It's the holidays again....

My Mom started crying when she told me that she missed me, that she never thought things would be like this, that she missed her babies.
It's the holidays again.

The words and the sounds of pain and longing in her voice came through the Skype lines clearly. They reminded me of a sad song I had heard a long time ago. One that I had forgotten the words to, but still understood what it was supposed to be about. Maybe it was a Christmas song. Maybe it wasn't supposed to be sad.

I never thought it would be like this either. Each member of my family living in a sort of solitary confinement of one design or another. Christmas, just another reminder of how different things are, how far away we are, how happy we should have been.

Aren't we entitled?
When did Santa start skipping us? Was he afraid our cynical new attitudes would rub off onto his beautiful red robe. Us being the lumps of coal that we now are.

---

My parents met in 1973.
My dad was surfing, sleeping on the beach in California.
My mom was waitressing.
They married in 1975
I was born on august 9th, 1977.
My brother July 28. 1980.
My sister September 13, 1987

---

Christmas. We had lots of good ones.

One of the first gifts I remember receiving when I was little, was a Mickey Mouse watch. It had a white face, with a black strap. Mickey's Mouse hands were the hands of time.

I used to love giving gifts. Especially to my brother and sister, who I knew, anticipated mine the most. (right?) One Christmas I decided to play a convoluted trick, on my little brother. He loved Matchbox cars. So I decided to buy him what I thought was just about the crappiest, cheapest, barely functional-est toy car. It was small too. I imagined watching his face melt into confused disappointment, at which moment ( after soaking it in for a few ) I would surprise him with the real gift. A set of very nice, real Matchbox cars. Quality cars. His face would light up with joy, making the gift that much better.

I wrapped the crappy gift in the "Russian doll" style. Box within box within box, till the final box was about the size of a washing machine.

When my brother, on Christmas day, finally struggled his way down to the tiny gift buried within, something fucked up happened. I was the one who's face melted in strange, twisted disappointment and confusion. He loved it. He expressed sincere gratitude for it. He hugged me and stuff.

When I presented him with the "real" gift, still hoping he would "get it", he still didn't. He appreciated receiving a second gift, but wasn't any more or less appreciative. It just didn't matter. He would have been happy to receive ANY gift. Because it was from me. Same with sister, same with mother, same with father.

Mom and dad divorced in 2003. On February 14th.
Despite some of our greatest, and sometimes sluggish but well meaning efforts, the holidays have never been the same.

Please don't misunderstand what I'm saying. I'm not blaming my parents. they had to do what they had to do. We were all losing steam at that point anyways.

Ever play one of those games of monopoly that just seems to go on forever? There's this point in the 4th quarter where everyones enthusiasm has obviously withered, and yet we all hang on while the feelings of indifference flourish.

My parents, exhausted and ready for bed, divided up the fake money and the fake house, and quit the game. So the rest of us did too. ( We were tired as well )

We went our separate ways, wondering if it had all been a pointless game. Does anyone ever really win anyways? What did we think it was going to be like?

We struggled with WHAT a family should be, HOW a family should be. Especially during the "new" holidays. I know that great brave efforts were made by my parents to try and establish something for us, and I applaud them.. It wasn't easy. I couldn't have done any better.

When the big storm blew apart our small, poorly built boat, we all floated off in different directions, grasping the pieces to help keep us afloat. This Christmas we can see the lights glittering from miles away. We can smell the Cinnamon and the spice drifting toward us in the wind. We can see the presents piled so high...

I went to the mall the other day, here in Chiang Mai. Christmas songs were playing throughout.
Is it Christmas here too?

As my mom started to cry, I could feel the same warm wet water dripping down my own face.
All I could say was "I'm sorry mom" "I know mom"

I am sorry mom.
I am sorry.

I always wanted to be a Graphic Designer. Well.... ok.... maybe not ALWAYS.
When I was little I played with the idea of being a pilot. A commercial airline pilot. This was, for a long time, my standard response to the standard "whachaWannaBe when you grow up" question. I liked the idea of flying around and going to new places, and meeting stewardess'.

