The Blog

aqueenandcountry – here we go…

By On March 7, 2012 In a queen and country With 7 Comments Permanent Link to aqueenandcountry – here we go…Permalink

hello.

if you’re reading this, then it tells me you’re either a] being incredibly supportive to your old friend b] interested in what I’ve been teasing for the past few months or c] both.

whatever it is – thanks.

will keep this short, for reasons that [hopefully] you’ll soon understand.

I made something. a big ole travel website. with a whole lotta stuff on/in it.

 

weekly videos from my adventures around the world. [right now, there are 17 of these.]

weekly podcasts – all about music. some local stuff I’ve found. and other stuff. [4 different shows. 13 episodes in all.]

weekly downloadable photo galleries – instead of trying to sell them one at a time. this was easier. [7 sets so far. including Havana]

weekly articles – I write. a lot. these are about everything. [too many to count. a lot about food. some about me.]

 

… and I’m charging $7 a month for it.

as it stand now, I could only afford one payment option, so I went with the $20 for 3 memberships [each month]. and, in complete transparency, it’s because I’m hoping that my tiny little group of pals jump in first.

see, I need 100 [paying] people [300 watching] just to afford this thing…

and to eat.

people built this and I owe them. and I like to eat.

$2000 a month will keep it all going.

then, as we get more people, we can make it prettier. as it stands now, it can be better. but it works. we had a test group make sure it did. it could all just be [and will be] a smoother experience. less clunky. tidier. cleaner. more stuff. etc.

and I wanted to wait until we had all of that sorted, but – as stated – I myself am down to my last few hundred bucks.

but then there’s one more thing – see, after speaking with the test group, we decided that making this a $5 for one membership option the only option. and after I have the money to recode the website, that’s what we’re going to do. but I don’t have it now, and want to be completly clear with you:

- I’m asking for you to be one of the first 100 people on board with this, paying $20 for 3 memberships… which is a little less than $7 a month per membership.

- once 100 people join, I’ll have the money for v2 of the website, which means $5 a month… which means I’m actually asking you to pay more – for no other reason than to help me get this rolling.

- but… in exchange, everyone who joins now will get a free copy of my next book ‘a random collection of the occasional absurdity’ once it’s out in this winter. or a free copy of ‘the shanghai [exile] diaries’ once it’s up on Amazon later this month.

so, if you’re feelin’ it. and you don’t mind helping ole Queen out of a jam [once more. again. etc] and into the next adventure, then join, would ya?

again, if you don’t like it. no problem.

but if you do… and I think you just might… then we can make this into something beautiful.

thanks.

aric

tuesdays with tara – volume fifty one

By On March 6, 2012 In tuesdays with tara With 1 Comment Permanent Link to tuesdays with tara – volume fifty onePermalink

“The path was wrong, but it gave us hope.”

The ubiquitous “they” say the following, “People come into our lives at a certain time for a reason.” But what if they come at the wrong time? There is a lesson in this, too, I know, but there is also an intolerable amount of waste that comes in this. And waste tears at my heart.

There’s nothing more wrenching than wondering what could have been. It is irresolvable, this. It is stubborn, cold and merciless. It is a wound that refuses to close. It is a ghost that will not leave.

I know why I needed you. You were a real man when I was in desperate need of such an essence. You smelled like sawdust. You had the hands of someone who lovingly worked the land. Your eyes were full of stories. I wanted you to tell them to me. I wanted to sit on your knee and fall against your chest. I could see how it would happen.

Your rusty pickup was the first thing I saw each morning when I opened the coffee house.

One morning, you gave me a mixed tape of bluegrass gems. It felt like seduction, and I believe this was your intention. You were more than twice my age. I missed my Dad. It doesn’t get more Freudian than that, my friend. And if you felt foolish in falling for me, you did a good job of hiding it. You seemed to delight in tumbling headlong. Didn’t you know I was green and cruel? Didn’t you know I would crush your heart? Did you do it despite this knowledge?

All I know is that suddenly, I was living only for our Sundays. Bundled up and riding alongside the rising sun, we made our way to the farmer’s market under the bridge. We drank robust coffee, sampled artisan cheeses and chatted with our favorite vendors. And once we had all our fixin’s, we headed back to your house for a proper breakfast.

