Flow

It's the cool confidence that glides through life.

Fire, water, wind, and earth are all liquids on some level.

Obstacles are merely shifts in perspective.

There is always enough.
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Return To Sender

My hair is curly, swirling in and out of my eyesight. It's gray outside, like the clouds were made of nothing in particular. I feel like I could smile if I had to, but my face is tired and I'm saving my future self from those silly wrinkles. The honeymoon is over.

In a few blinks I'll be back home, like I never left. Only I did, and the me that's coming back is someone else. Still recognizably me, but version 3.5 or 9.1- all the best, without the shit that never worked.

Peace and love. See you soon.
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There's Clarity in them thar hills!

It's my last full day here in England, and I'm not sure how I feel exactly. I accomplished everything I wanted to get out of this vacation and more, so I'm not disappointed in the least. I guess I'm a little excited to get home, sort out my house now that construction is finished, see my puppy. and get back to my "real life," but there's a part of me that's already planning my next trip.

I suppose it's natural, though it does feel like I'm being a bit escapist. It's not that I don't want to return to work, or Los Angeles, or anything like that, no, it's more like I just don't want to have to think about all of those little annoying things that come with everyday living. It's not possible, outside of eschewing material possessions and relegating myself to a nomadic life, I know, but it's nice to dream.

It always gets like this for me at the end of a vacation, though. Muddled thoughts and feelings, my mind trying desperately to cling to the insights gained from the time spent away from all the bullshit, the regulated minutiae of my other life- my non-traveling one- slowly creeping back to pester me like a persistent cold...

I think indifference is a state of being for me that comes most often during an overcast day. When I arrived here in England it was rainy and gray, and here as I'm preparing to leave it isn't all that different. I've been fortunate, though, being the child of climate that I am, that Paris and Brussels were brighter on the whole, if not the weather, the people surely.

But it's been good. No doubt, this has been an amazing journey. I have many memories, and pictures to boot. I have grown tremendously, and happily so. I realized and reclaimed something on this trip that I used to have when I was younger, and had been very troubled to have lost: an unapologetic sense of self. I know who I am right now, and I don't care who likes it or not. I am going to be me, crazy or sad, manic or pensive, I will be who and what I feel in the moment I feel it. It doesn't matter if it's contradictory, it's true.

As long as I'm happy, it's good. Yea, it's good. ^_^

I'll take "These Are The Days" for 2000, Alex.

Hannibal used to say, "I love it when a plan comes together," and while I echo the sentiments forged in that classic A-Team line, this weekend in Brussels came out something more to the tune of "I love it when an unplan comes together."

Oliver and I woke up on Thursday and wondered what we should do for the weekend. We researched Dublin, Edinburgh, Cardiff...nothing was working. "What about taking a ferry to Belgium?" I said without much earnest. Within 30 minutes, travel and lodging were booked and the planning ended. The weekend was unplanned, and everything just fell into place.

So I arrived in Brussels without any expectations, actually without even a plan not to have expectations. I left utterly pleased. So many of the happenings would have been fine on their own; standalone events, emotions, thoughts of enjoyment. But the fact that they occurred all at once, or in succession really, is what made this past weekend unlike any other. The most pleasing outcome of it all, I would have to say, though, was my ability to be comfortable with myself and my actions, to command the moment, experience life without attempting to control it, and really, truly own the space of my life.

To briefly recount my final night in Brussels might take longer than I'd like to spend, so I'll make a passing attempt at brevity and do my best to sum up (I'll need to start by no longer allowing myself these sprawling sentences that say so little).

We got dressed in our best and headed to the city center to try some typical Belgian cuisine at a restaurant suggested to us by the nice, young Greek woman we met at breakfast. Oliver had rabbit stew and sausages had I, and we relaxed on the open patio and drank a few wonderful liters (yes, liters) of beer as we listened to the free live music. And as luck would have it, who should walk by but the girls we met at breakfast! So we made plans to meet up later. Oliver and I finished our beverages and went up close to allow our eyes and ears to feast on the delight that was "The Crazy Mess Groovers," an 8 piece array of loud-suited Frenchmen with names like "Mr. Deebeedeebop" and "Mr. Creamy," fronted by a skinny fop in suspenders who could really belt it out. We met up with the ladies (Sophia the Greek and Hanne the Belgian) midway through the set and got swept away in the music. And then the rain came. It was magical. To dance in the rain, in a place I've never been, to music I've never heard, with people I'd never met before...to do all that, and feel 100% at home in my skin. The night didn't have to get any better, but it did.