Or there was Architect. When I was 9&10, and our family was stationed in Alaska, one of my favorite past-times was drawing up plans for dream homes. The sketches weren't anything elaborate, they were just 2D floor-plans whipped up on yellow legal pads. ( of which we had shitloads for some reason. ) The real fun, however, began when I was finished with the sketches. The gigantic Sears catalog came out. I always kept a copy in my room. I would go through the catalogue, page by page, picking out all my favorite shit. Each room in the house would be furnished. Whatever was on offer, I made a choice, from dishes to pillow cases to what kind of wall clock I preferred. Sometimes I felt a bit limited in my options, but it was all I had.

To this day my mother likes to remind me that at this time I had promised to designer her a dream home someday.

I was jealous of all the cool things that girls got. Remember Bedazzler? That thing was sweet, and I secretly wanted one. I spent many-a-night dreaming up elaborately bedazzled stonewashed jeans with matching jean jackets. Things I would wear as the child-pop-superstar I also fantasized about. ( of course I never said much about this, lest I be forced to wrestle or something. ) ( oh... and just so you know, apparently Bedazzler is BACK! check it out here! )

I spent Saturdays in the aisles of Ben Franklin's ( does this still exist? ) rummaging through the endless possibilities. For Christmas one year I bought Iron-ons and electric Zing puff paints from the place, and made t-shirts for my whole family. ( I think I went with a tropical beach theme )

It wasn't until 10th grade that I was exposed to the word "Graphic Design". Our high school speech class hosted a number of various professionals who told us about what they did. One of them was a Graphic Designer. Of all the things that people did, this was the only one that I remember really listening to, and wanting to know more about. It was something I could do. More importantly it was something I wanted to do.

My high school councillor told me about a Visual Communication course I could take at the local career-tech training center. I enrolled, and I loved it. I knew what I would do with my future.

After College, and after a magazine I had been designing for ( 80ish hours a week ) went out of business, I found myself broke, tired, and disillusioned. Did I really want to be a Graphic Designer? For the first time ever, I seriously considered a career change. Designing just didn't seem to be loving me back in the way that I thought that it should. Nursing would be better. I'd make good money and never have to worry about being out of work. I'd never have to eat another spaghetti burrito. ( at one point all I had to eat was spaghetti and some tortilla shells, thus the spaghetti burrito was born ) I was so close to enrolling in a program. Really.

While I was considering my new career, I went to the book store. ( I'm fascinated by so many subjects that I usually get overwhelmed and have to leave. ) I always manage to find myself in the Art&Design section though. It's almost unconscious. My feet move, and I arrive. There's a homing device in my brain, and it brings me home. Because, I've realized that Art and design is where I feel most at home. It's where I feel like me, or the me that I aspire to be anyways. I realized that I had to stay in Design, there was no other real choice. Even if I had to suffer from time to time, it was where I belonged.

And if you love something, you should fight for it.

I felt a bit cut off from the design world in India. Maybe this was a good thing, but after 5 months I was beginning to wonder if I had lost my passion. It seemed so distant in my thoughts.

Now I'm in Bangkok, and it's like I arrived in the Art and Design section of a bookstore, and discovered that they had an amazing selection. The designer in me has been reinspired. I find myself being drawn unconsciously to the culture centers and art galleries. I gaze in awe at amazingly elaborate window displays, fashionistas, and scenesters. I get off on it. It stirs something inside of me in a way that no sex, drugs or rock&roll could ever do. It's the new new Bedazzler, and I want it.

India wasn't easy. Life isn't easy. Being a designer isn't always easy either, whether you've always wanted to be one or not. But it's good to listen to your heart. All good love is worth struggling for, especially when you find yourself being drawn to it irresistibly.

It's good to be back in the Art&Design section!


EVENTS:
Was bored and bought a book on origami. I also bought the book Lolita. Did I say that I ran into Henry Rollins in a cafe in Kolkata? Met a cool Korean girl from the US who is designing a clothing line, we hung out poolside at the park hotel ( poshposhposh ) and smoked hookah and stuff. Chacos still haven't arrived and I have to leave India. Thanks Chacos. Flight to Bangkok on Kingfisher airlines was amazing, it was like first class or something. Drinks, face-towels, snacks, movies, 3-course dinner! I felt like a rock star. Bangkok... holy white people everywhere. and clean and nobody dying on the streets. Felt like I just arrived in Disneyland at first. But it's not.

