Blink Beat

My pictures from Europe arranged with music.

(Headphones recommended)

What does it all mean? Write a critique if you please...

Traveler's Song

Finding your manhood in foreign countries a-plenty, keeping your wits ahead of the many, decisions and prisms of choices to make, brake, find and take you under OR keep you awake. Blonde hair, blue eyes, arrivals, departures Gate 35. Coming and going and going and coming, buses to airports and shuttles to buses, rushes, white russians, Brussles and buttons... on Swedish made jackets, different shaped sockets, too many hours and flowers and clocks are blurring together to make Swedish sunshine last 18 hours of daytime, sinking in wait-time, not always a good time, yet always all MYTIME.

Happy ending, sad ending... This is why I travel

(Thursday, July 30, 2009)

Last night I slept in a park.

But, I just bought a beer with my back-up credit card, which was previously unusable (primary cash card was lost in Amsterdam) ... so things are looking up.

The culmination of the previous 48 hours has ended on a flat note and has lingered there for the time being. I'd like this melody to soften into a harmonious whole note and fade out slowly with savory satisfaction, but it appears that the maestro has gone missing...

- Wednesday 8:30am -

I stumble off the ferry boat surrounded by high-strung, hormone driven, mostly female Swedish teenagers who presumably have been looking forward to this day for months. They quibble & squabble on their way to the front of the pack in a desperate endeavor to be the first off the boat and see their adolescent stomping grounds for the next two weeks.

After wading my way through this sea of naivete, I get my backpack off the luggage-go-round, I step outside and realize I have no idea where to go. I'm supposed to meet my friend, whom I've only talked to via email, once in the past two weeks. I go back inside.

"Where can I use the internet?" I ask. He has a kind, round face that wrinkles around the perplexity of this unexpected question. He asks for my ferry ticket and turns it over. He draws a small map and explains in well-versed English that the library isn't far from here. I thank him and leave. Back outside.

After wandering around a beautiful port with old buildings on the mainland side, I come across a small park next to a university. I size it up and the pang of possibly sleeping here hits me like a sledgehammer. I tread into the library, with purpose.

After a long, arduous procedure, I register with the library and take to the internet. My two main goals: find a hotel for the night and then find Vendela. Accomplishing both of these would be fantastic! But accomplishing just one of these would suffice as well.

"No hotels available," reads the online website. None. Even the 2,000SEK ($250) options are booked solid and I mention them because after searching for an hour and finding nothing with panic peering 'round the corner, I'd definitely considered this possibility. When you're stuck in a tight spot, money takes a back seat and the typical impulsive spender uses this cliched, yet soothing phrase, "when in Rome" to justify his/her breakdown in financial morals. This situation however, is a little different. I would gladly do whatever it takes to sleep in a bed. I look at the screen and re-read the words, "No hotels available."

Then, out of no where, a flash of hope appears in my inbox. Vendela has written back with her phone number and work place on the island! I'd asked for it at least a week ago and what better timing than to receive it now. Realizing that I won't find a hotel from the library (the clock reads 7:12pm) I decide to cut my losses and make my way to her work to try and meet her there.

First thing's first. I get back to the ferry dock and spend the last of my Kroners (50 in cash) to put my bag in a locker and then I change my boat time for the next day as a fail-safe option. I know that these precautionary moves are keeping me a step ahead but at the same time, in the back of my mind I know I could spend a night with the stars.

I get a cab and go to Venela's restaurant. I've called the phone number she gave me from a pay phone, the library phone and now the cab driver's cell phone. No answer and no message service. It's 9pm. I wait. I walk around and get lost in my imagination. I marvel at the beautifully old castles and thin, cobbled walkways that lead people through this swanky, Euro-island getaway. Over 1,000 years old, I can't help but swim in its history and wonder what people walked these paths so long ago. What were their priorities on nights like this? Were they wondering what their purpose in life was and where their decisions would take them? It's hard to say with so much time between us, but I can't help imagine that at the core of us all, whether now or 1,000 years ago, must lie similar desires, questions and fears that fasten the binding buckles around each of our lives. The relationship between present day and history is invariably so close and yet so far from each other. As I walk these streets, the stone houses reverberate their anomalous nature on every side. I'm lost in the center of a timeless, imaginary world.

I slowly meander away from my day-dream and realize it's getting late. I make my way back to her work place, find a bench and wait again. As I look for the only familiar face I will find, I notice the people around me. Absolutely beautiful. Everyone. Soft, golden skin, matching their long or short silken hair. Bright and shiny jewelry accents their yellow hue and clothing styles I've never seen. Strictly European. Magazines from Albertsons' racks in the flesh. Not intimidating, yet they all have a unique presence, presenting itself.

