustrated by others on the road, resorts to cussing and threatening other drivers with the aluminum baseball bat he keeps under his seat. Consequently any criticism of his driving ability from his passengers results in a similar reaction.
Alice had been slow to voice her displeasure with my terrible driving, wary that I may brandish a baseball bat at her if she wasn’t careful.
“Listen, if I’m driving too close to the left—just yell at me, or scream depending on the severity of the situation. Don’t worry—well okay, worry, but just let me know.”
She yelled “RIGHT!” and I dodged a truck. It was working brilliantly already.
We drove for close to eight hours towards Daresbury England where partiers from all over Europe were assembling to take part in the drug induced mind fuck that was the Creamfields festival. Upon arrival we were both a bit anxious—it was 9 PM, we were supposed to be there at 2—we had been in what seemed to be a perpetual state of being lost.
Piles of beer cans littered the entrance. Dealers selling everything you could imagine muttered under their breath “pills, coke, dust” as we walked by. Scattered glow sticks illuminated the trampled grass, revelers stumbled about, the bass thumped, and lights moved neurotically in giant tents.
I imagined this to be what mainstream anarchism might look like. The commercial equivalent to a lawless society—one where the minute the Jägermeister booth ran dry people started rioting. As I donned my blinky bicycle/raver lights, she put on her dance shoes, and hand in hand we entered the festival for an evening that would probably be hard to remember for all the wrong reasons.
***
I woke up freezing cold in the back seat of our rental car. Alice was drooling in the passenger seat, her hair wild. The clouded silhouette of the sun was high in sky, small rain drops coagulated and dripped down the windshield. We were both covered in mud, my hip felt like it was dislocated, and it was apparent that at least one glowstick had exploded on us. My bike lights scattered over the car blinked slowly, as if they were exhausted.
We showered in the sink of a local subway shop. “I don’t really want to go back to London.” I said as my hair dripped. “Let’s go to Scotland then. Do you know anyone there?” She mumbled through the toothpaste in her mouth.
I did. Martin.
After I gave my talk on the Eyeborg Project an inquisitive gentlemen named Martin approached me. He pulled out of his cargo pants pocket a match-box sized box. “This is an IMU I made; I think I can help you build your eye.”
An IMU or “Inertial Measurement Unit” is a device used in rockets and airplanes to determine position in 3D space. It’s like a mechanical inner ear—if you didn’t have fluid sloshing around in your ears you wouldn’t know which way was up and you’d be falling all over yourself. He explained: “I want to build something that lives outside of the university. I like your eye project.”
He had given me his phone number, and in Amsterdam we had even gone out for tea to discuss what his contribution to the Eyeborg Project could be. Over a black tea with milk and two sugars I inquired “So would you mind if I came and crashed on your couch for a couple of weeks so we could work on the project together?” I don’t think he knew how quickly I would be abusing the privilege.
After a few phone calls we were on our way into the rainy afternoon. Alice and I talked about our lives—our pasts, our dreams for the future, and practiced making animal noises. Bahhhh. The rain in Scotland was constant. It makes sense—all those lush green hills seen on postcards need to get watered somehow. We somehow made our way to the topic of museums, and I told the story of my experience of the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam.
“It was pretty uneventful. I paid 12 Euros to get in with the sole intention of licking a Van Gogh painting, it was supposed to be a fun visit.”
“You wanted to lick a Van Gogh? That makes no sense whatsoever.”
“Shush. I doubt anybody has experienced what a Van Gogh tastes like. We’re all talking about his brilliant use of color and blah blah blah—but maybe there’s a whole new flavor dimension to his work that is begging to be experienced. Don’t you ever wonder what’s on the back of paintings? It’s like that.” I replied.
Unfortunately (or fortunately) all the Van Gogh’s were covered in glass. Undeterred I slipped down to the Avant Garde exhibition in the basement on the hunt for something more accessible, more palatable. Jean Tinguely was no good—the piece was a rusting hulk and I hadn’t had a tetanus shot in awhile. The Warhol was lovely but the security guard was practically sitting on it. And then I spied the Dan Flavin—a little fluorescent number in the corner.
Dan was a minimalist artist who created sculptural objects using off the shelf fluorescent lighting. I could relate—back in the day, to find an old fluorescent tube was akin to finding entertainment gold. Hurl one through the air, in a spear like fashion, and it would disintegrate into a pile of powder and glass with a loud pop. I felt like zeus wielding lightning bolts. The Flavin needed to be tasted.
When the security guard wasn’t paying attention I stuck out my tongue and leaned into the fluorescent tubes as if to closely inspect the fixtures glossy white finish. I had second thoughts as I came in for a landing, electrocution wasn’t particularly exciting, can you imagine the newspaper headlines “Man With Art Fetish Engages High Voltage Piece. Dies.” By the time my tongue touched down I had come to terms with my own mortality.
The finish was smooth, it tasted a bit like wax paper. It was a touch warmer than body temperature. The painted metal surface vibrated gently against my tongue.
I continued to Alice, “It was no Van Gogh, but truly a lovely experience.”
“RIGHT!!!” Alice screamed, and I narrowly avoided careening off a cliff.
Part III: Deep Throat
The following is Part III of V. Click for the beginning.
Lennert the producer indulged us as Rob sucked down a black coffee. I begged the waitress to let me sleep in the kitchen, preferably inside/on top of/ near the stove because it was damn cold. 8 AM is an absurd time to be awake. “It took a long time to find you guys. I’ve been stalking you for months.” Lennert stated shyly. “When we heard you were coming to Amsterdam we had to have you on the show.” I wondered how to respond to someone who admits to stalking you. I guess I was flattered. My eyelids were no longer obeying orders- but- this was Dutch television, and it was going to be awesome.
Dutch TV is not for the faint of heart. Famously in 2008 government run television channel number 3 screened the movie “Deep Throat.” A scandalous porno made in 1972 which was banned in 22 U.S. state. The plot is simple enough: a woman who can’t achieve orgasm goes to the doctor. Diagnosis? Her clitoris is at the back of her throat, she’s been doing it all wrong. The Dutch television broadcast caused a tiny stir, but not much: “Most politicians would rather be seen dead than censor the media.” Suck on that!
I didn’t know about the Dutch and their deep-throating past, so I was mildly surprised when the host asked Rob to take his eye out. As the cameras rolled Robs eyelid deflated, his fleshy eye socket revealed itself, and a metal peg that’s drilled into the back of his eye socket wobbled around in sync with his other eye. The live audience of 16 to 18 year olds writhed in disgust and the slopping sound of vomit hitting concrete quietly echoed through the studio. Someone lost their lunch, we were a Dutch television success!
The studio was kind enough to put us up in a hotel for a few nights in central Amsterdam for our time. Beautiful canals gave the city a Venetian feel, bikes littered the streets, and tall blonde haired and blue eyed people went about their business. A snaggle toothed crack-head offered me a bike for 50 Euros. I negotiated expertly: “It’s covered in duct tape, the handle bars are loose, and the back wheel has zero tread. I’ll probably spend a fortune on medical bills after the frame disintegrates from beneath me and I break my face. I’ll dump it into a canal for you and save you the pending lawsuit. Eight Euros is what this will fetch in scrap, I’ll give you that.” He didn’t fuss too much, and I got a sweet bike.
In a city where there are more bikes than people the canals are often dredged to pull all the hastily dumped stolen bikes from the depths. Piles of rusting bike carcasses drip quietly on the shore as the dredge makes its rounds. Lately, the rowdier locals have taken to tipping miniature cars into the murky waters. I’m waiting for them to start tipping houses into the canal. It’s a decent challenge.
