HEAD WEST

North By Northwest.

Habana.

This city is beautiful. Exhausting. Constantly probing- full on accosting attacks to which no non cubano is safe.

With reason. Poor versus poverty. To need versus to want. To be faceless, to be told you don’t want. It’s a study of the human psyche and certainly shortages and asinine rations play roles. Socialism is dying here- I see it in the faces of the solicitors. Capitalists.

But this city. BEAUTIFUL. Pretty. Enchanting. Amazing. Not enough-There are no words for it. Like the most gorgeous mujer I’ve ever seen. The buildings, the architecture and plazas are her skin-wrinkles showing when she laughs. The music everywhere-it’s the soul of the woman and all dance to her beat. The people of the street sway as they walk as if counting salsa steps. The cars here: old, classic, colored pure and bright and frequently breaking down- you can view one with a wrench cranking in it on any street corner, 2 modern tainos crouched over yelling staccato Spanish too loud. They stop just long enough to give an obligatory whistle to the girls walking by.

Havana, so aggressive you’re borderline abusive. So breath-taking its impossible not to fall for you. I guess we”ll just have to settle on an abusive relationship.

Guatemalan Love Story

It started subtly. And then It gripped me completely. That feeling so surprising- light breath and restless-heart rate increasing. But not love. More rare even.

The sounds of party were starting to take hold just below our beautiful terrace. The sun was dropping, but not before it pointed it’s last rays into viewed windows, slanting it’s warmth on walls inside. Bars were springing to life-the shit bands playing their first notes, Mayan, Spanish and English conversations being spoken on the outskirts of center stage over cigarettes-all of it being heard from my bathroom window while I gripped the toilet and trash in tandem-shooting out pieces of myself and Guatemalan agriculture from the atitlan region.

My neighbor at the hostel, a pretentious type American who will be forever faceless, told hours of bad jokes and stories, somehow impressing the insipid(I could only assume) girls that were his audience. It became a special melody:
Puke.
Bad Yankee joke.
Puke.
Bad American political lecture.
Puke.
Girls laugh.

A disgustingly punk rock song of traveling.

And inside my perfectly terraced lake view room I cringe and realize cynical philosophical truths that are cliche like: were all alone in this world, As john paul emailed today, all just destined for the same plain dirt hole in the ground. Also, goddamn how much money am I paying to puke off a room with a view? And is it possible for your intestines to come out your mouth?

Today is a new day and I am a veritable Phoenix of Latin American rotten food.

Onwards to eat more culprit food, drink more culprit drinks. But farewell toilet and trash- I’ll never forget the sunset we shared together- the last rays cutting across the dumpy mildewed flooring. It was memorable, part of the experience of Guatemala. Xo, kristen

The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering.

—Tom Waits (via observando)

B plan on the balcony. It’s official that the whole world doesn’t understand our relationship.

B plan on the balcony. It’s official that the whole world doesn’t understand our relationship.

My Kells <3

My Kells <3

As I exited the Ballard building this morning amongst the bustling setup of the farmers market, the dull whine of vacuums were cleaning up Saturday night and I wished they could somehow also clean up my guilt. That mick feeling when combined with a hangover is somewhat unbearable.

A poignant excerpt from my best friends musings.

"And as I read her words, I fumbled uselessly with my handy man tools, wondered when the last time was that I changed my cleanest dirty shirt, and recounted ruefully how I never put it in her ass."

My friend Zach did a rad series of Valentines. I adore them all.

My friend Zach did a rad series of Valentines. I adore them all.

My Valentine

I’m looking for someone in the 30-35 box that knows what to do with mine. 

I want someone who knows how to punctuate properly but is never perfunctory. 

I need a man that can snake my drain, oil my engine, while probing my appetites and wetting my organs. 

A man with a sense of humor and direction. A sweet guy that let’s me eat them all. 

I want a fit man that plays outside. A deep man that seeks. A man with a mouth that makes the dirtiest words seem eloquent and beautiful. He’s going to have an ear that can articulate music in the plainest of beats. 

A man that holds me close but gives me space. One with a vision not found in a television. A most courteous, very unholy, heretic.  

He has to be a special mix of rebellion and control; adventure and comfort; natural and learned. And he’s going to have to be reckless, careless, yet thoughtful for me to look twice. 

A naughty man, in mind and body that knows politely which fork is for salad and which knife for filet. 

I need a nice guy whose a smart ass. And I’d prefer he be a smart guy with a nice ass. 

One that understands when to hold thy hand and when to sex thy body. 

A thinking man that knows Beauvoir, Hunter, Camus, and why I hate Cromwell. 

A cute boy that hugs his mother and mine. 

He’s going to have to be a fighter that knows when to relent yet also a pacifist that knows when to stand.

A man of good taste in food, in art, in music and people.  

A dude that can mick drink with me which means he can drink lots of mickeys if need be. 

A man that can look at me-  malcontent, vexing, contrary, never precise, but often exacting- and still see me and think we should still be. 

And til I find him, I’ll just be him. I complete me.

My List, updated

1-Swim in Irish Sea X

2-Tomatina X

3-Sky Dive X

4-Bungee Jump X

5-Bike down Haleakala X

5-101 Lone Bike Trip

6-Climb Mount Rainier

7-Become a Yoga Teacher

8-Surf AK

9-Scuba Certificate

10- Learn Spanish

11-Spear Fish

12-Shark Tank Dive

13-Write a book

14-Own a farm

15-Gloucester Cheese Roll

16-Grape Stomp X

17-Kayak Inner Passage

My Xanax. And listening to Cold Cold Ground.

My Xanax. And listening to Cold Cold Ground.

My communo-Bdo.

My communo-Bdo.

I was born very far from where I’m supposed to be so I’m on my way home.

—Bob Dylan

(via lostinamerica)

I still think of you Paulson

I woke up in typical fashion this morning. Right now that means rousing myself from my couch which is 3” too short for my frame and accounts for the constant crook in my neck. Then I read the news on my phone distractedly drinking my French press until 10 minutes past when I should start composing myself for work. It’s ok though, I make it up in a shocking lack of effort put into my appearance.

Today before I could get to all that though, an old friend texted to remind me the date today. Today is the 13th anniversary of my best friends passing.

Fuck. I totally forgot. And I realized this marked what I was always afraid might happen.

I was 17 when she got in a car crash and after all was said and done- cold body in the cold ground-I was so scared I’d forget her. I mean not completely, but authentically-the little things about her, the details of her.

And 13 years later, looking back at that span of time, i see how much I’ve changed. How I barely remember the details of myself at that age. How each year I have alterred, grown, I think significantly.

And jeni. She stands still. No changing. No fights. Or phone calls or drifting apart or together. Just this blur of what she was. A Clift notes version of what I want to honor.