You were a chef and you taught me so many things about cooking. To this day I still sautee field greens the way you taught me. Still open garlic the way you taught me. Still enjoy the occasional glass of wine as I cook the way you taught me.

You were teaching me all the time. I know that now. It must have been something you needed. If I was ever good to you, it was in this role as eager student. I did marvel at your easy way with any manner of tasks; admired your way of looking at the world. I just had no business with my hands on your heart strings. I took your love and I pocketed the goodness for myself and I bid you farewell without so much as a thank you.

Do you know how I shall always remember you? It may surprise you because it was most likely a very casual gesture on your part.

One Sunday, I told you rather excitedly about a new wine I had discovered. I was over the moon trying to describe how it made me feel tasting that gorgeousness. And that Tuesday, I got a handmade postcard in the mail. It was a piece of cardboard with the label of the wine I had just told you about. You bought a case of it; suggested we get started making a dent in it.

That wine makes me think of so many things. It makes me think of gathering nasturtium from your garden for a salad. It makes me think of the pond you put in to care for my orphaned koi. It makes me think of the smell of solder as we worked on stained glass panels. It makes me think of how deeply I was loved and how I took it for granted.

I am all grown up now and I have forgiven myself for what I did to you. It’s just a fact that every now and again, a case of melancholy creeps in and it has your name on it. I don’t have the post card anymore, but I have that.

Efterklang – ‘Alike’

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-

big things are happening with Tara. big things. keep tabs on her here.

pickles. and jams.

By On March 5, 2012 In aric s. queen, life, people, travel With No Comments Permanent Link to pickles. and jams.Permalink

different people come into your life at special times – for special reasons.

sometimes for love.

sometimes for support.

sometimes for inspiration.

and sometimes to keep you from being stranded at the airport en route to Rio.

 

the two girls and I laughed at the fact that – despite us not really doing the touristy stuff here in Buenos Aires – we kept running into each other. and you need to know that this is a big ole place. but 3 times in 4 days was enough and we finally all decided to sit down for a beer and get to know one another.

where ya from. where ya been. what’d ya like. where’s next?

then:

isn’t Buenos Aires nice?

my god, it’s gorgeous. I don’t even want to go to Rio now. I just want to stay here until I fly back to the States.

yeah, we know. we were just in Rio, though, and it’s gorgeous there. so you’ll love it. and after everything they make you go through to get the visa, you’d better!

ugh. another long line at the border? do they charge us as much as they did in Bolivia?

you don’t have your’s yet?

nah. will just get it at the airport.

[they both looked at each other with a worried look, and then to me with a worried look. I always get nervous when people who know nothing about my well being worry about my well being.]

you’re not going to Rio.

why not? I laughed. thinking this might be Americans being Americans and making everything extreme.

because it takes weeks to get a visa. you have to get a certain type of photo, print out your bank statements, show a scan or copy of your last check from your employer, have a hotel booked and then pay $160.

I had none of those things.

and this is when my well being began to worry about my own well being. ’cause, see – my flight back to the States. the big ole expensive one that set me back I-don’t-even-want-to-tell-you-how-much… was from Rio.

but I remained calm. mostly because they were both good-looking and I wanted to appear tough.

guess I’ll just have to buy another cheap flight from here to Rio the same day and just get on my flight then.

the good-looking girls went back to being the worried girls.

they won’t let you on the plane here without a visa for there.

I suddenly stopped caring about being tough.

there isn’t money in my account for another I-don’t-want-to-tell-you-how-much flight. I spent that already on the first one.

I had a flight booked from here to Rio on Saturday.

and then from Rio to LAX a few days later.

there wasn’t going to be a visa.

and there wasn’t going to be a flight.

now, thank the man upstairs it was Sunday and nothing could be done. this gave me a chance to very calmly, very strategically and very methodically, get very, very drunk.