Farewell....

Dear India,

First, I want you to know that I love you. After everything we've been through, you have a special place in my heart... and mind.

When I was...oh..... I think 6 or 7 years old.... My father accompanied me on my first ever rollercoaster ride. The Lockness-Monster at Busch Gardens. I was so excited and nervous, but I wanted it. The monster, with me strapped to it's back, prepared to go into a series of "going upside downs" and I panicked. Maybe I wasn't ready after all. I thought I was going to be sick. My father, sitting next to me, told me that it was OK if I wanted to shut my eyes. I was embarrassed by my lack of courage, but I shut them anyways. I shut them so tight there was nothing the monster could do to get inside. And with my father close at hand, I knew I would survive. And we did.

You were one of the monsters in my life too. I climbed up on to your back with all the same enthusiasm. I'm sure you knew how naive I was. You have a keen sense for newbies, I know this now.

You were wild and crazy. Painful and Awkward. Beautiful and astonishing.

Honestly I was intimidated by you. Probably even a little afraid, but in a good way. I didn't always have the energy to keep up with you and often you were just out of my reach. You were unlike anyone I have ever met. And when I say that, I know you can look into my soul and see the seriousness inside of it.

My favorite thing about you is probably the fact that it's impossible to define you. Somedays I felt like I'd known you my whole life, others I felt we were doomed to be strangers. You get me more then I get you. I think.

You wouldn't let me shut my eyes, even when I begged. You made me sick. You demanded my attention and punished me if I averted it. There wasn't much wiggle room with you. It was your ride, I was just on it.

Sometimes I felt like you hated me but so many other times you would sing to me in the night. Soft songs whispered in my ear of Shiva and Krishna, Pokoras and Somosas.

You told me some secrets, and showed me beauty.

I'll stop.

It's unfair of me to try and sum you up. You're more complex then I could ever communicate to anyone, and deep inside I know that you love me too.

India, I miss you already.
I hope that we meet again someday.

Love,
Chris!

I was 17

Continued from last week...

I was 17.
It seems so long ago.

It takes a bit of effort for me to remember what I was like back then.
I guess I was a lot like any teenage boy. I was a bit troubled, a bit depressed. I smoked a lot of pot. I went to a lot of parties. I would sneak out of my room at night to meet up with friends. We would stay up all night, driving. We would sleep in class the next day.

I was the one who would do just about anything.

I once took on a dare to streak the Grand Traverse Mall.
As an incentive, my friends promised to pay me $100 as well. I honestly didn't think too long on it. It was my kind of thing. I went to Target first, and bought a skeleton mask to hide my identity. Then I saw a toy cowboy pistol with a holster and bought that too. Might as well make it more interesting.

Two of my friends offered to run with me, and act as body guards in case anyone tried to grab me. Another friend agreed to be waiting in his car outside of the theatre, where I would exit. I went to the public bathrooms, lost all my clothes, donned the mask and cowboy gun...... then ran through the mall shouting and shooting off the cap gun. I never did get the money, I don't think anyone thought I'd really go through with it in the first place. But it was fine. I felt like a naked billy the kid, and for a short time, I felt just as legendary too.

It's a powerful feeling. Being able to do the things that other people think are a little insane.
It made me feel strong and confident, but in a short-distance sort of way. I started believing I could get away with anything.

When I was 15 I stole some cologne from Meijers, and got caught. I had to do some community service, and I was placed on probation. No big deal really. The next year ( while still on probation ) I stole a CD player. I was caught again, and had to serve three weekends in jail, and my probation was extended.

Sometime during that same year, there was a party planned. We had our "buyer" stash all the booze in the woods down a lonely road. It was my job to pick it all up and bring it to the party.
I placed every beer comfortably into the back of my truck, then started driving. A police car pulled me over. He had apparently witnessed the whole drop off, and had just waited for someone like me to come pick it up. I was arrested on the spot, and I received 30 days in jail with school release.