As I peddled through the city into the night I found myself in the Red light district completely engulfed by tourists who came from all over the world to get high, wander, and stare at the women who stood in the dimly lit windows of small bedrooms. The girls beckoned to anyone who would give them a peek, pimps glared from corners while most men tried to avoid eye contact at all cost.
I however am not most men, and I happily pretended that I was at the zoo– making faces at the women in their glass enclosures, trying to tempt them out in the street. They weren’t having any of it…
A man wandered up to a window and mouthed “can I cover you in mayonnaise?” I thought it was fitting, the Dutch love their mayonnaise.
Part II: Hacking at Random
The following is Part II of V. Click for the beginning.
Off again. After four months in Montreal it was time to up the ante. With a one way ticket to Amsterdam, full knowledge of a terrible exchange rate (1.7 CAD = 1 EUR), and as few possessions as possible I was about to embark on a grand unplanned European adventure of a life time. First stop: hacking camp.
Nerds are amazing. I don’t know how many of you were the jerks who picked on us in high school—but let me tell you, the older I get, the more “vogue” it becomes to be a nerd. Travis Eden, who hit his high school popularity peak at my expense is still living with mom and pursuing a thrilling career in the concrete pumping industry. WHO’S COOL NOW TRAVIS!? PS: I made-out with your ex-girlfriend, yeah the one who dumped you.
The beautiful girls seem to be intrigued by a man who’s passionate about something, and we nerds are good at that. A past girlfriend of mine considered the simple act of talking about nerdy things foreplay. String a few sentences about particle accelerators, oscilloscopes, fluid dynamics, and space travel (in no particular order) “I voltage regulated a mosfet and impedance matched an inertial black hole while I was touring the large hadron collider babe.”
…and she was taking off her clothes. Nerds are hip.
The Dutch put together a hacker camp every four years. The brilliant minds from the hacker community bring out their finest laptops in the middle of the Dutch forest for a high tech camp out. I had been asked to appear to make my own contribution: a technical talk on the Eyeborg Project.
Cell phone networks hobbled together under “experimental” licenses were set up, lock picking seminars made everyone feel uneasy about their home security, laser extravaganzas lit up the night sky. Glowing quadracopters whooshed overhead while guys with names like “data wolf” assembled radio controlled and web enabled battle-tanks. Servers in retro-fitted port-a-potties sniffed the network traffic and listened for unencrypted passwords. At the last event a billboard displayed the passwords of those who weren’t savvy enough to keep them secure. …Shame on you for transmitting in plain-text.
Gigabit wireless internet was streamed over the campsite for the 2,500 attendees. The pimpled faces of campers glowed into the evening as they sat on lawn chairs and typed away on their laptops. They brought sound gear, lights, fog machines, and had “pseudo techno dance parties” roaring at all hours. I say pseudo because there were probably three girls in the whole place, so nobody danced, but it was a noble effort.
There were presentations on everything from building your own particle accelerator to eavesdropping on quantum cryptography. Rob and I presented “Eyeborg Project: Hacking the Human” to a delightful audience on the first day of the event.
When I started designing my talk it was pretty ambitious—touching on my own take on the future of humanity (a new messiah comes, builds a tower to the moon, and world hunger ends thanks to an almost infinite supply of moon-cheese.) I wanted to talk about cybernetics and the future of the mechanical man… but it became painfully apparent that your grandma with her artificial hip, pace maker, and hearing aid were about the closest thing to the bionic human mankind was ever going to achieve. I told a story instead, watch the presentation here.
Rob and I shared a small room with bunk beds, campers we were not. A lone fat Asian hacker was quarantined in the other small room—his snoring shook the walls. The “hackers on a plane” team had the larger surrounding dorm rooms- they brought plenty of whiskey, food, and network peripherals.
The experts were keeping me highly entertained: there was the guy who built the intense blinkey/sound glasses. They could simultaneously put me into a mental coma and made me want to vomit. Sasha, the security aficionado, who was so drunk he could barely stand, managed to tell a great story about defending credit card networks from hacking pirates.
I would have stayed for the whole event before I found Alice and we determined how well we got along, but the Dutch television show “Echt Niet” called. (Translates to: “really not” but according to the on-set hairstylist it’s more like “hell no.”) Anyone know anything about Dutch TV? Me neither.
Part I: Ask, Alice
The following is Part I of V. The story began in mid August.
Costa Rica was the first and only place that I drove a manual transmission. On the highways deep sink holes are denoted by a single cone, 4×4 is mandatory, and fording crocodile infested rivers is not an uncommon practice. But that was Costa Rica, and this is England… a far more sinister place.
Everyone except me drives on the wrong side of the road, the roundabouts induce nausea, the car seating is all messed up, and a variety of very observant cameras make me anxious. In the first ten minutes upon departing from the rental agency I managed to clip four side view mirrors, hit a curb at high speed, lose two shiny hubcaps, melt the clutch, and played a few accidental games of chicken with oncoming traffic.
The navigator was pissed. “You’re going to kill me; you’re driving too close on the left! You keep hitting mirrors!” She glared at me with her giant eyes. I had only known Alice for a number of hours; we were off to a great start on our five day adventure.
Allow me to elaborate. Alice, the navigator, works in a hotel. On a daily basis she books rooms, handles disasters, thwarts the attempts of married men to get her number, and dreams about living out of a backpack. Her personal goal: save $20,000 and get lost somewhere on the planet. Monetarily she’s halfway there; mentally she’s been penning her own global version of “On The Road” for years. She speaks four languages, has been to 24 countries, and until a few days ago, didn’t know how to read a road map. Why? because she always had boys to do that for her…
How we met is a bit of a story on its own.
My dad once told me: “When the whites of a woman’s eyes are pearly white, it means she’s ovulating. These are the ones who are who are ready for your attention.” I couldn’t help but notice her dark brown iris surrounded by porcelain white, and then I couldn’t help but stare, and then I couldn’t help but wander up to her as she worked her hotel desk. I stated the biologically obvious: “You look like you’re ovulating.”
She looked me straight in the eyes with intention, “How did you know?” she responded while fiddling with a BIC pen.
After a pregnant pause I continued, “I just know these things.” Without hesitation she took my hand and dragged me to the laundry room. In a sea of clean linen we had the most mind blowing, juicy, and loud four minutes of sex ever.
Wouldn’t that have been lovely? Oh the joys of an active imagination. I don’t actually remember our short interaction. The Today Show had put me up in Alice’s Rockefeller hotel in NYC for a morning news spot. As I was checking out we said some witty things to one another. It wasn’t as cheesy as “so you come here often” and certainly not as dashing as “You look like you’re ovulating.” –But certainly somewhere in between. I distinctly remember a good fifteen seconds of staring contest that took place.
I left a business card with one of her co-workers with the instructions, “Tell Alice she was lovely, I would love to get to know her better.”
A week later, back in Montreal, while pondering my existence and eating ice-cream my phone rang: “Kosta? This is Alice.” she said. With a full mouth I responded: “Who’s Alice?”
As we chatted it became more and more apparent that this girl was about as nutty as I was. Her lone travels through Eastern Europe, Brazil, Portugal, Spain were inspiring. She made a proposal late one evening “You’re going to Amsterdam at the end of August for that hacking camp. I want to go to the Creamfields festival in England around when you’re finished there. Let’s meet up.” Without missing a beat I replied: “Sure.”
Five days of travelling with an almost complete stranger. Sounds like a lovely idea.