I seriously had nowhere to go. and no means to do it with. the last time I was this worried about actually making it out was Ethiopia a few years back.

do I go the Brazilian Embassy and wax [ahem] poetic about my own stupidity and see if they could expedite one?

could I beg them to let me on the flight and just live in the airport for 4 days?

or…

do I go to the airlines and see how much it would be to change my Rio-Panama-LAX flight to Buenos Aires-Panama-LAX?

I chose the latter. because I love it here, it would be less hassle and fuck Brazil. they should post stuff like this all over travel websites. [note: they post this stuff all over travel websites].

so, to the airline office I went.

‘how much to change the flight?’ I asked in the nicest voice my hangover would allow.

‘we don’t fly from Buenos Aires to LAX.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. this is Buenos Aires! everything is perfect and beautiful and delicious! nothing ever goes wrong!

‘how much for a flight to Panama? and then I can just get my connecting flight there?’

‘you won’t be allowed on the plane if you miss your first flight.’

had I eaten any snacks the night before amidst my wine bender, this is where I would have pooped myself a little.

‘then what do I do?’

‘well, to fly from here to LAX will be $950′.

I was about $500 short of that.

a grey beard. broke. I stunk. toothpaste stains on my shorts. alone. homeless. 35…

and I’m about to have to call Mom and Dad for a flight home.

and just a week or so before, I was talking someone through his transitioning phase, telling him that ‘when it gets rough, that’s when you really have the adventure! that’s when you really get to know yourself!’

I had no interest in an adventure, nor in getting to know myself.

‘is there anything you would suggest?’- pleading.

‘well… there is one thing you can do. take a boat to Uruguay, then you could fly from there to Panama, Panama to Los Angeles. it would cost you $240.’

I handed her my card, praying there was enough. last time I checked, it was around $250.

turns out I had $224. but that’s why we have overdraft protection.

so there you go. I have to find a boat to a new country, pray they don’t have the same tastes in visa requirements as their neighbor to the north… and make my $262 in cash last for 9 more days.

and $10 of that goes to buying each of the girls a bottle of wine.

’cause lemme tell ya… finding this all out at the airport the day of would have been a kick in the pants.

a

p.s. both the timing and irony of my 2nd article for National Geographic making their home page being all about me – the seasoned traveler – sharing some tips from my wise learned mind is amazing.

p.p.s. sadly, having ended up in this situation many a time, I know a select few of you will do what you always do and ask if I need money. I do not. there are some cheques on the way to my account from a few clients – a few clients who ironically chose this month to be the time when they were late with their payments. and, well, tomorrow or the next day, the new travel project launches, which you can help support. so send nothing, except potty-mouth letters to Rio… stupid Rio.

 

crystals.

By On February 28, 2012 In friends, life, music, travel With 5 Comments Permanent Link to crystals.Permalink

[hit play before reading. it works better that way.]

[ryan adams - 'la cienega just smiled']

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I stood there, on that terrace, for one final cigarette.

it was a quiet one, and maybe that’s what seemed strange, as it was this spot that had loudly set the stage for the past 5 night’s worth of a million.

see, sometimes you stumble upon a magical place. and sometimes you find magical people. but rarely do the two ever show up at the same time. but sometimes they do. and when they do, and when the podium is set upon a hundred used wine bottles from the vineyards you can see just past the fishing boats from where we would sit night-after-night, opening one-after-another, it becomes something more than just ‘a few people who met while traveling’.

if I’m being honest, my heart hurt a little bit this afternoon when I was taken to the bus station by the hostel owner. I’m glad his wife wasn’t there to hug me by or I might have fought back a tear. or maybe I wouldn’t have fought it back at all.

but there was something about this place.

there were a lot of us, but there were 4 of us. the ones that would stay up the latest, finish the most wine, say all the worst words. maybe we ran some people off, and that’s okay. at times the 4 of us were more than 4. we had our different sides that would come out at different times. and with that much carmenere, with that much sauvignon blanc, it wasn’t always clear who we were talking to.

but that’s not what mattered. what mattered was that at any given time, those 8 – possibly even 12 – people got on.

and got on well.

my cigarette halfway finished, tar and melancholy combined for a heart heavy to say goodbye to our ritual. a nightly debauchery of the 4-8-12 of our quartet.