After looking at so many Swedish faces in the hopes of finding Vendela, I finally give up. I look at my watch and it reads 9:50pm. I foolishly decide to stop waiting and begin my mission to find my location of slumber.

It's a funny thing trying to find a place to sleep... that isn't a bed. In the process, your animal instincts and desires take over. I found myself seeking out flat, grassy areas, prodding them and situating myself so I was comfortable. If I wasn't satisfied, I would move to another area and begin the process all over again. I also contemplated sleeping in one of the old castles (built in 1234A.D.) and nearly did so, until I realized that getting out might be impossible and the thought of tourists walking by a foreigner holding the gate bars, stuck inside an 800 year old building, though hilarious, might be an even bigger predicament than I was already in.

So, I settle down in the park. I find a spot in a small alcove, mostly hidden from a path. In Gotland, the sun goes down around 10p.m. and then rises at 4a.m. Usually, one might be angry when the sun awakens them at 4a.m. but this was not the case for me. The cold, mildewy frost had nestled it's way completely over the green, earthy bed and I, nature's newest edition, would not be spared from it's covetous duvet. Shivering to maintain body heat, my hooded sweatshirt is cinched up to everything but my nose and as the sun peeks into the day, I find solace in getting up and out of this temporary residence.

I get up and start walking. Trying to regain body heat, I look for the McDonalds I had seen the night before, hoping it would be open 24 hours and I could sleep at one of the tables for a couple of hours. However, to my surprise, the landscape has completely changed its appearance since the sun has made its presence. So, I have no other choice than to go back to the ferry dock and retrieve my bag. As soon as i get there, i plan on calling the previous hotels to ask for vacancy and then hopefully book a room with my backup credit card.

When i arrive, I make the necessary calls around 6a.m. and notice people docking the ferry for the first boat back to Stockholm, leaving at 7a.m. I male two calls to the cheapest hotels and find that one of them has increased its price by roughly $100 and the other doesn't pick up at all. With each phone call and no cash, my change is running thin and a crucial decision has to be made.

Either I go back to the library and wait for it to open, call the hotels (which were over $200/night, one day prior) and hope to book one with my limited credit on my backup card, try to meet Vendela at her work, which had previously failed, OR I could play it safe and try to return to the airport two days early in hopes of changing my flight and going home early.

Since the sleep in the park had severely tainted my perception of luck and chance, AND I still had yet to make contact with her, I decide to cut my losses and get on the 7a.m. boat back to Stockholm. A sad ending to what was so promising just 24 hours earlier...

I get back to the airport and find out that my flight is non-refundable/non-changeable. I also quickly realize that my backup credit card has maxed out and I have no other form of currency. I cannot purchase anything over $20 worth and therefore, a beer is acceptable to buy, but not a hotel room. I try to get online to pay my bill (as I have plenty in my checking account) but I'm denied, as it's a Saturday and the payment won't go through until the following Tuesday. Then, I browse my mail and see a message from Vendela! I click on the link and read:

Vendela July 30 at 3:08am

My phone is fucked up! Meet us at my work at 10 tonight! Its gonna be so fun! B-)

I'm crushed. Though she had told me she didn't have any place for me to sleep because she was sharing a place with 6 other workmates, I had previously thought that at least one of them may know of somewhere to crash. This news kills me. But the real pain comes from the fact that I missed her by a mere 15 minutes and I went all the way to Gotland, only to come up 15 minutes short.

EPILOGUE

After spending all day in the airport, racking up bills in collect calls home, trying to talk to my parents to wire transfer me money, I finally get my dad on the phone and he comes to the rescue. He wires me the money and instead of sleeping in the airport, I sleep in a Jumbo-Jet hostel

the next two nights and find my way back to Frankfurt two days later, where I am bumped up to BUSINESS CLASS, because of the flight company over-booking the flight. Thus, this sad story turned into a happy ending... Lovin' life after all.

Please, please

After putting on an arts festival in Hida, Takayama, I submitted this film.  When trying to decide whether to stay in Japan for another year, I contemplated the reasons.  This brought me to an idea for a short film.  The music is by the Black Keys.

India's Kaleidoscope

November 27th, 2008 (exactly one month before I'm scheduled to fly to India)

Indian soldiers stormed the last hideouts of Islamist militants in Mumbai yesterday after a day of bloody confrontation that left 120 dead, hundreds injured and the country's prime minister pointing the finger of blame at "external forces". Over 24 hours, gangs of heavily armed young men had attacked two luxury hotels, a hospital, a popular restaurant and a railway station. By the early hours of the morning the mayhem had left India's financial capital's skyline smoking…. Mumbai, a metropolis of 19 million people, had been reduced to a ghost town - with many international firms canceling travel and closing offices. [www.gaurdian.co.uk/world/2008/November/27/mumbai- terror-attacks-india9]

- Randeep Ramesh and Daniel Pepper in Mumbai

December 27th, 2008 (Takayama, Shanghai, New Delhi)

Twelve hours later we touch down onto the runway in New Delhi. After being asleep most of the flight, I take out my ipod earphones and look out the window. India's first impression on my eyes is made in the form of smog. The thick, sticky air illuminates the yellow lights on the barn-like structures, which sit still alongside the runway and transform the yellow into a golden hue. Accentuated by the grim haze, each glowing light beckons attention and reiterates it's own mysterious form. I’m in India.