Skillet s kill et skill et te lliks skillset
Truly, honestly, lovely. My birthday has come and gone again—another year, 24 of them to be exact. And I’m delighted to have another day at my disposal. Today I woke up to the sounds of nail guns busily tacking the edging around the new windows of my Montreal apartment. I lounged in bed for awhile, pondering my toes—although reminiscent of my hands, they are hardly hands.
I was reminded of Mark Pauline—and the month I spent in San Fransisco. He put me to work hauling truck loads of robot guts from the loins of his lab. He blew off half his hand while building a rocket pack for some sort of destructive robot creation, his fame surrounding those endeavors were what had brought me to him in the first place. As we munched on sandwiches from a small corner bistro he told me the story of deciding to have his big toe amputated and sewn into place where his thumb used to be.
I chomped on my turkey n’ cheese and he gave me a gnarled thumbs up— “it did the trick, getting used to walking without a big toe was easy too, you don’t really need it.” I wondered what his foot looked like, if one of his socks was a little deflated. We moved gingerly along on to the topic we came to discuss—the implementation of an industrial robot to wield a Katana and fire a hand gun. You know… the usual banter.
My toes stopped being fascinating and the routine morning stretchhhhh over to my laptop happened as always. The internet addiction was hungry, it had to be fed. As usual no earth shattering e-mails arrived while I was asleep, just the typical this that and the other thing. Some happy birthday wishes from my lovely friends, an e-mail accusing me of being hilarious from my biggest fan (mom), an instant message from the pseudo-spy.
The pseud0-spy gave me a book on cryptography that I’ve been decoding for the last week or so. He’s not really a spy, but I can’t tell you what he does for a living so I just prefer to call him a spy—I hope I just blew his cover.
He wants me to build some encrypted communication devices for him as well as fix the headlights on his Miyata. We discussed this over dinner last week– he offered me a selection of curried baby craw fish (which looked exactly like over-sized potato bugs with arms) and “cheval”– horse meat. Apparently “it tastes like tendons”—I chose the bugs over Black Beauty.
He was mad at me for not telling him about my birthday party the night before. I figured if he was a spy, he’d have known about it. I also figure the same thing for the overtly religious, anyone who claims to have psychic abilities, and the obnoxious know-it-alls.
As I walked to the bathroom to do the morning rituals I reflected on the night before, the party. I did my usual—ran off to hide in the kitchen. Something about birthday time makes me inordinately introspective and quiet. It’s lovely—I reflect upon my year, think about the next year, and try to figure out how to get out of going to my own birthday party. Planning a party always sounds like a good idea until about a week before the event and the question of “you mean I have to stay at this party for its full duration?” starts to get daunting. My biggest fan (mom) chimes in “Throwing a party for yourself is already selfish enough, to leave or not show up makes you a giant jerk.”
I wound up in the kitchen making pitcher after pitcher of delicious mojito (secret: put some mint and sugar into the cuisinart and blend. It’s so tasty). I chatted up the wandering partier, made lovely coconut macaroons, and debated the purpose of life.
Early today in the afternoon, at lunch. I had been sharing my Caesar salad with a fat bumblebee who mistook my croutons for daisies. My gently prodding fork tine was of no consequence to his loftier ambition of pollen collection. As he diligently hoovered away, I contemplated what parmesan flavored honey would taste like.
I let him go about his business and shifted more croutons into his general vicinity, and as he helicoptered off to go make his deposit– and smiled at the sunset.
A friendly reminder…
I wanted to remind you
that you are cherished.
That all of the loving care directed to you,
was for your benefit.
It was to enable whatever contribution
you would choose to make
with the gift of life given you.
I don’t know what your future holds.
I do know that you will be the sole proprietor
of whatever choices you decide to make,
and equally, for the choices you decide not to make.
However, know this,
understand it completely…
It is never too late,
to be whoever you want to be.
There is no time limit.
Start whenever you want.
You can change or stay the same.
There are no rules to this thing.
We can make the best
or the worst of it.
I hope you make the best of it.
I hope you see things that startle you.
I hope you feel things you’ve never felt before.
I hope you meet people who
have a different point of view.
I hope you live a life you’re proud of,
and if you’re not,
I hope you have the courage
to start all over again.
-Anonymous
Moving
When I was a child,
Lost, alone, and scared in the grocery store.
I wandered and cried for a familiar face.
Someone to take me into their arms,
To ask what’s wrong,
To help me find what I had lost.
And she would appear,
Calm,
as always,
she took me into her arms,
And asked
“where did you wander off too?”
And now,
As the years have passed,
and I’ve discovered myself
I am free,
To get as lost as I feel comfortable.
To find my own way.
I search,
for whatever will give me that same feeling.
The warmth,
of home.
I leave for Europe on August 11 courtesy of the amazing people who run the HAR2009 conference in Amsterdam. Topic of discussion? The Eyeborg Project. At the moment I don’t have a return ticket, which opens the doors to all sorts of possibilities. I’m celebrating 5 months in Canada and almost a year away from home. It’s been a magnificient adventure. I’ll keep you updated.
Breathing
I walk to the farthest end of the station—where you can stare deep down into the bowels of the subway. I position myself directly next to the bumpy yellow line. The same line that a drunk man daringly crossed weeks ago. I close my eyes.
He tumbled onto the track landing on his back where he lay for a brief second as if to play dead. He picked up his satchel that he had tossed down before him. The whole station pauses, and watches. He crosses the first rail, then the second—the third he trips on and gently he falls onto his back. Persistent, he picks himself up and starts again.
The women call to him: “Sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” …Brilliant observation.
In some stations the above ground doors will breathe with the entry and exit of a train. The train, like a piston, pushes gasps of air—that must go somewhere. So it rushes up and out of the station—exhaling the doors open with its entry, and inhaling them shut with its departure. A gust of train wind.
He’s halfway across, the southbound tracks lay before him. He stands to catch his breath on the concrete island that separates the incoming from the outgoing. You can feel the train coming, the doors upstairs are probably slowly exhaling open, the ground rumbles slightly. He steps down and continues. Across the third rail—his jacket wipes a clean spot on the rail coated with brake dust. The train is getting closer, the air rushes, the ground trembles, the women get louder: “Sir, the train is coming. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He steps between the first and second rail.
I close my eyes, and choke.
Back to NYC for some EyeBorg!
The bourgeoisie have the right idea. I type to you today from the 7th story fine dining facility of the Rockefeller Hotel and Club located just steps away from Rockefeller center in NYC. Around me the suits are having power meetings, pounding away on their laptops/blackberry, and trying desperately to stay (or at least look) busy. There’s a bar with enough booze to intoxicate the Russian army, the walls are lined with art that looks as if it was pumped out by a team of charcoal briquette wielding 4 year olds, and a very out of place “FIRST AID FOR CHOKING” poster dutifully informs while throwing off the motif entirely.
I am trying to look productive while gumming up my keyboard with raspberry sorbet, attempting the same feat of the “busy look” that these business chaps have got down solid. I thought about ordering a Martini, to add to the aesthetic, but I relented on account of: (a) I’ve been wearing the same pants for close to two weeks (b) everything else has been hand washed in the Artesian Spring water that emerges from my hotel shower head and (c) James Bond wouldn’t sip a martini looking slovenly, and neither will I.
How I ended up here, amongst the crystal chandeliers and the business people who insure them is quite a story in itself.
You see—I picked up the phone last week and on the other end was Rob—the one eyed film maker whose Toronto based guest bedroom had served as both my laboratory and sleeping quarters for over two months. I built him a prototype bionic eye. Sound familiar? The Eyeborg Project? Google around for it.