the first – a man conflicted in his own transitions, transitioning through his own conflicts – wanting to take as much as he could out of his unique position, but at the same time fighting the tranquility of where he found. then there were the two – a ying and yang with loud Adelaide accents. one spent too much time on her empanadas when she should have been prepping the dinner, over-thinking snacks when it was the stock she should have been starting. the other had a new life, a new destination and a new plan each new day – this idea and that dream, this possibility and that reality. I bought her a box of gum, ’cause I was sad to her leave. she didn’t say ‘thanks’  until the morning she left, but it was worth the wait. and then, there was me – the person who hadn’t personalized with too many persons on this trip – enjoying, for the most part, the solitude. but from the minute everyone sat down that first evening, I suddenly wondered if I’d been missing things like this these past 5 months.

but I thought back on my past adventures and realized I hadn’t missed out on anything, as this doesn’t happen often.

great things in great places with great people don’t often meet – not often at all.

different groups bring different things, but our nightly intoxicated bipolar show made sure all ends were covered.

my cigarette was almost done, and the more I thought about it, the harder it was to pull myself away from it all.

that empty stained terrace. overlooking the colorful city we saw so little of. my hair that still smelled of barbecue ash.

I was really sad to leave.

and maybe the town had a lot to do with it, a mix of a Berkley student – full of color and mentality – with an uncle from Havana. that’s probably what made the man and wife decide that this place – this spot – this street – was where they would build something beautiful. his favorite movie was Field of Dreams, so that should explain what needs explaining. she, an immediate mother to any who walked through her doors – standing there waiting for each traveler to get out of the cab or bus, kissing us each every morning, every night and making the biggest deal out of the wine glasses we gave her on that last night.

and I mean – a big deal.

she shouted when she opened the boxes, hugging her husband as if they topped her Christmas list.

taking out one at a time with the slowest of movements,

pouring us all a wine and then holding it up, looking through it smiling.

the four of us – standing close to one another – could all see her smiling, because we could see through her glass.

they were only a few packs of cheap wine glasses,

but you would have thought they were made of crystal.

taking one last drag of that view, on that terrace, I teared up and I couldn’t figure out why.

it might have been the fact that I was coming down from a 5 day bender.

it might have been the view.

it might have been the gum.

it could have been a lot of things.

and I didn’t figure it out until I put my cigarette out and went to the kitchen to wash my hands.

there was a handmade wine rack where yesterday, there wasn’t.

I wished everyone could have seen it before they left.

but in that wine rack was where in there it all made sense – what it was that had given me a lot, but also had taken away quite a bit from me as well.

the reason I was blue had nothing to do with the wine - it was those new wine glasses.

they too were bipolar.

see, what we saw in them the night before was a lady smiling.

but what she witnessed through hers were four people – four people who needed one another at the same time. in the same place.

her shout had nothing to do with the gift, it had to do with what they had achieved with their terrace.

one look at our deranged inseparable group was what made her hug her husband tightly.

they did it.

they had made a place with something special. that called out to special people.

they had built it and we had come. to play our deviant game of nocturnal vocal baseball - all-stars the night before became ghosts the next morning.

that’s when it finally all made sense.

why I left with a heavy heart.

it was those new wine glasses.

and through them – as opposed to what was inside them – lay the magic.

as it turns out, they were made of crystal.

 

tuesdays with tara – volume fifty

By On February 14, 2012 In tuesdays with tara With 2 Comments Permanent Link to tuesdays with tara – volume fiftyPermalink

“I am a marathon runner and my legs are sore and I am anxious to see what it is I’m runnin’ for.”

There is no amount of preparation that will save you from uncertain emotion. There is no amount of soul searching that will prepare you for the damned unpredictable. There is no amount of self reflection that will save you from apathy or fear or fear disguised as apathy. No, these things, all, will have their way with you.

There were so many nights that felt the same on some level. There was the drinking, of course. The opening of a bottle and the decision to unravel are only the opening stages. The music is important. Silence is not your friend in this frame of mind. No, when choosing to teeter on a dangerous precipice inside your mind, one needs an anchor. Attach yourself to that anchor and go forth.