No more then a month after I finished my sentence, I went to a large house party that was busted by the police. We all received MIP's ( minor in possession of Alcohol ) and I knew what it meant for me.

So I ran away.

I ran away to Canada with another guy. We seriously ( let me remind you that we were about 17 ) thought we would go and start a new life. Work on a farm or something. I had $50 in my pocket. He had $20. We did gas-n-go's along the way and pinched our food from supermarkets. At night we drove till we were exhausted then past-out on the side of the freeway. Some nights we would wake up freezing. I would start the truck and drive for a few miles till things heated up a bit, then back to sleep.

It didn't take very long for us to realize how stupid we were. We were going nowhere as fast as we could. So we drove down through North Dakota and east back to Michigan. When I got home I was promptly arrested.

It was the summer before my senor year in high school, and I spent the whole thing in Jail.



EVENTS:
Still smoking lots of cigarettes but trying to quit / visited Kalighat temple and saw a baby goat get scarified / had some great Gazpacho at a Spanish cafe / The Kolkata film festival is going on / went to a creepy bar and got drunk / Met a cool french girl named Maya, wanted to make out with her, but didn't do anything about it. / Went to visit Victoria memorial / Saw a German film called "Hilda", everyone in the film was chain-smoking and it made me want a ciggy real bad / Went to see the movie "a woman's way" which is about a guy who gets out of prison, hooks up with a transvestite, has a dramatic penis-to-penis encounter with "her" then finds out it's his long lost son / There are no cows in Kolkata, which is weird / There are lots of stray cats in Kolkata, which is also new, and weird.

Yes I can

I know exactly when it happened.



I was serving a 90 day sentence in Grand Traverse County jail. I met a guy. He was serving an 8 month sentence for not paying child support. 8 months sounded like a lifetime to me, for him it was no big deal. He had done longer sentence's. He had been here many, many times before.



His crimes were all petty. Six months for a drunk driving here, 9 months for a domestic dispute there...... but they added up. He was 52



This guy. Who he was, and what his life had added up to, frightened me. It triggered an alarm inside of me. There was no way in fucking hell I was going to end up like this guy. I was 17



To be continued next week ( haha sorry )........





EVENTS:
Trains were late, which made other trains late, and made me late / started feeling sick in Varanasi, arrived in Darjeeling with a bad head cold and a runny nose / an English guy paid for my jeep ride ( which wasn't cheap ) / Ran into some friends I met in Varanasi, they had new friends, one of which told me she was a nymph. Her boyfriend wasn't happy /my feet stink all the time / Met a girl that looked just like a girl I dated in Grand Rapids, Lindsay, same mouth movements and all / bought a fake north face jacket cause its cold as shit in Darjeeling / kids here have mad styles... yo. / in the square I saw: karate fights, chopping of glass tubes, kicking of vases, running through fires, breaking of bottles over heads, and marching / smoking more cigarettes / Petracore is a cool place in Darjeeling / Danced with a crowd of Tibetans / ate amazing pizza / saw the movie "This is It" about MJ / Mona has lice /

significant others....

....and something else happened during my visit to Agra. I met a girl named Adriana.

---
My first attempt to see the the Taj was diverted by a monsoonish downpour. I had left my guesthouse without umbrella or raincoat, foolishly perceiving the brief morning sun as an accurate weather prediction for my day. The perception wasn't accurate though, and when the rain came down, it came down hard.

Drenched and miserable, I ducked into a nice cafe, and sat down with the only other single person in the room. Adriana.

The rain never let up, so we stayed inside drinking chai after chai. Breakfast turned into lunch, lunch became dinner, and at some point in the day I showed Adriana how to make a paper flower.

The next day we toured the Taj together, which was amazing. The dinner that we shared later was amazing too, perhaps one of the best tasting meals I've had in all of India. The ice cream was so-so.

I walked her back to her place that night, then caught a taxi home.