Coming out of the terminal, we are greeted by a young man holding a white sheet of paper with my name written on it. Handsome with short, dark hair and on his fifth day without a shave, he greets us with a warm smile, “Are you Kyle? I’m Zahid. Let’s go this way.”

Out of the airport, we walk into the clammy night air. This short walk to the parking lot feels like taking a stroll down a recently declared demilitarized zone. Trash lines the walkway, half finished construction surrounds us and beyond the initial space between sidewalk and gravel, groups of people huddle together over waste bins of fire; standing, warming themselves and staring. We make it to the taxi in the parking lot and a man is laid down in the back seat, deep in sleep. Startled when awoken by Zahid, he stands up and quickly dismisses the peaceful dream. We all get in the car and proceed to the anarchic highway.

There is no way to prepare yourself for your first experience on the streets in India. Some people say that there are no rules I think that’s a fair assessment. However, there is a well-known system among those who drive, ride, run or meander (as seen in the form of cargo-by-camel), but those who don’t know the system are unclear that there is any kind of order and therefore look out of the windows in mystified confusion and terror. The driving, akin to a video game, forces an authentic appreciation for the true skill involved. The weaving in and out of objects on the road, the speeding up and slowing down in order to pass or be passed and the pin-needle gaps threaded between dump trucks, usually carrying hay stacks the size of small houses, is the art of the Indian driver. The constant ebb and flow of traffic becomes analogous to a seamstress with her needle, weaving her thread with swift and deliberate purpose.

Finally we arrive at our hostel, tired from the full day of traveling and the exhaustion that the roads have impeded upon us and a bed is the only desired destination. A Canadian and three younger Indian men sit in the main room drinking a bright, green liquor. Offered as a welcome gift and in no position to refuse, the seven of us gulp it down together. The buds on my tongue immediately send a message to my brain that familiarizes me with the distinct flavor of licorice. I don’t know how frequent or how much they drink Absinthe, but this was my second time tasting it and it was clear to me that after the last 12 hours, one shot is enough.

I find my bed and lay down. The sites, sounds, smells and tastes take my short-term memory hostage and the bright-green walls that surround me, keep the static moment temporarily blurred. The chaotic elements are semi-subdued as my head rests on a pillow, but the anticipation of a two-week long sensory binge, stirs the rich broth of anxiety in my stomach. This paired with the Absinthe creates an uneasy, yet honest reality that I will come to learn more about humanity in the next two weeks than I may want to know. With this uncomfortable, yet willing surrender, my mind escapes to a softened dream state where the fears of an unknown become overcast by the anticipation and intrigue of another new adventure.

December 28^th, 2008 (Delhi) Ghaijini – A Movie Review -

Let’s start with the facts. This is a Bollywood movie made in Mumbai, India. The majority of the movie is spoken in Hindi, with very short spouts of English. Its running time is 183 minutes. Yes, that’s 3 hours and 3 minutes (though it seemed like infinity, plus one) and there was an intermission somewhere in the middle… and I don’t speak a lick of Hindi.

This movie is based on Christopher Nolan’s Memento, an American film made eight years prior. Since I absolutely love Memento, I was naturally intrigued. However, there are more facts about this story that helped to make this the worst movie-going experience in my short but extensive history with the film medium.

First, it should be noted that our newly acquired Indian friends from the hostel invited James and I to this movie. They wanted to show us a good time and therefore they brought us to an Indian movie made in their country. As a result, despite the length, horrible acting, long, sappy music videos dispersed throughout and the insanely drawn out dramatic scenes… we were forced to sit through the entire thing for the fear of leaving would be too rude. Thus, being trapped and virtually forced to watch a movie against my will only added to its horror: not the genre, the actual experience.

Studying film in college, I realized early on that a film, if done well, should be able to tell a story purely through visual action and technique, unless it consciously strays from the narrative structure. So, in this case Ghaijini was a success. Throughout the film I was able to follow the plot line despite not knowing the language. However, it was a particular method in which the editor used that crushed my film making standards like the gushing explosion of a head under a hammer (an excruciatingly over-used theme, which we see the antagonist in this film use to kill his victims). The editor and director teamed up to, what seemed like repeat every theme at least twice, beat the audience over the head with each one and then told the actors to over-act... in every scene. Though the repetitive themes and the terribly drawn out dramatic scenes, which seemed to completely disregard real time like an old, Jean Claude Van Damme action movie, weren't bad enough, it was the conscious hybrid of genres within the framework of the film that nearly drove me to insanity.