For me, there are always tears. They come on gently at first. They tickle my cheeks, slide their way into my ear where they pool listlessly. And I don’t know what causes me to cross over to hysterics, but once my chest begins to heave, once my breast bears too much weight, I gasp for air, I empty my lungs, and I wish for it all to go away, this pain. Just make it go away. I didn’t want any of this, so why do I keep falling in the same place?

I stand tall and strong, head held aloft. I look at you hard and I am thinking, “I may not be invincible, but I am not going to bring you down.” I am beyond the selfish means of an emotional drifter. I do not want to drag you through anything. I want to make you smile to yourself. I want you to feel a warmth curl through your body when you think of me. It doesn’t seem too much to ask. It seems really so very simple to me.  I want to love you and I want you to let me.

There is a lack of control that paralyzes you at the beginning. I cannot change anything that you are saying to me. These words, hurtful as they are, are your truth. They are your reality. They are from the source of your hidden heart. You give them to me. It is a gift wrapped in disaster. They will rip me apart, those words, and yet I must receive them. After all, I told you I was in this with you. I didn’t say I was in this so long as it was good, so long as it seemed a dream.  And when I said that I wanted to stand by you, this isn’t the scenario I had in mind, I’ll be honest. But it’s not scripted. None of this was predicted, and yet all of this was possible.

We are here now. We are in it. When I can still couch terms in “we”, shouldn’t I feel relief? When hysteria makes way for sheer uncertainty, where is the victory? There is only to go forward.

It is all we have, aside from a whole lot of love and a couple of busted up hearts.

Yellow Ostrich - ‘Marathon Runner’

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—

there’s 49 more of these – if my math is correct. there’s also a book deal officially being talked about. and if I could trade the emails between Tara and I, I would… but trust that girl is deep. and funny. like – in real life like. the stuff above is how she is, and I can bet you it’s spontaneous prose, with no edits [except for grammar - cause she's into shit like good grammar.] 

aric

yellow.

By On February 10, 2012 In family, friends, life, travel With 7 Comments Permanent Link to yellow.Permalink

as many of you know, I grew up poor in Oklahoma. Dad was a pastor and so meager was his salary, that he actually took a second job – working out in the oil fields, so that the 4 of us [Alex hadn't come along yet] could eat. this was something that stuck with me throughout the years – seeing him come home in his shirt and tie, kissing Mom, shooting a few hoops with me, grounding Ashley for whatever it was she had done that day that deserved a grounding, and then changing into his stained overalls and heading back out.

a few years later, when I got the illegal scholarship to attend a prestigious Christian school, our friends, The Richardson’s, brought over a box of nice used clothes for me to wear – since my jeans with patches and G.I.Joe t-shirts wouldn’t exactly suffice at a preparatory institution like the one I was headed to. so there I was, in a borrowed outfit, in a school where everyone else seemed rich.

long story short – we were poor.

and when you’re poor in Oklahoma, you dream of a world outside. there was this trip to Europe that the school offered and I remember the look in my parents eyes at the dinner table when they told me that $2000 was $1900 more than our family had. they could tell how bad I wanted to go – my grandpa met my grandmother while they were both working at the circus, so gypsy is in all of our blood – but I simply couldn’t – we didn’t have any money. simple as that.

we also grew up without a television, which meant I never got to see National Lampoon’s European Vacation, Lawrence of Arabia or any other films of that time that at least gave the novice dreamer some context.

what I did have, though, were parents who took me to the library every Saturday morning. what started out as Hardy Boys novels [my parents will still comment to this day how quickly I would go through them - reading one in the few hours we were there, then taking 5 more [the limit] back home for that week] turned into Robinson Crusoe, Jacques Cousteau, and anything having to do with pirates or buccaneers.

and then… one day, I picked up a periodical with a yellow border - National Geographic.