The next day I took a bus to Fatehpur Sikri, to visit an old palace. On my way toward the entrance a bus went by. It stopped, and suddenly...... there was Adriana, running toward me.
---

Varanasi is a dirty place as far as India goes, so when the cycle rickshaw went by with Mona in it, the contrast worked in her favor. Everything slowed down, including my head, which turned with the rickshaw wheels till they carried her away.

Of course, I didn't know who Mona was yet, so when the streets returned to full speed she disappeared from my mind. I didn't make anything of it, because it didn't feel significant.

Two days later I met a guy in a cafe. He was explaining to me the difference between Vishnu and Krishna, when a girl walked up and asked him about a photography lesson. I looked up and saw rickshaw girl. Fate, that lying bastard, suddenly whispered into my ear. He suggested that it was significant. But I'm no fool, and brushed it off.... logically.
---

When I saw Adriana runinng toward me, I was surprised, and a little confused. She had told me that she was planning to head back to Spain that day.

We hugged, she was was out of breath.

I told her I was on my way to the palace, and asked if she wanted to come along. She said that she had already been, so I told her that it was nice to have seen her again, waved goodbye, and then walked away.

The next day I received a very long email from Adriana.

It turned out that our rainy day at the cafe had been really significant for her, She thought that we had made a strong connection. At the Taj, the connection had became stronger, it became emotional. ( later she would refer to this as the "Taj effect") and she thought that I might feel the same. She had secretly wanted me to stay with her that night, and was disappointed when I left.

It also turned out that her visit to Fatehpur Sikri wasn't a leisure one. She had come with the sole intent of finding me. She spent her whole day searching. The town, the palace, the mosque. She had given up and boarded a bus for Agra. But....

As the bus rolled away, she suddenly saw me, out the window, walking up the hill. It had to be a sign, it had to be significant.

She explained how she had run toward me, with every intention of hugging me. Kissing me. Telling me everything. At the last moment though, she perceived something else, and held it all back. She realized that there was a possibility that I didn't feel the same. That these events might not hold such significance for me.

And she was right.

Sitting on the street, watching me walk away for the second time, she felt like a fool. Later I would feel like a fool too, but not for Adriana.
---

There was a Puja, then a Dhaba, then me finding myself on one side of a table. On the other side was rickshaw girl. Mona. By the time she told me that she too, was headed for Darjeeling, it was too late. My mind was already working. Like a Lehman's brothers executive, I was fixing the books in my favor, adding significance where none had been made yet.

In Darjeeling, me and Mona have been spending a lot time together. Yes she's beautiful, but an amazing person as well. We've had great conversations about books, music, movies.... even pizza. ( in various forms ) I've shared some secrets with her and she hasn't judged me. I made a connection.

But the connection, as it turns out, could be more of an attachment. Me attaching myself to her, because I want it to be significant.
---

I dated a girl in high school who did something like this. ( larger scale of course ) She was jealous and needy to the extreme, and it always frightened me.

I think I can be too independent for some people. I like space. I like meeting people.
Maybe I spread myself too thin though, and end up starving the important people in my life of the love and attention they need and deserve. It's not intentional, I just assume that everyone knows how I feel.
---

While I watched Mona walk away with her arms wrapped tightly around another guy, in the same way she had been with me earlier, jealousy flooded in, and I felt like a fool.

I didn't however, feel like a fool because of the realization that Mona's time with me, or with this other guy, weren't particularly significant, but because it made me think of Adriana. Because I was also capable of leading myself astray, of misjudging significance.

When Preeti, ( my ex girlfriend ) revealed that Independence wasn't the only reason she wanted us to break up, that in fact there had been another guy, I was so disappointed. Not in her but in myself and how vulnerable I was to misguided truths.

In the end though, the new information wasn't significant either. It didn't change anything. It didn't rob me of my ability to control my own perceptions, and it didn't erase the good times we had shared.

Me and Adriana felt different about the significance of our time together, but it didn't alter what had actually happened. We had a good time. I'm glad that I met her.

Me and Mona may not be bound together by significance either. It doesn't have to change anything.