We met up with some of Sophia's male friends (who were less than pleased to meet us, but made an effort to appear otherwise nonetheless) and we ended up at this small South American, Che Guevara-themed bar who's walls were covered in Sharpie art, open to any patron with a desire to wax philosophical. Naturally, there was a sort of tree diagram on one wall, and printed defiantly in block letters, asserting masculinity, were names of classic films. Names like Predator, Total Recall, Rocky, Over The Top. I may never understand the science behind it, but there on the wall it just made sense. In any case, after a few drinks (two pints of 8.5% Duvel for me) the live salsa music called for dancing, so dance we did. Lucky for us, we can dance, and also lucky for us, so could our ladies!

Afterwards, we wound up at a nightclub for more drinks (how am I, who never drinks, still standing? Perhaps it was the hearty Belgian meal), more dancing, and in all likelihood kissing and some heavy petting. For some reason, I wasn't thinking about the details of life. Maybe it was booze, or mania, or a combination of that and a natural high, but I felt good, I was happy, and that was all that mattered. The night eventually turned into morning as it has a habit of doing, and though what else transpired is clear as crystal to me, I shall leave it foggy for you. In any case when we woke up, the four of us had brunch on the rooftop terrace of the Museum of Musical Instruments. It was delicious, delightful, and despite getting a little rained on (again), it was a dream.

And then it was time to leave.

We said our goodbye's to each other and parted ways. I said goodbye to Brussels, but hello to a new confidence, and welcomed fond memories of a trip unplanned.

P.S. Did I mention the girls were the only people we met who didn't smoke, and just happened to have European Master's degrees in Exercise Physiology?

Bonus.

Prelude to a blog

We're on our way back to England now. Much blog-worthy goings of on have transpired, but I am saving their recounting for a real keyboard to do them justice.

FYI- High On Life
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Last night, post chalice draining, Oliver and I wandered around the city center. Eventually, during a quest for ice cream, I struck up a conversation with Emily and Maude, two Belgian girls, and we then proceeded to drink (for free since they knew someone who worked there) and talk with them till 4am. They were smart, rad, and cute, generally just really fun to hang out with.

So this morning, we went to eat at a restaurant reccomended by them. They not being tourists, the restaurant menu was, how you say...in french. And so, equipped with a french vocabulary extending not far past "patisserie" and "fromagerie," we managed to order something delicious through our tried and true method of "pointy talky."

After some lunch and a chocolate mousse that left me writhing in the tastiest of diabetic comas, we met some more chickas (a belgian, a portuguese, a greecian, and a south african), talked with them for a while and made plans to meet up later tonight.

The rest of the day was touristy, filled with buying shit and looking at things. Yippee.

Now we're attempting to decipher belgian tv. It's far weirder than you could imagine.
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Can't touch it.

The Belgians play MC Hammer in their metro stations.

I'm never going to leave.
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Brussels is currently rocking my face

Serendipidously we have come to the city during their annual jazz festival.

Awesome.

It's free. It's sweet. And it's a wondeful reason to sit outside in the city center and drink as the sun slowly fades.

Waffels, chocolate, even chocolate-covered waffles are abound.

Gotta go. Two giant goblets of delicious Belgian beer have arrived.
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This place has an impressive ability of redeeming itself even after angering me to the point of absurdity.

I will save the vitriolic account of last night's events, but suffice it to say that I am now of the opinion that English women are not only some of the least attractive caucasians, but also the rudest and most slovenly.

However...

That aside, I am having a splendid time. We just rode bikes to the edge of Cambridge and are sitting on the river drinking Cider that has been sold since 1728. Not that it's that old, but it's that good.

Tomorrow morning we drive to Dover and then taking a ferry to Belgium! So we'll spend the weekend in Brussels mucking about.

Magnifico.

Food arrived, must munch.
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Bottoms up

Pints at the smallest bar in the UK.

Awesome.
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Those Silly Things That I Don't Know.

Intangibles.