He got straight to the point: “We’re going on The Today Show, don’t fuck it up.” As I was in Boston trying (unsuccessfully) to hitch a ride back to Montreal, I wasn’t really concerned if I found myself a few hundred miles to the south– especially if it meant free food and a place to crash.
Part II
The beauty of the airport is that they prep vacationers for the coming relaxation: “Please, take off your shoes, loosen your belt, and take out your most refreshing drink for a last sip—we’ll take care of disposing it for you.” If you seem a little too stressed and not ready for the flight, the friendly bullet-proof-vest and gun toting security guards will happily administer a full body massage while quizzing you up about any hobby in fire-arms or drug trafficking you might have. Truly a joy.
After I departed the plane, Serge the Russian driver who had (surprisingly) never been to Moscow was waiting for me with a cute little sign . I made him pose for a picture because I’m rude like that. Has anyone noticed how huge the inside of Lincolns are? Incredible.
After checking into the hotel my phone rang. Frantically Rob informed: “I’m at a jewelry store. They have wax but it’s not that sticky. Do you think we could melt it?” I had given Rob a list of things he needed to purchase for the show. We had planned to reveal the glowing LED eye on national television. Wax was used to seal the two halves of the prosthetic eye before it was inserted into the eye socket. Without the wax the eye would just fall apart.
Of course melting wax wasn’t going to solve much of anything. We discussed using bubblegum. It seemed feasible.
Rob showed up at my hotel room a few minutes later. I hadn’t seen him in over three months; we had a mini re-union that involved some high-fiving and a lot of hollering. Rob had brought all the equipment I needed and the hotel room laboratory was setup in less than fifteen minutes. I got to work charging the small batteries that powered the LED Eye. Rob called room service and ordered up a beer.
We made a quick run to RadioShack and proceeded to buy everything we didn’t need and completely forget the alligator clips we had gone to buy in the first place. The phone rang and in complete dead-pan Dianne, the producer for “The Today Show,” informed: “You’re off the show. We thought you were bringing a working camera eye.” Of course we didn’t have the eye… That’s for the Eyeborg television show, not for 8AM morning news.
“Sushi?” Rob proposed. Sushi sounded good. “The Today Show” was covering our costs still, so why not sushi. After months of bread, cheese, and fruit– sushi sounded amazing. Rob and I were bummed, but hey—we were in NYC and we were going to make the best of it. We chatted about visiting ground zero, how we were going to abuse room service, and how hard we planned on partying that evening now that we didn’t have to wake up at five in the morning. As we ordered some unagi rolls the phone rang for the second time. I heard a lot of “Okay. Okay.” From Rob. “You’re going to hate me.” He said as he hung up. “They’re cutting the interview down by five minutes and you’re getting kicked. Sorry dude.”
Part III
The funny thing about me and the glitz and glamoor that comes with television is that I really am out of the loop. I couldn’t tell you who the hosts of “The Today Show” are, I couldn’t tell you why the crowd outside cheered when the weather guy came out to dutifully inform that “yes it is raining.”, and my response to Rob’s inquiry of “You know that was Howard Dean. Right?” after I shook some man’s hand rather casually was: “So that’s what Howard Dean looks like.”
I setup shop next to the flamboyant hair/makeup “especialist” Jim and tip toed my way around pumps, jewelry, and the unsuspecting rock star. Next to Jims fabulous hair dryer and gigantic curling iron I delicately laid my soldering iron. Between the brushes, hair clips, and foundation I squeezed my variable power supply. Jim questioned each object with enthusiasm. “Is that for the video? Will that burn this place down? Is that safe?” While Jim flattened, crimped, and sizzled the locks of many—I delicately soldered together an LED eye. We were brothers in the use of heat.
Producers flittered about, talent wandered, the security guard munched a donut and watched TV. I charged the LED Eye’s battery and asked the stylists what kind of haircut I should get. Rob quietly panicked and barked out orders at random that I more or less ignored or nodded to.
Rob went live and I was relegated to the green room. Minutes before, I had sealed up the LED eye with wax and handed it to Rob. He gingerly placed it in his socket and it flickered to life between blinks. The mildly to severely obese mid-western family who was becoming “made over” cooed at Rob. Rob said something super-hero-esque like “Eyeborg Away” and went live on national television.
“That’s amazing!” the fatsos announced as Rob removed his black pirate eye-patch and dazzled the world with a shiny LED Eye.
The phone started ringing when Rob walked off the set. It was always the case when something big happened in the press. When Reuters and the AP broke the story of Eyeborg I was literally doing an interview an hour for a week. This time it was Rob’s sister, congratulating him on his nationally televised success.
Outside the crowd who had been waiting for the weatherman to come out and do some kind of anti-rain dance clapped and cheered when they saw Rob with his glowing LED eye. The flashbulbs lit up our faces and Rob was asked to pose with the children of star struck parents.
I called the hotel staff “Can I checkout after 3pm? I’m with The Today Show.” And promptly went to bed and slept and slept and slept.
Who’s posessed?
His gray hair exploded from his scalp, his face was red with anger, his movements were shaky but fast. He deliberately stepped in front of a biker who was casually riding down the sidewalk and directed him to the street, where he belonged. He took cardboard boxes lying in the gutter and viciously tore them into small pieces. He pulled a wheeled trash can from a corner hideaway and drew a red jacket from within it. He put it on and packed away the cardboard. He screamed at the patrons of a small coffee shop. They dared not pay attention to him, they merely kept on eating as if he didn’t exist. Inconsequential. Grabbing half full plates from empty tables he tossed the contents into the street. He waved the plates threateningly at the considerably uncomfortable clientele.
He went and picked up the food bits, put them in his trash can, and called the police from a cell phone.
Pacing frantically in the middle of the street he stopped traffic, then directed it around him. He pulled a silver gate from behind a wall and cordoned off an alleyway. A small car pulled up to be let in– and was abruptly directed in the opposite direction by waving hands, cussing lips, and a lot of jumping. The driver didn’t argue. He backed up and zoomed off.
I guess it was his alleyway, if he didn’t feel like having guests that was his prerogative. He slept on a palette in the doorway of an industrial building. It was his home. Late at night I would ride my bike past him, with my bike lights blazing, he snored away under dirty sheets and the moth speckled glow of a hanging light.
My friend and I played guitar from our second story perch and watched him storm about. I strummed, my companion plucked, both mildly entertained. We sat lazily wondering and watching.
Back across the street to the cafe he dashed with his trashcan. He pulled a dresser from behind the restaurant and rolled it out to the street. He reached deep into his trashcan and pulled out a tarp, placed the dresser on top of it, and proceeded to stomp the dresser to pieces. He pointed to the restaurant patrons, and yelled things that we couldn’t make out. He cussed at the cars zooming by as he threw shards of wood into traffic.
He marched back into the middle of the street and picked up everything he’d thrown. He put them into his trashcan. Blocking traffic the whole time.
While he made his way to the other side of the street the police arrived below our perch. He ran to them, and then to our bikes under the stairs, then back to the officers, then back to our bikes. “Hey! Those are our bikes!” we yelled.
To which he yelled back “J’ai trouvé la clé!” He had found our key.
We scrambled down the stairs, and he showed off a silver key. “Someone could have stolen your bike, you idiots.” we blinked at him, not fully understanding what he meant. “Here. Take it.” His dirty cracked hands thrust the key towards me. He turned to the police officer, “I found this on a bench.” he pulled out a cell phone from his pocket. “Faire quelque chose.” he paused “Do something with it!”
