A Waste of Two Months

I’m trying not to get depressed about my long-distance relationship with The Contortionist.  I tell myself that things just happen the way they happen, and it is fruitless to try and control them.

Things are tough with her right now – it’s easier for me to deal with distance than it is for her.  I get really lost in my work; I need to keep going with these projects, and for now that means I am in Tokyo 100%.  It feels like she has pressure to be with people who are on tour with her.

The Contortionist asks how things are going outside of work.  Well, there is no “outside of work,” and that means that everything sucks.  Today I had a really depressing meeting with another producer friend of mine…  I’m basically about to give up on everything in Japan.  I am looking to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.

It feels like The Contortionist is saying goodbye to me as a boyfriend but maybe everything in my life just looks really dark to me right now.

Sometimes, I wish we would just forget about everything, and other times, I wish that we could just go back to the way things were in circus school…

I am at a new low in my life, feeling really alone.

Love/Hate Relationship

This long-distance relationship with The Contortionist is not working well as she’s touring through Europe.

When we see each other in person, things are fine.  When we email, things are fine.  When we text message, things are fine.  When we are alone, I am fine, but she seems to panic.

Given the situation, I really feel like we should stick to the forms of communication that work well.  My impression is that on the phone I’m not able to tell her the things she must want to hear and this experience is showing me that I need a girlfriend who is tough enough to live on her own and be independent when we are apart; to write me with good news about her accomplishments.

Do we love each other or do we hate the idea of losing each other?

I’m learning from all this how much people can change from year to year, and so the idea that someone can say that there is a ‘one’ for them just doesn’t make sense to me. Of course, I do believe that there is a ‘one’ out there, but there is no way to know who it is, or to control who it is. It just will happen that way in the end.


The Heartbeat of Worlds

It was a usual day in almost every aspect except for what was missing.  There was an absence of a crashing roar that I had come to take for granted after a lifetime of living next to the sea.

“How long has it been like this?” the man asked me.

As well as I could remember the ocean had been functioning as normal the night before.  Wave after wave came crashing in, spraying a salty mist which coated everything in front of the churning gray organic stew with a sound that, above everything else, I what I had come to know as the sound of the earth itself.  Its breathing, its pulsing…  if the earth was a living object, then surely, the ocean is one of its vital signs.  Falling asleep, waves breaking at the base of sheer cliffs far below; whispered secrets of a forgotten past.

The assholes who had culled in the power of the ocean and that had choked it with an onslaught of silty poison…  the fish that smothered and suffered under the weight of countless belching smokestacks.

I am the horizon, I am unreachable.  Take four footsteps forwards and I will always be there, four steps further away from you.

We are on a journey that will take us to places that we cannot even imagine.  The journey can never end until we are told that it is over.  What are we walking towards?  What are we expected to do?

I think of a woman; I dream of her – obsess, even.  Men sense their own baseness, and we idealize and idolize “woman” as a vision of unobtainable heaven, one that can deliver us from all pain.  It is a curse.

It is a woman that I am dreaming about when the idea of the trip first enters my mind.

…so we cut ourselves free from this life.  We, the students of science, of philosophy, history, dying, impotent disciplines, in this poisoned environment.  Academia stifles itself.

The present never pleases me until years later when today’s present is cruelly revealed as the finest time of my life: never had I been more handsome, more charming; never were my friends so exciting and so stimulating as they were in yesteryear’s “today.”  Sometimes the only way to get through today is to see how it will seem a few years from now.

The trip took from what we feared and cast us into utter freedom.  We had no support, everything was thrown to chance.

I was not happy with my studies, I was not happy with my life, I was not happy with my parents’ relationship, the only yardstick for my own which had just fallen apart.  It was like the ground opened up behind me and I knew that it was time to leave.

I despised drama, always had, and never meant for my life to become one.  I had never meant to do anything important, I simply needed to be free do what I was doing, finding meaning could come later.

I went to my last class not long thereafter, the image of the woman still fresh in my mind, but at the same time absent, like a memory stained by a perfume or a poison.

I am lost when I try to see the world poetically. All the “things” get in the way, and the best I can do is to try to juxtapose those objects in pretty ways.  My first step was to go to a place that I had never meant to go.  I wanted to see a desert, I wanted to see an ocean, I wanted to learn how to pump gas, I wanted to know which fork to use, I wanted to graduate, I wanted to have a good job, I wanted to be able to support myself, I wanted to stop wanting so much.