from that moment on, I was ruined. the very first thing I remember seeing were the floating markets of Thailand, then the pyramids. The Eiffel Tower and black people in Africa with things in their ears, lips and noses. at that very instant, longing to travel became an obsession, which soon led to collecting maps – something I still suffer from. you should see my diaries, a running commentary of an idealistic lotus eater – spending hours upon hours drawing points of interest and then figuring out ways to get there. could I go overland from Russia to Alaska? what sailing route could be done to hit the South Pacific Islands of my adolescent daydreams – stopping off in, of course, Easter Island? even now, as I reference a map for this post, I made a mental note to the specifics of getting a boat through the Panama Canal.

all of that and all of this from that magazine with the yellow border.

now -flash forward 20+ years and I’m rooftop in Sucre, Bolivia. I had just visited an amazing monastery and was about to post a photo from the top of it when I get a notification on my email. one of those ‘pingback’ notifications you get when someone links to your blog:

I sat there, before clicking the link it came from and lit a cigarette. I did this because there had been a rumor – a rumor- that someone, some organization had picked up my story, video and photos of being the first person up on Machu Picchu for 2012. I lit a cigarette because otherwise, I wouldn’t have known what to do with my hands.

that someone was the magazine with the yellow border.

on top of the page was the name National Geographic.

and below that was my name.

I cannot describe what that felt like, I really can’t.

I read and re-read the story I had written like it was the first time… and it was.

the last time I did it was when it was on this weathered computer, with nothing above my name and title but a few options for font and spacing. but this time, well… you already know what had changed.

it was thrown up online and never in my life have I welled up with so much love and appreciation for my friends and family. the comments, the shares, the reposts and retweets. the private notes sent, the silly little thumbs-up that usually seem so trivial, upped my day with each tiny hit. my Mother emailed back to say that ‘she and Dad were so proud, they were going to have a steak dinner that night to celebrate!’ [which - knowing what you do now, is huge]. different people prefaced the link with different things about my adventures - and, again, I sat there stunned.

that night, I hid quietly in the pub corner and tried to take it all in – a punk kid who barely finished high school, snuck his way into a career in radio, bummed his way around the world for a few years, lied his way into China and then spent 6 months in SE Asia, India and Nepal paying dearly for the arrogance he accrued in Shanghai. someone who splits his adult life between travel and Facebook. a kid who comes from an amazing family, has good teeth and a circle of friends who have lifted him up time-after-time in his sojourns…

basically – the least-deserving candidate to have been published in the traveler writer’s dream, but for some strange reason, I was chosen as that guy.

you know, since I can remember, I’ve struggled with religion – a large part of it having to have been forced upon me, another begin the judgement of others that follows it, the final being how unbelievably fucking dull so many that claim to worship are… but I’ll tell you one thing – you simply cannot have a life as blessed as mine, with constant gifts like the one I write about now, without knowing someone up there has an eye on you.

it could be The Man Himself.

it could be Pierre.

my grandfather.

Kaz.

it could be anyone.

whomever it is, though, I thank them. with as much gratitude as I thank those who have fed me, clothed me, bought my photos and read my little book – people like yourself.

the magazine with the yellow border didn’t tell me how amazing I am. the magazine with the yellow border told me how amazing I’ve been treated by those around me.

and if you’re one of those people… thank you.

I owe you many more stories like this in exchange for your kindness and generosity.

and – brothers and sisters – with my recent yellow boost, you can be damn sure there’s going to be a lot more.

and very, very soon.

a

tuesdays with tara – volume forty-nine

By On January 24, 2012 In tuesdays with tara With 2 Comments Permanent Link to tuesdays with tara – volume forty-ninePermalink

“Even when the love’s gone, don’t I know it? Even when the love’s gone, don’t I show it?”

-

The end of romantic love is such a private affair. It is a room big enough for only two. When two mature adults have decided to put an end to what they’ve had, to go their separate ways, it is a deeply painful experience, unique in its ability to go straight to our core.

It is an exercise in nostalgia and a fragile understanding cobbled out of battered emotions and the will to press on.

There is no such thing as a clean end, either.

Love goes on. It may take another form, but it does not die entirely. Once we have made the decision to cut it loose in its present form, it begins to assume another shape, almost without our doing. It is a force and often times, it will dictate its form before we have gotten our footing.