A truck zoomed by, the sun beat down hard on all of us, and we all just stared for a moment at the mad man. “Appreciate the things you have, because you’ll miss them when you don’t have them anymore” he said. He stormed off, and that was the end of it.
From Montreal to I <3 NEW YORK
In quick succession it went like this: Woke up (early), made a single phone call (to a friend), and was dutifully informed “You have ten minutes to show up on St. Laurent and Mont Royal Street. We’ll pick you up; we’ll take you to Boston.”
And so the race was on. The bus schedule had already been memorized—from Boston to NY departure at 11 PM—Chinatown, arrival at 2 AM—Chinatown. Socks, shirts, two bananas, a grapefruit, a passport, and some electronics—haphazardly packed in 3 minutes.
I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet, they felt fuzzy. “We’re running late, we lost the car” my ride said. Into the corner restaurant with toothbrush in hand I rushed, and brushed. Then another call: “we’re lost.” I scampered through a bike race, traffic lights, over green grass, under hanging festival banners, and into the back seat of a 2001 Kia Sophia.
Racing across borders: “STOP STOP STOP! I HAVE TO GET MY PASSPORT STAMPED!” The fear of being denied entry to Canada, a place that I had called home for the last 4 months, was a big one. But an even greater fear: Where was I going to sleep?
The interesting thing about having irreverence for the “sensible thing to do” (said sternly, as dad would say) is that it allows the spirit of adventure run uninhibited– like a drunk girl on spring break. I had no hotel plans, no hostels, and no friends: Just a few couchsurfing requests that had gone unanswered. (couchsurfing.com being the finest method of finding unreliable yet free housing) I secretly hoped that my phone might ring somewhere along the 8 hour journey.
To say that I was stressed is a bit of an understatement. Because the phone did in fact ring and it was a man with an offer: “You can stay in my apartment.” He said meekly. As if he wasn’t quite sure what he was getting himself into. You can’t exactly blame him. I was a complete stranger—who knows what kind of torturous/murderous/raperous behavior I was capable of. But I could say the same for him couldn’t I?
The 47 year old man on the phone named Ferenz was not at the apartment, nor would he be until Wednesday. “Pick up the key from the organic food store down the street.” He instructed. …and I pondered aloud “are they open at 2 am?” A moment of silence… “Call them. Good luck.”
Katie picked up the phone on the second ring. “Organic Avenue how can I help you?”
“Hi Katie, have you heard of a man named Ferenz? I’m his friend visiting from Montreal. He says you have a certain key of his.”
“Yes.” She replied.
And I thought to myself about how neat it would be to get a job at the CIA. Surely spies get to make calls like this to complete strangers. So with the eloquence of James Bond I instructed:
“Katie, could you please put the key outside. I will be arriving well after you close.”
“Sure! It will be buried in the flower pot on the right hand side of our store. I’ll put a stick there.”
“Thank you Katie.”
We hung up. The mission was underway.
I waved off the dudes who had just ended a weekend of partying in Montreal, boarded the Boston subway to downtown, and took a deep breath. I hadn’t felt like I’d been at home in months—after all I’ve been away from Los Angeles for over 4 months. But something about the smell of the green line subway car—it smelled very familiar, and it made me smile wide. It had been almost six months since I’d been in Boston last.
The stations slipped by till Chinatown, the lumbering bus appeared, and I disappeared into the night on my way to New York City.
121 Norfolk Street is a place where you will find a warm bed, a shower, and faux Jackson Pollock paintings that hang from floor to ceiling. Two beds—one big and uncomfortable, and one small and comfortable line the sides of two distinct rooms separated by a tan curtain. There’s a kitchen with friendly cockroaches, and a bathroom with 4 colored light bulbs above the sink.
Note: You need to twist the light you intend to use. There is no light switch.
All of that good-home-feel can be yours for the small price of finding your way through the densly packed streets that make up New York City. The beauty of this urban metropolis is that you can get off a bus in the middle of the night—with the only geographical understanding of “I’m in new York city” and still manage to find a guide to take you to your destination
A mother Teresa of a woman escorted me to the organic food store where the keys were recovered. I was dropped off with a wave, “goodluck”, and a goodbye at my new front porch.
Part II
I checked all of my appendages first—just to see if they were still attached and hadn’t been hacked off in my sleep. Then I felt around the bed to ensure I was still alone and hadn’t been joined by some sex crazed maniac. All was well… In fact it was downright peaceful. The gentle hum of traffic reverberated outside the window, a sunray glistened through the window. The faux Jackson Pollock splattered-spaghetti-art sat idly as if waiting for someone with a fork to come by and munch on the jumbled paint strands.
Showered, shaved, and dressed to the nines—I walked outside, into the rush.
Walking in New York City is more of an elaborate dance—the dodging of cabs, the shoulder to shoulder tango, the slow shuffle. We all sheepishly move into and out of traffic, around construction sites, and into the underground to make our way to wherever we’re going. We don’t interact because there are too many of us. Our eyes don’t meet because, really, who has the time. We just walk—as quickly as possible.
I did have a purpose for being in NYC. I wasn’t doing this scramble for nothing! The looming UN building was calling. A conference put on by the UN and the XPrize was underway and I was to volunteer there; with the CEO’s, fat cats, and innovative elite.
Normally I would bore you with the gooey details of the opening ceremonies of such a lavish event. The patrons had each paid $1,800 just to be there—to be bemused by numerous speakers from numerous industries. There was so much to absorb!
But to be perfectly honest I was pleasantly distracted by blue eyed, blonde haired, UN Intern from Germany. She wore the most pleasantly distracting power dress that made her look like she was either ready to serve coffee or address the president—I couldn’t decide.
I sat next to her, pulled out my notebook and composed a little something: “The second guy on the left—the old one (well I guess they are all old), do you think he’s sleeping? He looks like he’s sleeping.”
She responded with a resounding “YES!!” and instantly we became short distance pen pals.
Un-inhibited romance that involved casual sex on the 60’s era furnishings of the UN conference halls, spitting off the roof into the East River, and copious amounts of both inappropriate and appropriate touching in public spaces would all have been lovely things to do. But I’m not that lucky . I think once the words “I’m sleeping on some guys couch in The Village” graced the page of our notebook, and we broached the conversation of “no, I have never met him, but he seemed nice on the internet.” she had officially lost interest. My heart will go on…
After the first day of conferencing I found myself sipping cocktails on the UN’s observation deck, chatting up Dean Kamen (the guy who invented the segway), X Prize Officials, and other startling individuals. The East River slowly bubbled by, tuxedo clad hors devours distributors kept interrupting my conversations, and I thought to myself “Whenever I get around to writing this part of the adventure, it won’t have a plot in the least.”
And so it was.
Part III
I’m a very off-putting individual. I blatantly, with unabashed candor, inquire to almost complete strangers “Would you happen to know where the subway is?” or “What’s an interesting thing that the locals do in this city? What’s going on this evening?” The look of “are you seriously talking to me? How DARE you talk to me.” is understandably well deserved. So after three straight days of social failure I had concluded: I must smell bad. I met the people, they heard me out, but they were not having any of this “let’s be friends stranger!” cheery gleefulness that I have this tendency to exude. Save for the drunk people, the drunk New Yorkers can’t smell.
And they received me with open arms.
A man with quite possibly the greatest laugh in the world was cracking up in the middle of the street. His girlfriend was looking at him quizzically, and because my curiosity is never ending I asked “What’s so funny?”