It is a way to get around, to go faster and faster through the routine until acceleration lifts you out of your orbit.  Nothing is predetermined, I know that now, though I could have never convinced myself of it before my parents left each other.

Finding meaning in life is a trap; nothing means anything – I’m certain of that – but I still don’t know what it means.

Muscles and veins and nerves and bones make a man, and this one has a desire for a woman that is so strong that I can taste it.

On the road and free again, I’ll never know what is actually happening and what is just remembered.

I feel like I am in a hospital.  The room is taller than it is wide or long.  I feel like I am in a hospital because of the way the sheets feel starched under my naked ass.  I feel a dull aching, like I had had too much to drink, and my throat feels raw, like I’ve swallowed a pinecone.

Since when did explanations have to be good, I wondered.  Explanations just tie observable actions to motivations, and no one motivation can be any better than the other.

I am not sure how I got here, of why I need to be here.

I know that I am injured, my joints seem so stiff… my mind is too cloudy.  I feel as though I might be missing fingers.

I know that I can fight, that I will not stop defending myself.  I get angry and when I do, I don’t back down.  It’s been that way since I was a kid.  Today, I want to look civilized and demure with the veneer of a gentleman able to pass through an airport without enduring random security checks.  I like having the illusion that accomplishments are somehow a suitable mask for the weak and ugly person that hides beneath.

Schooling is perhaps a way to mask our inability to deal with the real weaknesses lurking directly beneath the surface.

Now I admit that there is no science in art and that there is no art in science.  A person cannot live always inside of themselves.

When the Japanese first started to import foreign literature, Western translators discovered that no Japanese word mapped well to the western concept of love.

Imagine a whole island full of people living for thousands of years with no spoken way to describe an abstract feeling that in the meantime had become a central aspect of European culture.

I want to be in the crux of a y, I want to be there the moment that the ocean stops beating.

Ocean waves are the earth’s heartbeat.  On the day that it stops beating I want to be on the beach looking out over the glassy expanse with a flat stone in my hand.

I want to be there on the day that the earth dies, sending out a shuddering sigh that shakes all of our cities to the ground.

I want to understand all the things that I never have.

There are always two rivers flowing through the minds of men.  One is flows in the direction that they are meant to go in and the other is flows in its own direction.  There is no place for insanity in a disordered world.

Who knows what I am meant to do in my life?

Not me; otherwise I would have done something about it by now.

I want everything but can do nothing.

I am living a world of the mind an don’t even know what I want to say.

I do know however, that I was sitting in a basement bar in Taipei drinking myself into oblivion one shot of tequila at a time.  I was writing by hand, page after page.  I knew that I was going to finish my whole notebook and that I would read it the day after as my body voided itself of the poison I was feeding it.  I would drink until the words flowed freely, and then I would keep drinking until my mind was empty; until I was unable to put pen to paper to form a letter, a word, or a sentence, a story, or a message.  Then I was going to write an email to a woman.

When we get to the point that we can say nothing more, that I when we will truly find out what it is that we have to say.

This was the idea at least, the rhythmic nature of the ritual of drinking hypnotizing myself into a state of suggestibility and then I would tell myself what this as all about.

I am in a car I am on a street.  What do I want to say?  What the fuck is wrong with me?  When I write I can make the pen move and dance on the page and actually see how I feel without being able to understand the language that I am writing it; when I type the whole game changes and I am somehow separated from the story that I am telling by a screen that burns my eyes.  What is the story here, who are the people? Where is the death?  Where is the sex?  Where is the passion and how am I ever going to get to it if I am not able to even show my emotions on the page?

Before writing for me was such an intellectual thing, now I am flooded, soaked with emotions and I am finding that my old vocabulary is sadly and sorely insufficient to describe new things that I suspect are central to what it is that I want to write about.

Indecision, passion, flowing and loving, feeling and opening and connecting and getting past the things that get in your way just by keeping you what you always were.  It has to be a search, it has to be about lost opportunities and forgotten pasts.

There is a world of worlds out there, each one with a different heartbeat.  Our earth has a heartbeat of liquid water, whereas Titan has a heartbeat of liquefied methane.  It is a flutter of a heartbeat, it is light, it sounds like it might faint at any moment, an intricate dance between figures in a book, a beautiful dance between numbers in a calculation.