Anyone who has loved and lost, loved and let go, knows what hard work it can be to reconcile all that we have been through. Love’s end is humbling. It’s a brutal teacher. Ignoring the lessons of love’s end puts us at peril of repeating the same mistakes with somebody new. It prevents us from moving forward in any meaningful way. People will use you as a late night anecdote. They will speak of your misadventures and shake their heads. You will have become a parody.

I will tell you something that is truly frightening: getting caught in that private room. Realizing that you are caught between two people who are in that extremely intimate process of extricating themselves from one another. This is somewhere that you never want to find yourself. The emotions of others are not meant to be fodder for your nightmares, or fuel for your anxiety attacks. These people might work very hard at hiding their turmoil and their pain. If you are tuned in, you will feel it anyway. It will make mincemeat of your sanity.

He told you it was finished. You believed him. At the time, he believed himself. What he didn’t know, what he couldn’t know, was what his hidden heart would put him through. He would miss her sometimes. It would only be natural. Except now, he would feel guilty about it, like he was betraying you, because you were already wrapped up in it. You were wrapped up so tightly in it that if you focused on it too much, you could barely breathe.

And the battle that will go on in your soul: a desire to be understanding and patient, and the desire to run screaming from all of the messy human emotion. You will want to stamp your foot like a child and demand to be exclusively loved.

In the end, your only choice is to go through all of it. To see with clear eyes, to not allow yourself to succumb to insecurity or pettiness. You must rise above and believe that you will be rewarded for what you are going through.

You might make it.

You might survive it.

If you do, you will have built strength and character.

And even after all of it you end up alone again, as much as it will sting, you will have gained plenty.

 Blake Mills – Wintersong

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I [Aric] have taken it upon myself to passively bully Tara [who writes these] into – in a few months time – putting the best TwTs into a short story novel. one per week per year or something like that. am open to ideas, but if you agree, do me a favor and join the group on FB. this shit is too good to be only seen on this little blog. 

messy marvin

By On January 17, 2012 In travel With 1 Comment Permanent Link to messy marvinPermalink

right. so this site’s design changed. it’s for the best, and will work best with the other site/project. hopefully you’ll like it and say ‘ahhhhhh, nice’ or something to that effect. problem is we’re all busy working on getting the other one launched right now, so all the messiness and tweaking we need to do to this one… so click around, read some stuff and forgive another mess I’ve begun before cleaning up the previous one. there’s a new TwT coming as soon as I can figure this new stuff out, as well as some other amazing entries. I don’t know that for sure, but Tara will definitely be up soon. please don’t leave. this is just evolution. it will be worth it. people can change. things will be better. etc.

love, aric.

missing the boat.

By On January 16, 2012 In life With 3 Comments Permanent Link to missing the boat.Permalink

dear elizabeth/liz/beth.

I don’t know if that’s your name, but it was the song that was playing on my iPod when I saw you and, well… once you read below, you’ll know why I needed to give you a name.

it’s a long story, so I thought I’d throw it [the song] in here while you read. if you read. it’s a good song.

[Bon Iver - 'Beth']

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anyway.

I just wanted to say…

[text deleted]

[text deleted]

[text deleted]

damn it.

I’m no good at this…

you can probably tell by my ill-advised posting of your photo that this is not my area of expertise. I didn’t show your face ’cause I wanted this to be a confession of sorts. me to you. for quite a few things…

I suppose I should start for apologize for being anything but subtle this afternoon.

I’m sorry for staring.

I’m sorry for taking pictures of you without your consent.

and I’m really sorry about the note.

trust that I meant well… even though I told myself that if I couldn’t find a way of passing it to you – without him seeing – that I was fully prepared to go back to the office of the boat company and bribe the guys there for the passenger manifesto.

oh my god, that’s even creepy to write.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

uuuuugggghhhhh…. look:

I’m glad it started to rain this morning. I’m glad because otherwise, I would have stayed up top, instead of coming down. I didn’t expect to see you, but then again, I don’t know anyone who wakes up and says ‘I’m going to sit across from a girl so stunning that she makes me embarrass myself’. you were there, with the guy and with a girl. you have no idea how much I hoped he would have a lisp or looked just like you, but you were really nice to him the whole way – sharing your iPod, smiling when he talked – and that should have been reason enough for me to just go back to pensively looking at the water, but I couldn’t help it. there were 2 Swedish girls on the boat with us – do you remember? I tried to force myself to look at them [I mean - they're Swedish, after all, it shouldn't be too hard], but it didn’t stick. you had your hair up and a slightly crooked smile with your Chuck T’s laced up differently and I was so thankful when you pulled out the English version of the South American guide book – for no other reason than it was one step closer to me being able to talk to you…

but I didn’t.