I never found out why, but all of a sudden I was being dragged across the city, cordially offered drinks, and as I mentally pondered the eternal question of “does this free drink taste roofied?” I was rudely interrupted:
She walked up to me with intention. A bit frazzled, a drunken eye droop, high heels that by now had turned from sexy to painful—she blinked once. Pause. Blink. Pause.
“Hi!” She said.
“Before we go any further. Where can we dance?” I answered.
Into the night we went. From club, to club, to club, to club. Drinking, smiling, laughing. Dancing close, dancing far, dancing in between. When it started pouring we got soaked, and when we found a new place to dance we steamed. We didn’t even know each other’s name. We didn’t care! Social acumen is only necessary in places where you can actually hear each other.
“So you’re running a youth hostel now?” her friends inquired the next day as we arrived on the 6th story of Picassos apartment. I say Picasso’s apartment because the place was quite literally covered from wall to ceiling with Picasso inspired art. Cubism in the living room, blue period above the bathroom sink, bits of surrealism on the rooftop patio. And everywhere else was failed attempts and paint splatter.
“He’s sleeping on a strangers couch!” she replied. The irony that we didn’t know each others name until the next morning escaping her completely. I still don’t understand why everyone thinks couchsurfing is the worst thing ever…
“Watch where you sit, I’ve sacrificed many skirts in the name of his art.” Him being Steve, a self absorbed parent funded artist who swore that he was “going to take the art world by storm!” We were going to see him on the news. He was going to be in galleries all over the world. He was the future!
We cooked a dinner of soft shell crab, ceviche, and I donated my usual dietary staple of bread and cheese as an appetizer . The landlord dropped in for a visit to chew out her tenants. Apparently the first time she saw that her beautiful apartment had been turned from a domicile to a studio she broke down in tears. Now she was simply resolved to evict Steve. He had informed her a week prior “your apartment will be worth millions now that I’ve lived in it. I just sold a painting for $50,000.” He’s sold one piece of art to a friend for $50. He was known for dropping off art pieces in front of galleries with desperate notes taped to the front. “This is the future of art. –Steven” …A landlords worst nightmare.
I laid out on the fire escape with my cheeks to the sky. The traffic below me screeched and honked, the people busily went about their business—avoiding eye contact at all costs. The clouds couldn’t decide if they wanted to rain or part for the sun, the pigeons soared between skyscrapers. I pondered about what my next adventure might look like, fully knowing that the unpredictable nature of these sorts of things is what I embrace the most.
Oh… the thrills of travelling.
Donut Holes and Fountains– Find the connection.
(By: Charlie Bucket) | (Music by: Ratatat!)
I grew up inside of a shoe. I know this may sound like the premise for a fairytale– but rest assured. This particular shoe had electricity, running water, a cockroach problem, and most importantly a walk up window from which we served donuts and coffee to hungry patrons.
“My little donut-boy, it’s time to wake up.” My mother would whisper into my ear early every morning. She would hand me my toothbrush and say “Smile, I hear today is your lucky day.”
The methodical churning of butter, sugar, flour and sometimes the stray cockroach—it wasn’t exactly what I would consider a lucky day nor was it much of a memorable childhood at that. But it wasn’t that bad, I can think of worse things– like working at Starbucks.
It was an accident really, this idea, “The Donut Hole.” I was in love with a girl. I assure you, it was really quite tragic. She was red haired, blue eyed, and was always yelling on about something. She would come in singing opera, and leave singing The Star Spangled Banner. But while she was in my store, she always sang the same song.
She came to buy a jelly donut—cherry, every morning. I would give her the one I made last– the freshest one. And she sang:
“I am the daughter of a watch maker and my mother is a whore
I can set your time-piece right, I can set men’s souls afire. I can dance and keep my time; I can make any man… mine.
I can build you a fine clock, and spit and cuss and fuss, but I’ll never be on time– not for you, and not for us.
I am the daughter of a watch maker and my mother is a whore,
You can catch me in the evening, and I’ll kiss you all night long. But when the sun starts shining, your watch and I… are gone.”
She was way too young to be singing about any of that, I was certainly too young to be hearing it– but she was a wonder. From the minute she walked in my heart would race, when she sang her song my mind would throb, and when she left my soul would cry. For as much as I didn’t understand of her I knew that I could love her. And I wanted to show her.
I used the finest flour, the sweetest sugar, and the richest butter. I mixed until my hands were sore– and then I mixed some more. With precision I rolled the dough into a loop small enough to fit her dainty hands, and stuck it in the fryer. I added diamonds of glaze, and precious stones made of sprinkles. It was perfect.
When she arrived I got on my hands and knees on the dirty kitchen floor, while the cockroaches scattered, I looked her in the eyes, and bumbled out my marriage proposal:
“I don’t know your name, but I know your song. But let me keep the time for you and let me find your mom a job. Singing girl, spend the mornings with me by the fryer, and I’ll spend the evening in your arms.”
To which she put her hands on her hips and said resolutely, “Hell no!”
“Why!??!??” I pleaded– and she said, “Donut boy, my darling, I could never marry you. Because you stink of donut grease, and your smile is too thin.”
So I told her she smelled bad too (which was a lie, she smelled like lavender soap.) To which she smiled and broke into her stupid song, about her whoreish mother and her stupid dad– who probably crafts a watch that can only keep track of 15 hours in a day.
As she walked out smug and with her usual jelly donut I yelled to her: “Never again will a ring be made from the finest dough, my love is far too sacred!” She turned to me, rolled her eyes, and walked off.
With the batter that had been filled with love I sculpted little balls of sugary hate. I threw them into the fryer and watched them sizzle and pop– never again would a girl break my heart.
And then, while I watched the pastry chunks of my heart bubble and boil… A stuffy business man with nice shoes and a smile that probably sold used cars at one point in time or another– he wanted half a donut. “You’re a stingy idiot!” I said. But he insisted, and demanded, and argued. So I gave him some donut balls. And the rest…
Is cake!
But that girl… with eyes like the sea and hair like the sun– I’ll never forget her, and her stupid song.
Photo essay.
WE’RE NOT SAYING GOODBYE,
BECAUSE WE RAN AWAY MONTHS AGO.
TO EAT COOKIES WHERE WE PLEASE.
TO BATHE WHERE WE SEE FIT.
TO PUSH EVERY BUTTON.
TO GET FAMOUS.
TO MEET EVERBODY WE RUN INTO.
TO LAUGH,
TO ENJOY,
TO RELISH,
TO SING ALONG.
WE GOT LOST, AND THEN WE GOT FOUND.
Bukowski, I’ll drink to that.
The train doors opened to Joliette station and we stepped out– marching as if we were in the military,
To be greeted by his violin- his stinking reeking self raking the strings with his bow.
All marched right on past the man with his bow, but I couldn’t help myself. I broke ranks and promptly defected.
I sat next to him and as if to welcome me as his new comrade he took in a sigh and let forth a torrent of music so sorrowful I was almost moved to tears.
And then he stopped and muttered something about “I’m not making any money here today… I could get fed faster digging through trashcans.”
To which I smiled and said nothing– “I’ll play for you though” and back to it he went.
The longggggggg sigh of his bow sent his notes sobbing out of his dilapidated instrument. Shivers shot up and down my spine.
Long pauses before encores, the “whomp whomp whomp” of the escalator followed by “the click click click” of high heels and the three toned “whee wheeeee wheeeeeee” of the train starting up to leave, as if it just couldn’t take it anymore and needed to drive off.
He stopped again, “you want to talk?”