The sound of a dead planet, the sound the ice on Pluto.  Its heart has stopped.  We know it as Pluto, as Pluton, but there is no way to describe what it really is.  It is a “small planetoid,” sure, but there is still nothing on earth that we can compare it too… were Pluto to come and lie on earth somewhere, what would it look like?  A giant marble on a plane? What would it feel like?  Cold.  Smooth?  Would it be a round beautiful marble like jade spheres for sale in snake alley in Taipei?

What would we think of it if we could see it and smell it?  Everything has a smell.  We could bring samples of the moon back to the earth, but would they ever let me pop a piece into my mouth just to see what moondust tastes like?

Kinetic energy.

Where is it.

It is time to get focused.  Do I have something to say?  Yes, but that is exactly what I should never say.  People who say what they want to say are annoying – you can see right through them.  The story that someone wanted to tell is so transparent compared to the story that found itself, that asked itself all the right questions and was able to tear itself out of the terrible state of non-existence!

There is a lot that I hate about training myself to be, to quote my MIT friends, “a goddamn miracle of modern science,” but then there is a lot that I love about it too.

Am I a hard drinker?

“Fuck no,” says the brute, smacking the little shit on the crown of the head and sending him downwards in a pile.   The world can blink out of existence for just a while as I sit there in silence.  Why does a man meditate?  What is it that goes through his mind?

Souvenirs of a 2003 European tour

Barcode – The Clown and I created this show which was the first-ever creation I’ve had the opportunity to tour.

Racism in Europe – more open and socially accepted than racism in the US.  Good and bad sides to both.

Barcelona – the first city I ever had the good fortune to street perform in.

The Contortionist – seeing her on and off throughout the trip brings us to the edge of starting a relationship together.

Switzerland – “Don’t trust the Swiss!  Thieves, all of them!”

Munich – totally ill sleeping on the sofa of a German physician of noble decent.  We watched Friends in German.

The Clown and his family – my European adopted home – I’ve never had such a fantastic time with the parents of one of my friends.

Theater versus circus – the jury is still out on which I prefer and how easy it is to mix these disciplines.

Italy – street performing in Loano, feeling the appreciation of my friend’s grandmother for the 442 soldiers who liberated her city, an event in an old Italian castle, seeing the shroud of Turin, an Egyptian museum, a real cappuccino, almost getting punched in the face for offering to help our friend’s father cook, getting sideways glances from sleeping on the same sofa as The Clown, coke and rums, teaching strippers to dance, peeing into the ocean from a bridge.

The Rythmic Gymnast – met the Artist’s new girlfriend.

Beautiful moments – lot’s of them.

Al Carrer – my first circus festival.

Cruising – getting a master class in meeting women in clubs from The Clown.

Role of circus versus personal responsibility – I choose circus.

Amsterdam – sleeping 5 people in one bedroom, getting in a bike accident, no one catching The Artist when he shouted “movement” in a loud dance club, getting pushed by my mates into a private dance booth and being certain that the giant Black stripper was a man.  She wasn’t.  I was scolded for screaming.

Trains – so different in France versus Germany versus Italy.  I love travelling by trains when I can.

Language – so many to learn.

And finally, the Barcelona cast of characters we met:

  • Slovenian girls
  • Barbara
  • Army apes
  • Two face guy
  • Drunk guard
  • Drunk guard’s friend
  • Swiss girls (Mya and Sabrina)
  • My “boyfriend”
  • pot smokers
  • Shy Asian girl
  • Clap dancing hippies
  • Vomiting white dress girl
  • English blokes
  • Blue rose bitches
  • Pickpocket talkers
  • Curling fan
  • Clautilde
  • Oreille
  • 3 video girls
  • 3 Spanish girls
  • Danish wheelchair family
  • Singing guy with radio
  • Bleeding junkie jumproper
  • Dutch acrobat
  • Coke waiter
  • 2 waitresses
  • Aaron juggler
  • Bulgarian drunk soft head porter
  • Drunk red-shirted Norweigan
  • American break-dance guys
  • Barcelona break-dance guys
  • Burger King guard
  • Camping guards
  • The Tumbler’s bouncer friend
  • Dutch dog
  • Charlie Chaplin
  • Singing mustache waiter
  • Burger King waitress
  • Military solo camper with dog



