Dear A

I never really understood it. Because the truth of the matter is, I never really knew you. I wish I had, now, when your absence, the vacuum of you, leaves room for things like regret, like recollection, like an oddly misplaced sense of nostalgia. I wish I knew you better.

But my earliest memory of you isn't anything concrete. It's more a feeling; a detail, perhaps -- you smiling, in that quiet way, a friendly word, an incomprehensibly genuine warmth. I never really knew you, and yet I remember these things about you. Of you suddenly just being there, and treating me not as some intimidating upperclassman (of which all upperclassmen seemed to be back then, however unlikely) nor a complete stranger (of which technically I was), but as someone you felt like you'd known forever.

I've lost everything but the vague shape of those high school memories, though I have this muddled impression of you asking advice from me once. And I never understood why. It was inexplicable to me then why I should be your chosen wellspring of sagacity, but I figured for someone to look to me for help, their situation must really be dire.

I don't remember what that situation was anymore, or how it turned out. It must've been fine. What I do remember is how I felt after. For this bright-eyed kid with apparently not a lick of sense in him to put his confidence in me, to humble me with that kind of blind faith, then maybe I deserve it. Maybe I am more. Maybe what he saw in me is real, and I don't have to be a fracture of my doubt and fears. I can be what he saw me as. I can be better.

It's strange, what ends up resonating with us. Some whispers are heard as shouts.

You made me feel that. And we barely knew each other. Imagine what you did for your friends. But I know this about you -- that you saw the best in people. More than that, you took its actuality for granted. You bought into it wholeheartedly, and by believing you made it real. You made everyone around you better, simply by trusting that they could be. You certainly did for me.

We lost touch soon after, in the way that people do. A scattering of chance encounters over the years would oblige friendly if cordial exchanges, pleasantries passed freely around. I saw you one more time, briefly, that last night. Still the same quiet smile, the irrepressible warmth. You'd asked me for advice once, but it was me that somehow got the bargain.

I never understood it. The how of you. The why of what you saw in me, of what you helped put there. I wish you were still here, so you could keep giving what you gave me. I wish I could've given you more in return. I wish I knew you better.

I wish I knew you better.

Hiding in daydreams

Long overdue, but here's the previously promised summary of Iceland 2012 (for a more thorough examination, check out Ryan's multi-post write-up; also, some supplemental material can be found here):

Kris joined us from LA to venture into the icy north. We're waiting to check in to our hotel in Reykjavik here.

I don't remember the details of the story, but the gist of it is: tourists mistaken this clear, shiny river near þingvellir for a wishing well, but it ain't, so quit. Incidentally, þingvellir is where Icelandic forefathers founded the world's first Parliament; also where the North American and European tectonic plates meet (or met, and are now engaging in the world's slowest break-up - like 19mm/year slow, which is just a hair slower than the rate your fingernails grow. See, you can learn stuff while on vacation).

Something's happening.

Ryan and Kris share a laugh at Seljalandsfoss, one of the many pastoral charms of the Icelandic countryside.

A wool factory near the town of Vik. Quaint, warm, and a little itchy.

The black sand beach at Reynisfkara.

We were on a whole-day bus tour with the couple in this picture. It's not reflected in this particular photograph, but the woman [in red] walked with a cane, so at every stop (where the tour guide gave us roughly 20 minutes or so to "enjoy ourselves") the man [in black] would carry her, wedding-day style, anywhere from 20 to 100+ meters (in the rain, I might add) to whatever sight it was we were meant to be taking in. I don't know what you'd call that, but I hope to find out one day.

I can't really top that story with anything, except FUCKING GEESE! I don't know why I get so excited. I just do.

Kris finds the much ballyhooed Kaffismiðja coffeeshop, and proceeds to journal. We sat at the kids table but, bonus - lots of art to distract the eye.

Later, we take a cross-country (literally) drive to see the Skaftafell glacial tongue. Pretty scenic drive, I guess.

Oh, hey. What's up, Glacier.

Ryan doesn't quite beat the self-timer on his camera.

Good trip. Us waiting for the shuttle to the airport. Ever sticklers for thematic consistency, Ryan takes a snooze while Kris journals.

Back in the City.

[Iceland // New York, February 20th-26th 2012]

Gathering stories

So, Iceland.

There will probably (hopefully?) be a more definitive/descriptive post about our travels to the mostly frozen north in the coming days, but here's a quick photo dump so I can at least say I tried. I should note that it wasn't until after I'd gotten my prints back from the photolab that I identified and diagnosed a light leak in my camera. Some shots came out okay, others are a little... well. You'll see.