“Sure”
“I told a prostitute I wasn’t going to sleep with her, I don’t need to do that– my wife died three years ago, I’m waiting to go so I can be with her in heaven. But this prostitute, she tried to stick me with a needle– I fought her off; she didn’t stick me. ” He took a deep breath– he smelled bad.
“But while I was gone she destroyed my apartment. Shit on my floor, literal shit on the floor! Thousands of dollars worth of classical music, CD’s my couch ripped to shreds. I’m fucked. . . . . . I don’t even know where I’m going to sleep tonight– I poured comet on the floor, but it still reeks of shit. I walk in and I want to vomit.”
“So that’s why your music is so sad today.” I said with a smile as I handed him three dollars. “It’s not usually this sad is it?”
“Yeah, nobody gives you money when you play sad shit.”
About a Prof.
For some odd reason a string quartet was playing some manner of classical music. It was one of those magical discoveries that that I often seem to find– like rounding a corner and stumbling upon a hooker fellating a businessman in an alleyway– nothing really prepares you for that, but while you’re there you might as well enjoy the show. It was spring time, and although hardly anything changes from winter to spring in southern California– there was an electric feel in the air. Low branches full of flowers draped the skyline over little plastic tables, a cello and violin gently grinding against one another, and then there was Bob.
I don’t think he wears deodorant– or maybe he does, he doesn’t smell– but he always has a wetness under his arms. He’ll raise a hand in the classroom to point at something and I’ll feel as if somebody should turn up the air conditioner. He’s a skinny man, not gaunt, but skinny– he sports a miniature Jack Kerouac beard, and he may or may not espouses a similar line of existential musings. He’s a teacher who probably never really liked conventional school all that much.
On that Spring afternoon we sat and chatted on campus while the string quartet added a pleasant sound track. I tiraded: “It’s the end of my freshmen year. I have a 1.97 GPA. I could care less about school. Your class is the only one I find remotely interesting. I don’t know how I’m going to pull this together for next year.” And he did something that changed a thing or two: “Why don’t you do an independent study with me next semester?”
His favourite word is “Fuck” although he uses it sparingly. His thesis was on the plays of Samuel Becket. He believes that the traditional academic institution is horse shit (or maybe that’s me projecting). Idea of a good time in his youth: driving out deep into the Nevada desert and staging protests against nuclear testing, consequently has been to jail. He runs his classroom like the socialist that he is—students write their syllabus and design their own curriculum based upon his guidance. After all—who is he to tell anyone what they want to learn? He certainly couldn’t tell me.
Often I’d find myself in Bob’s office with all sorts of questions that were basically clever phrasings for an ultimate question: What is the meaning of life? Phrasings like “Why does religion seem idiotic? Is there such thing as truth? Why can’t anyone think of a better idea (that works) other than capitalism?” My own naïveté painfully evident, he handed me a copy of “The Stranger” and sent me on my way to uproot all that I thought I knew. Oh the joys…
I think he took a great deal of joy in blowing my mind—well actually he told me he did. “Kosta, we teachers strive to blow the minds of our students, it’s what we live for.” I’d walk into his office, a bi-weekly affair at the minimum, explain why I had missed one of his classes (I was sleeping), and then proceeded to pelt the man with a fervent line of attention deficit questioning. Consequently I always left his office with more questions than I came in with, and maybe a book to read.
In my own journal I wrote about the acquisition of Dr. Bob: “My very own mentor how exciting. Maybe I will be a good writer. Scratch that I already am a good writer, Maybe I will be a better writer though!” Jubilacious. If I was a good writer then, I must be Mark Twain by now… Hubris? What’s that.
I probably wrote a couple hundred of pages of incredibly angsty teenage turmoil that Bob waded through with expert precision—he never criticized the content itself but instead focused on how effectively I delivered my message. And thus I started to learn what kind of skill is involved in weaving a story. Bob got me a job at the writing center, he put me in his classes as a mentor for the freshmen composition classes. He allowed me not only to learn writing but to teach it as well.
When I graduated, dressed smartly in orange pants and the traditional cap and gown, I received my diploma gave the whole front row of administrators a running high five and then went off to find Bob. I don’t remember if I actually found him—it would be lovely if I did and then I could recount some kind of emotional “coming of age/teacher makes a difference” moment for you. But my memory stinks.
All I remember is how important it is to have someone believe in your abilities: to challenge, motivate, and inspire. I’ve had lots of teachers who have taken the time to do such a thing, Bob went a step above. We didn’t just talk about “Waiting for Godot” we went to see the play, and then yelled about it for hours afterwards. It wasn’t enough to just assign me reading to illustrate a point, we’d sit down and have an actual discussion. My writing got instant feedback—even on the weekends! So to you Bob, I say thank you. I’m still waiting for Godot, and I’m having the best time ever.
I am so lost, confused, and brilliantly motivated.
(Watch on FOX) | (FOX News Photo Essay)
I’ve always aspired to be the center attention. When I was younger that meant being annoying, now it means stepping up to ridiculous challenges. I blame Rob of course. If it wasn’t for his notion– to replace his eye with a video camera, I wouldn’t be here in the first place. But now that I’m here, now that I’ve stepped up to this ridiculous challenge of building a bionic eye– things are getting cool.
There are just two simple things, and they are just two words, and they are always nestled in the back of our minds: Fear, Desire. Floating upside down, underwater, screaming. Your long hair suspended. You dove too deep, you took on too much. You’re drowning.
But really, honestly, just wait a moment. I’m not a harbinger of truth, I’m no fortune teller– but I’ve lived here for awhile and I tried this out. So let me tell you a secret, and just hold on for one more second:
We can breathe under water.
You’re like a fish– you’ve just forgotten, because everyone’s been telling you something else. Those damn liars, what truth do they know?! Make your own truth!
It’s an old lie that someone told someone who told someone else– and nobody took the time to dive in, and take the plunge. Because if they were wrong– can you imagine how different things would be? Can you imagine what it means to not drown in your own spit? Atlantis was never lost; we just forgot what we were capable of. And what we are capable of is magnificent.
I know, I know. You can drown in an inch of water. Your flat mate in college drowned in his own vomit. But, and I don’t really know, but perhaps those who tried and failed, they don’t see the possibilities of breathing under water– they didn’t really believe in it!
You see, I’m not crazy – I’ve just got this thing, this project.
I call it a submarine.
–Excerpted from my personal journal–
I hadn’t thought much about it. I am naive; it’s part of my personality. I say “yeah, we can do that.” without even thinking about it. My brain oozes the ideal of “anything is possible” — you just have to be convincing, or convinced, enough. My e-mail box is a testament to that. So many whirring minds have taken pause with this project and have taken a moment to tell me some story– the man who is building 3D glasses, the futurist who believes in the power of bio fuels, the artists with their own ambitions. They want to do things, they are doing things. I haven’t had the schedule– or frame of mind– to address everyone who’s taken a moment to e-mail me about the EyeBorg Project, but I am so impressed with the amount of movement– this rustle and chorus of thoughts. Who would have thought?
So people continue to impress me, all the time. I’m always impressed.
The other day a long Lincoln town car picked me up and took me to a studio. An itty bitty ear piece was thrust into my ear, a microphone was clasped to my lapel, lights were aimed at my face, and a camera was focused on my bright orange shirt. FOX News wanted to know some more details about the project, and I tried to tell them as much as I could in the three short minutes of air time. Bill Hemmer asked questions and I tried not to blow it. I think I did well. I stayed for a half hour after my three minutes of nationally televised fame and asked a thousand questions about the cameras, and the lights, and the studies. I got a tour of the place by the camera man. So neat!