Aside from being an excellent name for a superhero group, that word seems to be the speculative thorn in the side of my mind. It's those things that I can't quite grasp, control, really put my finger on that seem to crop up when I get out on vacation. Usually, I would imagine, that most people spend their free time on vacations relaxing and not really thinking about all that much. Perhaps it's a lack of structure, but given all this free time my brain likes to stretch its legs into the vast expanse of could-be's and bother me with thoughts that in all likelyhood will never come to pass.

But there's nothing like a Go Kart race to distract me.

I took a break from writing this mental defecation to go with Olie to shred some English countryside with 260cc of pure joy! Let me just say that nothing clears my blockage like careening around hairpin turns at 30mph sans seatbelt or rollcage...at least I had some overalls on in case I caught fire.

Now I'm in Bury St Edmunds. It's quiet and really pretty. It's where they buried Edmund. Duh.

Funny how things change so fast.

Love. It.

Or. Hate. It.

My moods are nothing if not exciting. I like writing these entries in pieces. This next section comes after a conversation with Oliver about how my mind works while on vacation.

He suggested that a "vacation" for me might be something different. Somehow he zeroed in on an idea that really piqued my interest: a trip where I work. The idea being that after the vacation is over, I've accomplished something like helped build a house, etc.

My mind is reeling with avenues to explore.

There is a fat fly that keeps landing on my thigh; I wonder if he's waiting for my food to arrive too.


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Au Revoir (So Much To Say)

Leaving Paris, I was sadder than I thought I would be. I was just getting used to hearing the language and figuring out the phrases in my head.

I was just getting comfortable.

But time goes on, I suppose. Now I'm back in the UK. I got the internet to work on my phone now (hurray!) So I can blog/write from the comfort of my bed.

As I left on the train this afternoon, I was filled with an emotion that I didn't think I would feel on this vacation, an emotion (or mix thereof) akin to regret, longing, or maybe even depression. I was rather displeased to be hearing spoken english - even if it was "proper" english. French really is such a beautiful language and I need to spend more time there. Don't get me wrong, I had an amazing time. I guess I was just sad to leave so soon.

For now, though, it's Cambridge. The city is pretty and full of silly, Harry Potter-looking folk. Everything is quite nice.

Quite; nice. But not like Paris. I miss it already, even if it costs me 8 euro ($12) for a pint of heiniken, and every food dish is made of butter, eggs, cheese, and sugar!

*sigh*

"C'est la vie" or some shit, right?

Muscle relaxers and Kronenburg are kicking in. They make me write sentences like: "Melting off to sleep," and "Shadows fall forward in the setting sun."

Nighty nite.
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Une petite d'Amour

This. City. Rules.

I was impressed the last time I was here, and it has been no different thus far.

And the women... so full of smiles and life. The energy is electric, I am in love.

Je me suis réglée.

Ok, time to go. Cafés to sit at, women to meet, crazy french keyboards not to type on.

Ciao!

No Pressure

Went to Oliver's work today, watched some F-15's take off...Holy Shit. Got some cool pics of the Jet with Olie in it. Talk about some Rumble. It was good that it was cloudy today, because then I could see the afterburners. :)

I'm still jet-lagging a bit, but I'll survive. We're about to head out to the train station now to head to London for the night, and in the morning we'll take the Chunnel Train to Paris. Good times all around. The beer is good here. The women are sturdy. The weather is wet. The country is green. All as could be expected from a Spring in England.

I love it.

In Cambridge

I've arrived. To moderate fanfare, exceeded expectations, a chicken sandwich and a mango smoothie.

It's a little rainy here, but it's nice. Not much too report yet, I'm a little tired, but the travel was easy. Oliver and I are about to head to the pub for a bite and a pint.

I haven't been able to access the internet from my phone yet; for some reason the network that I'm connecting to isn't data capable, but I have access here at Olie's place so I'll post from here when I can.

Beginning

And so it begins...

I'm at the gate now, digesting some semblance of vegetable lasagna from the LAX food court. The terminal is packed full of odd looking people, and I look at them smugly, but I sit very far away. I like watching people, especially in airports or malls, despite my uncomfortability around crowds. It's like when I see so many new and different types of faces, combinations of head shapes and face holes that I've never seen, I stop seeing them as people and I start seeing humanity as if it were animal. It is highly amusing to watch these alien creatures waddle and graze, complain and contort.