Take me with you, take me

Gobbledygook

          Excepting when I was a boy, when it was considered a justly earned right, I never was entirely comfortable with the notion of idleness, of indulging that legacy negotiated privilege of dragging oneself listlessly about, lamenting the deep and utter tragedy of having rather nothing at all to do. That is not to say that I have inured myself to her particular treacheries; on the contrary, I have on innumerable occasions found myself frequenting that gilded boudoir, finding that intoxication comes more swiftly and sinks deeper than from the headiest of wines, yet once lain there is little will to excise oneself from the soft sheets, to lose sight of the froufrou on the discarded dress, a reminder of last night’s gaieties, or to face the twin colossi entreating vigilantly outside the curtained door, that of left and right shoe. But as I now have wiped the opiated clouds from my eyes (and have since rejoined the mag- nanimous ranks of fellow rehabilitatees and their earnest twelve-step program), I unequivocally strive to never return to her bedchambers, to allow myself to wallow in that state of disinterested discontent, as if that, and not its antithesis, is some noble pursuit, and not the affect of, to be frank, a giant ass. I am learning the lesson of focus, and effort, and commitment, those paragons of industry, of contribution useful to me and mine; and that nothing is quite as unforgivable as believing you should be entitled to complain of boredom, or to, out of it, terrorize the hoi polloi, erroneously thinking that fighting for nothing is in fact standing for something (it’s not). Idleness’ diverse range of manifestations aside, the brand most, I suppose, native to me (or perhaps endemic to my trade) is the kind arising only when I am ulteriorly trying to get something done, which is to say deep in procrastination, inertia long having flatlined, almost having forgotten the task altogether, yet unable to go on with my day as my mental faculties are caught in a vicious holding pattern, the paradoxical result of having a queued up task luring my earnest if naïve brain into thinking it is being productive, combined with the tendency of my affliction du jour (or every jour really) to conjure some dalliance for my flip-flop wearing, mai tai enjoying attention span to wander hopelessly into. Read: I am never better at doing nothing than when I am supposed to be doing something; while my physical self is numbly engaged in tedium, my mind remains unfulfilled, and that torpor, that unholy un-ness comes creeping up to the placid surface, its hungry and dark intention of pulling me back under written plainly, gleefully on its dead-eyed face. There may have once been a time when I was content with such a misappropriation of my time and energy, but perhaps it is a direct consequence of a vague maturation that I demand more now, that I must give a quick look to the mirror of the bureau, throw some pants on in the dark, strap on those shoes celebrating my return as I exit into the world, no longer content among lotus-eaters, and swear to myself to never go back. That once elusive vitality is now my steed, the intense momentum of newfound, self-given purpose my bow, and work, of all its kind, my quarry – what ultimately must remain within us is that desire to fight back and to fight on against idleness, to always be curious and adventurous. Inspiration is the easiest escape from doldrums but sustainment is difficult, and it is only recently that I have begun to see that constant exercise, whether inspired or not, is perhaps the hardiest train to board; that practice does in fact make perfect, eventually; that daily impromptu beginnings are the surest way to endings; and that we must keep vigor at our nuclei.

Tell her that I miss our little talks

Williamsburg Bridge, November 2011

And you can tell them all that it's over

Once more.

I made a bridge between us then I slowly burned it

Robert Reynolds Gallery
yesterday night, Downtown LA Art Walk

Still deal with the same shit, that's great.

Also, perhaps worth noting:

What a waste, I could've been your lover. What a waste, I could've been your friend.

Yes.

You can't take the sky from me

Romance and illusion

This past weekend, The Creators Project took up residence in DUMBO. The self-described "ongoing global arts and technology initiative" to "support visionary artists, musicians, and filmmakers who are using technology to push the bounds of creative expression" made recent appearances at this past year's Coachella in California and the N.A.M.E. festival in France, as well as making stops in Sao Paolo, Seoul, and Beijing, among others.

We moseyed on down to Brooklyn to see what was what. Food stalls, beer tents, and unreasonably sunny skies - a perfect day for arts and music.

Here's a sampling of what we saw:

SUPER PONG by SuperUber - basically pong meets foosball so, yeah, awesome.

SIX-FORTY BY FOUR-EIGHTY

SOIL by Cantoni + Crescenti - an interesting installation where panels of aluminum flooring are layered over springs, creating an undulating, seesaw-y experience. Lights placed around the room set an eerie, ethereal atmosphere.

MEDITATION by Minha Yang

A PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE ARE FLOATING IN SPACE - light + musical installation that was simultaneously peaceful and maddening, a wicked bit of sense-fuckery.

My interest was primarily piqued by the music festival component of The Creators Project, which had a Saturday night headline of FLORENCE + THE MACHINE. The show was under an archway of the Manhattan Bridge, and had a diverse line-up of rock, hip-hop, and electronic artists.

Here's electronic artist FOUR TET doing his thing:

And of course, FLORENCE:

Several tracks off new album Ceremonials were played, and now I'm sufficiently amped for what sounds like is going to be an even better sophomore record. After having to give up my ticket to their show right around this time last year, you could say I was building up plenty of expectation in finally catching one of their live concerts. The long wait was worth it.

Fucking awesome show.

I can feel they fall short

I keep coming across stories half-written, abandoned, only dimly remembered. Like everything else, unfinished.

I mean to find them endings, one day.