On Saturday my phone rang at 1:00 A.M. and all of a sudden I was on a late night talk show distributed over Canada. It’s so strange– I’m just chatting, laughing, and telling the story of EyeBorg. But it’s so important to tell it a certain way– with candor, to give credit to the many people involved, to dissuade my ego from taking over. I’m learning; I’m learning a lot.
I am so lost, confused, and brilliantly motivated. I don’t feel up to the task of articulating any more, there’s just such a jumble in my head.
Eyeborgin’ it!
The great thing about Thomas Edison is he knows a thing or two about failure. Watch this video, and you’ll know why I’m talking about failure.
“If I find 10,000 ways something won’t work, I haven’t failed. I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is another step forward.”
“Results! Why, man, I have gotten a lot of results. I know several thousand things that won’t work.”
“Many of life’s failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up.”
Thomas Alva Edison
I’m not equating myself with Edison, but I am quite familiar with failure. So many magnificent failures… At SpaceX it took three revisions of KSAT before the thing decided to do it’s thing. And even after all that– when the rocket carrying the working KSAT into orbit blew up it was a whole other (highly impressive) bit of failure. So I guess failure is a part of most everything. But it’s still tough.
As I’ve mentioned before, I’m living on a couch in Toronto Canada designing a bionic eye with a man named Rob Spence. I had two weeks since arriving here to get a design up and running before Rob went off to Brussels for a big press conference. Two weeks is not a lot of time, but I love a challenge– and designing a prosthetic eye, that will go inside someones head, that can transmit video– well that’s a good healthy challenge.
When I got here I hit the ground running. Literally on the phone all day trying to line up manufacturers to produce a wafer thin circuit board, getting all the parts overnighted from all over the place, finding an assembler who could place, solder, and inspect the super small components that we were using. It was a beautifully choreographed ballet from an engineering perspective– choreographed down to the minute.
But then there was the film crew… I was driven around by a film crew. Everywhere I went the cameras were on me. I have no idea how we got our hands on a RED– a $50,000 SUPER camera, but we had one of those too. And we had to set that up, take that down, move it around, do a little dance. Rob, the soon to be bionic man, is a wizard at inspiring the people around him to help him in his endeavors. He’s done it for me, I’m living on his couch and designing this bionic eye for him– for free! Most everything related to the project has been done pro-bono. It’s pretty impressive. Even the film crew works for free.
As I was sitting in a carefully lit studio, with my freshly-assembled bionic eye camera board in front of me I was so apprehensive. This was to be the moment of truth, and I had no idea if the thing would actually do anything! I told everyone “don’t get too excited, I’ve never gotten anything right the first time and I don’t think this is going to be an exception.” And it wasn’t. The board fizzled and smoked. The oscillator I was using had a reversed pin– the datasheet for the part had an error in it…
I was so destroyed after that. For a god few hours, because I was CONVINCED I was going to make this thing work on the first shot. But I guess there were more things I needed to learn. After swapping the pins on the oscillator we were still having issues with the NTSC output of the camera. Unfortunately I don’t have a lab– or even an oscilloscope, so I can’t really debug the thing until someone lets me use one. Anyone? Anyone? Even the soldering iron I’m using is borrowed… It’s a pretty ghetto setup.
But I am so pumped. Because I have already learned so much, and we are that much closer to building a fully functional bionic eye– and we’re going to do whatever it takes to get there. To quote Edison again: “Hell, there are no rules. We’re trying to accomplish something here!”
So wish me luck. I’ve taken a break and gone into full marketing mode. Photography, video, website design, press releases– I so enjoy this stuff. Check out the new website: http://eyeborgproject.com
Dear Toronto– I need a job.
I’ve been traveling for a bit over six months now. Costa Rica and the rain forest, Boston and the superbly smart people at all the fancy universities, San Francisco and the warehouse/commune living, and now Toronto Canada.
I’m really enjoying Toronto. This is one of those places where it’s bone chillingly cold, but the people have a lot of warmth in them. I left my camera, a very nice Canon SLR, on the bus a few days ago– and the person who found it, instead of keeping it– they turned it into the lost and found. That’s what its like here, people just seem to go out of their way to be friendly. I might just stay here and find a job. Is anyone hiring?
I’ve been working on a truly unique project entitled “The EyeBorg Project.” A one eyed film maker, myself, and several others are designing a prosthetic eye that can shoot and transmit video. An eyeball that one can literally slip into an empty eye socket and shoot video with. It’s a fantastic goal, with more complexities than I care to admit, but we’re about one week away from having a working prototype.
Fire Ceremony– the burning of the birds, a tribute to winter.
The fireplace rumbles, spits, and eats. I fed it wood that I had chopped with my own two hands. It roared to life, rekindled with wet logs of cedar.
With every fall of the axe I worried for my shins. I wondered about the possibility of losing a leg, of cutting myself down like a tree. To make myself lopsided, to hobble like a soldier home from war. To feed my leg into the fire– wet with blood and tears. To watch as the laces from my shoe melted, oozing plastic pussing into the flames. Eruptions of purple, green, and red– a hungry fire feeding on flesh. To consume. To consume. To consume.
The logs, covered with frost and fresh fallen snow; myself wielding an unbalanced axe and carefully placing each swing down the center of each log. The splinter and the unmistakable sound of exploding wood– shots heard for blocks. The snow is falling, carefully each flake navigates through thin and cold air– touching down on my brow- to be consumed. My flesh a fire of its own, a rumble inside of me, a passion– each snow flake consumed by my own heat as it lands on my red face.
And to the fire that consumes I wave my axe that was also forged in the flames– and I salute, “BECAUSE WE ARE BOTH THE VERY SAME THING.” And we both go on to rumble spit and be fed.
We exchanged cards…
It was a pleasure to meet you at the Black Card Circle Foundation event last night. You had a lot of ideas, a lot of concepts, a lot of things you would like to see happen. I so enjoyed your company for that reason. So now, now that we’ve had a night to think about things: Lets make something happen.
The most charming music video ever made…
(Oren Lavie) | (Learn More)
Isn’t it lovely?
In other news…
I moved to San Francisco two weeks ago. I lived on the floor of a friends apartment, and when the bass from the people below us got on my nerves I put up an ad on Craigslist: “In Search of an Awesome place to live. Location: Awesome” it read.
You’d think with that kind of of ambiguity, and seeing as how the rest of the world doesn’t exactly know my tastes, that the responses probably wouldn’t be all that awesome. But, I’m usually wrong in my presumptions, and the universe decided to make a point.
The warehouse I now call home is 4,700 square feet, green and three blocks south of Market. I live in a room that was built by hand, my walls are three shades of blue, a skylight fills my sleep filled eyes with sunlight every morning. The place is cold, really cold. But the people, all 12 of us who live here, we are warm.
We have a living room that is huge– a giant white screen made from an old vinyl sign is lit by a projector, we watch movies as a family. Our kitchen is kind of gross, but every night someone cooks dinner and we talk about our day- and how delightful or terrible it was.
It’s a beautiful place to live. My room– furnished with mismatched pieces of couch and sofa, my bed– it sags in the middle and lies, like a loner, in the middle of the floor. My space heater that keeps me from freezing. All of these things, stuff that has been loaned to me by others– they bring me a sense of home. I feel at home here.
I haven’t made it out much. I’ve been busy designing things and working on some ideas. I would like to make friends outside of the people that live in my warehouse. So I think I’ll do that. I’ll find a coffeeshop and have some tea. I’ll chat up some strangers. I’ll do that tomorrow.