This is going to be a good trip for me. I will be forced to handle myself in ways that I've always wanted to, but never gave myself the opportunity. I'm far less afraid than I've been in the past; perhaps its self-confidence, or maybe lack of caring. In any case I'm excited, nervous, but most importantly, happy.
I'm going to make entries as often as possible, mostly with just the interesting updates as typing out emotional novelas on these tiny keys is less rewarding than it should be.

Communication is bisexual when u think about it. Leave me some love kids.
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The Corpse of Chronos

I'm confronted with cavernous darkness and echoing air. An expanse both dense and hollow; warm just slightly past the point of comfort. My movement is much more limited than it should be given the vastness. I am floating rather than walking, and the speed of my action is limited as if the air is water.

I am in the belly of an unknown beast.

It's not a question of how I came to be trapped. I am looking for a way out. However, without vision, without a reference point, I am eternally centered. Each passing increment of time re-anchors me to the present moment, and I make no outward progression. If only I could move faster, explore more, surely then I would be able to find an exit. What I have yet to fully comprehend, however, is the truth about the passing time:

The beast died long ago.

What is beyond this insulated casket? When the rotting leaves me a skeleton in a cage of bones, what then? My eyes, blinded from a lifetime of darkness will be unable to see the expanse of the desert that claimed the beast. I will be too old and weak to venture forward, weighed down even by my dessicated skin. Perhaps I will muse to myself some final words, wry and eerily cheerful.

"Don't worry about what you eat. Worry about what eats that which eats you."

Waiting Rooms

The sallow faces of people sag as they wait for their name to be called. Patients waiting. Squeaking doors perk heads, and attentions snap anxiously like grazing animals disturbed. When nothing happens the herd returns to the magazines, the complimentary water, the gravity of the low-sounding television. There is so much anticipation for a place where noone wants to be.
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Ocular Appreciation

A blink. Days have passed. Cherry blossoms fell in festival last week, perhaps the week before. A blink. Yellow light in the air draws my attention in diagonal, opposite angles of the setting sun. Opposite angels, the city of which I call home. My home calls me. Between blinks of realization and slivers of sound, consciousness reminds me that wholeness and completeness are only conglomerations of fragmentation. The spectrum is white light shattered. A blink and light is gone. Black is not a color, but the absence of. A blink because my eyes are dry, even in the darkness.

On beginning:

So I'm realizing that this will in all likelyhood become a creative outlet for me while I'm sitting here at work. I'm sure I'll use it at other times, but like right now, I have nothing to do other than slowly slip into a food coma, so instead I'm going to write! Hurray.

Today's been relatively uneventful. My job on the whole is pretty uneventful. Buying food and running errands is the bulk of my responsibility. Which is good, I guess. It seems like I'm having more and more responsibility coming into my life outside of work nowadays, so it's nice not to have to feel too pressured to perform at the office.

Yesterday I went through the archives of my old livejournal. It was really interesting to read all of the emotions that I went through. It showed a pretty sharp contrast in my moods, almost a narrative depiction of my bipolarity. Somedays I was ecstatic, others morose, but the thing that struck me the most was the consistency of the writing. It was very inspired, and very creative. Right now, I feel out of touch with that part of my writing. I've become very deliberate and focused, but at the expense of passion. Ah, to find balance.

This journal (I really don't like the word blog) is going to end up like my LJ, but it's going to be better, more balanced. Once I get the hang of how to handle this sucker, I'm going to let it all hang out.

Focused and balanced in its chaos, naturally.

Wilkommen!

Here we are again, dear reader. Just us. Well, just me right now, as I have no readership just yet, but this is for you when you finally join me here. It's been a while since I've had a steady journal. While I maintain a blog on my myspace, it's more emotional and sporadic than anything. I want to utilize this platform the best way possible. I want to communicate my thoughts, opinions, emotions. I want this to become a dialogue. I have a few ideas for what this will become, I suppose in time we will see what develops.

So anyways, welcome. If you've read me before, you know what's coming. If you're new, be prepared for the ridiculous, the empassioned, the asanine, and the sometimes unfounded.

Peace, Love, and a 100% Mortality Rate.