Distance, Dodgeball, Lichen

i owe it to myself, and to whoever i might possibly end up with, to be myself now, without them, and to continue to be myself even after i meet them. 

the people around you are like a fluid that you continuously move through and past.  it’s lonely to think of people and their minds and their souls as things that you pass by.  

if there was no time, there would be no such thing as distance, because all that makes two things physically separate is the time it takes to travel from the one object to the other.  we would be surrounded by everything and everyone that ever made us happy.  

the passage of time is important, indispensable, to the people who want to achieve something. it’s a race that never ends, all the training and all the failure, all that is part of the race.  there is no finish line, there is only running and running and running.  

i remember in junior high or elementary school and we had to run in gym and i hated running.  i just did the running.  like, i wasn’t the kid who would throw up and i wasn’t the kid through whom the teacher could relive his youth vicariously, but my point is that a lot of people sit down in the race like the girls in my second grade class who would sit down in the middle of the best dodgeball game ever because it was stupid. 

and the thing is that yeah, dodgeball is stupid and a race metaphor that combines notions of life and achievement and time, that’s just as stupid, but i loved dodgeball and i love this stupid race too and i’m going to keep running it until one of my ribs literally breaks through my chest and sprays blood all over the asphalt ahead of me and my leg bone pierces through my ankle and grates on the ground and  splinters and shreds like a green stick just pulled off the tree and until everyone i know can look at me only pityingly and an xray shows no injury, but rather just age, and that the age was only brought on by the race itself.  

what is it about the body that makes people who pursue these things want to break it down and destroy it?  is there some promise of liberation?  to see the destruction and decay of everything physical and to know that something inside you is still soaring?

a lichen on a rock that has decided that 0 mph is maybe the right speed for me if you please thanks very much, though, and send me a postcard from infinity when you never get there.  enjoy the ride and the hatred of yourself when your sweat hides in your eyebrows such that the slightest wince might send a stream of stinging salt into eyes forever fixed on the horizon that may as well be your only place worth getting to. 

my name and address:  travelling acrobat, the horizon, earth.  never send me anything.  thanks.

Want To See My Brain?

i keep a journal.


which is probably the best way to make sure that things that matter to me on a scale greater than 24 hours will never be written down.

it is in my 15 minute walks back and forth from school that i actually am faced with and choose to confront the reasons for this day following the previous eight-thousand four-hundred and fifty-one.

and so.

this is it, all cards on the table.

my goal in life is to understand the practice of honesty in order to grossly improve the lives of those i can affect and/or use a shotgun to spray head-gore all over the wall behind me.

so i guess that i am in the middle of a terribly self-absorbed time of my life right now in that i have come up to this mental block.  until i know what it means to be honest, i can have no way of knowing if i should be allowed to play with other kids.

becuase there are a million things that can be mistaken for honesty, such

as: power, fear, laziness, media, and goverments.

so the search is on for a media through which honesty can flow unhindered.

and i thought that maybe the place to look for such a thing was everywhere, but turns out that there are too many people looking everywhere and that screws everywhere up.

so it’s acrobatics as art for my textbook of truth.

but what does it mean that everything that hinders my study of acrobatics is the everythings that other people want so much of?  sleep, food, friends, rest, etc?  is it my tradeoff for being so self-centered?

why is it that the further along this path i go, the more i need to shed. 

if all goes well, i may be in moscow all alone in the most selective circus school in the world, privately trained in the russian tradition.  i will own clothes and a milk crate of books.  the time i spend with friends will diminish from once a month to maybe once a year.

is isolation so necessary in an essential search for essences?

if not so physically, at least in a mental state.  and until you can keep the mental state guarded…

all i’ve learned so far is that the best advice comes in the form of someone telling you something you already knew.

and having that make you better.

and the best revelation is understanding something you can’t ever learn.

there is a reason, i’m sure, that socrates had an aversion to writing things down.

fortune cookies are glad that confucious and all his slanty eyes peers didn’t.

i hate saying things.  writing things.

how will i know when it is worth it?  when i have figured everything out i guess.  necessarily on my own i guess.

is it possible to find a person who can make you feel more alone than you do all by yourself?

is it healthy to want someone like that?

and not to?

not to.

what’s the matter of the matter?