Some critics refer to this as the wristwatch phenomenon (actually, only one critic calls it that but that's just because this is my first movie review... it'll catch on). It’s the moment during a movie that you stray from its universe just long enough to wonder what time it is and then look down at your watch. Then, this is the moment the film has lost you and may never get you back. This happened to me within the first 20 minutes. The movie began as an action/adventure film, rich with fast cutting and dark lighting, but then transformed via flashback, into a romantic comedy with the same character being clever and cute. Then, this morphed into a lavish, MTV pop song and dance routine with the main character singing in different costumes with his shirt off nearly the entire time and clichéd, bulging muscles conveniently pulling the buttons away from their holes. The narrative structure finally returns to the dark, mysterious, revenge-driven character but not before changing the mood and dynamic of the entire film. The director jumped between genres as if to portray every experience of Indian life in one 3-hour time period. The metaphorical horse was beaten to death with a thick, trite stick and by the end I was as angry and confused at the entire film as I was exhausted and ecstatic that it was finally over.

The final scene alone lasted an agonizing 5 minutes when the painstakingly obvious symbol of love between the protagonist and his lover was returned to him. Tears streamed from his eyes and the camera pans as slow as it possibly can for 720 degrees; that’s two complete times around his head to show the audience of the “beauty” he sees as he sits on a park bench. At this point, my fists were full of my own hair and I was ready to either vomit in my lap or punch the kid behind me who’d been kicking my seat for the entire 22 hours that we’d been in the theatre. When it finally ended, I turned to my new Indian friend, and his eyes were filled with tears. He loved the movie and when I asked why, he said, “this movie shows what Indian people are made of. It was very true and very sad. Most of the truth though is in the love.” It was at that point that he asked me what I thought of it.

“Yeah, umm, it was really… different.” It was 2:30 in the morning as he wiped his tears away.

“This is real India, na?!” I had no other choice than to take his word for it.

December 29^th, 2008

A mixture of fog, pollution and humility perpetuates the setting of this journey. We ride in the back seat of a cab where Indian music plays on a DVD player, which is hooked up to the passenger seat sun-guard. The seemingly hi-tech gadget streams music videos of Indian fantasy. We slow down just long enough to see a child running alongside the road, wearing a collared shirt in a sweater, small kid-sized boots and no pants.

Stray dogs, run-down excuses for buildings and scattered groups of people display the porous displacement of people who have been brought here with the soul purpose of contributing to the every-day challenge of survival. The rat race, the paper chase, the grind is one of which the clever, risk-taking, deliberate crusaders live the longest.

A child wearing a shall running as hard as his legs guide him, a calf being nudged hard enough by its mother to topple to the ground; these sights are moments captured only by pen and paper as they are the actions of the everyday and are either forgotten immediately or witnessed by no one.

An invisible fog blinds us from everything 15 yards away. Hazards blink and tick within the cab and our driver pulls out a hand-made beedi from a small newspaper jumble, “Can I smoke? This is okay?” He flicks the end a few times and lights it. Music from the DVD player produces a methodic drum kick with systematic bells, jingling in the backseat speakers.

What would this life be? Filled in fog, depending on the day’s work to provide that night’s dinner? Where coming across a new job opportunity provides the same relief and excitement as my impatiently anticipated Canon XTI arriving at my door. This constant inner struggle with money and the paranoia of getting swindled tightens my shoulders like a taut rope. However, this is only one side of the coin, so to speak. The other side of course is that while I don’t have much, I do have something more valuable that most of these people may ever afford in this lifetime: opportunity. Therefore, it’s acceptable to give money and try to support their cause, even if it means paying more for it than I “should”. However, the choice then becomes WHO do I give to? And this brings me to an even more confusing and unsettling question: who am I to decide and choose which unfortunate life becomes a little more fortunate, even if only for a day? They all need something. I suppose if I give my money to those who provide the best service and safety, than I’m rewarding those with work and purpose. This seems like a fair formula.

It is difficult to stumble upon the knowledge that while a large portion of suffering in the world is self-induced, there is an even larger amount that is completely determined by fortuity. Though many religions and beliefs will argue with this, I believe that because we cannot ask for what is given to us when we first arrive, our situations, to begin with anyway, are purely dependent upon chance. Therefore, it seems that that which makes a person complete is he who can give back to those less fortunate from him, if he possesses the means to do so. He then is truly contributing to the overall purpose of mankind, which is simply to survive. The only question left is one with two parts and is usually lost among most of those who ask it: HOW can I help, and WHEN do I start? A new long-term goal must be established: answer these questions and turn humility to action. This is why I travel.