It turns out that significance is just a perception. And a perception is only as real as the the perceiver decides it is. People disappoint themselves, because they see things that aren't there. We allow ourselves to feel like fools.

I suppose it's good to remember though, that when the perception of a sunny day, turns into a rainstorm, there's a warm, dry cafe... waiting just around the corner.

It's not significant, it's just there.



.

when I used to piss myself.

I was a bed-wetter. You know, the kid who pisses himself in the middle of the night. Actually I was more of a bed-soaker.

I would wake up in the middle of the night, literally drenched in my own urine. I don't remember when it started, but the bulk of it occurred while we lived in Alaska. I think I was about 10 or 11 years old.

The routine usually went something like this:
1. Wake up in the night.
2. Realize I've unleashed 2 or 3 gallons of piss on myself. And my bed
3. Feel a faint bit of shame about my apparent lack of bodily control, dulled by the privacy of my bedroom. ( and the fact that everyone else was asleep)
4. Change into dry pajamas
5. Grab a dry towel from the closet, and lay it down over the large wet area in my bed
6. Crawl back into it.

The towel sequence was always the default fix, but it wasn't perfect, especially if I had really let go. If the pissing had been particularly plentifully, I might expect to need multiple towel changes throughout the night. Or I could just bare through it till morning.

Morning. At home, in my own room, it was a great relief to have arrive. It signalled an end to my urine saturated hell. It also meant the bed would have a chance to dry out for the next nights probable episode.

My parents tryed many techniques in an effort to curb my enthusiasm for bed-pissing. For a while my dad would get up in the middle of the night, and try to lead me, like a Shepperd, to the bathroom, where my piss belonged. These trips were like strange dreams. "Chris....Chris.... go to the bathroom Chris".... I could hear my father saying. But I would never understand the words.

My favorite "Get-Chris-To-Stop-Pissing-his-bed" technique however, was an electronic unit my parents picked up in a shop that probably specialized in problems of my sort. A large piece of tin-foil would be placed underneath the bed sheet, then attached to an electronic "control-unit". Upon piss making contact with foil, an alarm would sound. A loud screeching alarm that sounded as if I was pissing into the face of a wicked witch, melting her. The idea I think, was that I would wake up in a fit of terror, never sleep again, thereby never pissing in my bed again. But I didn't wake up, and the piss continued to flow.

What did cure me, I think, was the eventual social anxiety I would begin to feel about the situation.

Some friends from down the road came over to my house one day ( well... my parents house ). I tried to avoid my bedroom, but it was futile. Someone was sitting on my bed, then someone was asking questions. I scrambled for answers, and the best I could do was to blame it on my brother. "uh... he slept in here last night" I said " I know, It's gross" I emphasized. It was such a cowerdly cop-out, but I couldn't help it. They would believe me, and I was scared.

The security didn't last long. I stayed at these same friends house one night, and pissed. So they knew the truth. Standing inside a ring of ridicule is much more effective then any screeching alarm. I became paranoid of my pissing.

My next big showing was at a week long camping trip that my parents had sent me on. I pissed in the tent one night. There were Five other kids in this tent. There was no dry towel for me to fetch. There was no change of pajama. I simply had to wait through the cold night, in my piss laden sleeping bag, for the morning, and for everyone else to wake up. The morning no longer meant relief.

On my trip to Panama, when I was thirteen, I shared a bed in a hotel with another guy. The morning after I decided to piss it, the other guy, who was older then me, didn't make fun of me. He didn't even shriek in horror by the piss that had crawled over to his side of the bed, dampening his leg. He just gave me one of those looks, that said " what the fuck man. You're like... 13 years old." It was enough by then, and I don't remember pissing another bed.

I've come painfully close to both pissing and shitting myself here in India, and it always reminds me of those bed-wetting days. One night in Delhi, I was literally making decisions about where on the sidewalk I was going to drop-trough and shit. With people around. Thankfully, I looked up and saw the shining beacon of a KFC marque... and strolled briskly in and did what was demanded to be done.

I figure if the piss or shit does make it's way out, in front of everyone, at least I'll have been prepared for the situation.