I can’t.

for many, many reasons – one being I don’t know how to approach someone like you. the second being that you may or may not have been with your boyfriend, and the third factor of you being one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen.

so, no – there was no way.

I’m sorry for staring.

we got to the island and I really hoped that when I stood up, my penis wasn’t showing through my shorts [I don't wear underwear], that my white shirt wasn’t accentuating my man-boobs [for some reason, I still insist on wearing white shirts] and that I hadn’t accidentally sat in water and it have looked like I might have pooped myself…

thankfully, none of those things happend.

you 3 walked ahead and I was able to not freak out about walking ahead of you. my knees were already heavy.

we passed a few times in the little harbor town – I don’t know if you saw me or not. I quickly got some water for my tea, an egg sandwich, and started up the only trail I saw. after about 10 minutes, I was all by myself and realized that things like this – like you – don’t happen that often, so I veered off the path, headed up the mountain [which is hard, by the way - the altitude almost killed me], found a road, and then started walking back.

this might seem a bit strange to you, as we were all on the full-day tour, meaning you start hiking at one end of the island and then get picked up on the other… but while I was walking, I realized that you 3 might have chosen the half-day option, which meant that you would be leaving from the same place we arrived at, and, if I was even 20 minutes late from the full-day hike, I wouldn’t have been on the same boat as you…

and that was something I needed to do, Liz – be on the same boat back. even though I had no fucking clue what I was going to do…

probably stare some more.

ew.

anyway.

I went backwards down the path – you might know this, as I passed your big group. maybe you didn’t see me, but I saw you [shocking, I know]. the smart thing to do would have been just to follow your group, but I was already bordering on creepy and making an 180 after seeing you would put me into immediate stalker status.

so I walked back to the town and got on the boat. it was me and a bunch of old people who couldn’t hike. even the boat driver made fun of me and I didn’t have enough Spanish to explain you to him… although he must have seen you, and I’m sure would have understood.

the boat got there about an hour before your all’s trek was done. I was freezing sitting up top, but I forced myself to keep my jacket off, since it didn’t match and I wanted my outfit to coordinate for you. but you all weren’t there, so I went up to one of the restaurants on the cliffs and had some fish and some beers.

as you can tell from the above, my mind already is a bit off to begin with, but when you throw booze into the muddle, it gets even worse.

…

I wondered if you were headed to La Paz, or Chile, or Argentina.

I wondered if I would find a way to talk to you.

I wondered if you’d be open to buying an old car with me and driving it until it broke.

I wondered if you’d look at me like you looked at that guy someday.

I wondered what your real name was, Beth. I’m sure it was something pretty.

I wondered a whole lot of stuff.

…

the whistle blew, so I headed back to the boat, hoping you hadn’t sprained an ankle in those Chuck Taylors.

I sat up top again, this time because it was actually warm.

you all weren’t there, so I decided to look for you that evening – walking around town that night, poking my head in every bar until I saw you again.

the Swedish girls sat by me.

the captain began chewing his coca leaves – which, as we know – meant he’s about to start up the boat.

and then I saw you - the 3 of you, actually. but I only saw you.

you came walking down the dock and you looked at the boat and whispered something to your friend.

I know you didn’t see me, but I couldn’t help but wish you were saying ‘there’s that in-no-way-creepy-and-kind-of-cute guy’, but you were probably talking about the captain chewing his coca leaves.

and then you sat right across from me.

that would have been much more dramatic to write had there been any other seats, but whatever…

I started staring again.

I’m sorry.

the trip back was long, everyone was tired.

you went down below after an hour, probably because that 6’4” guy slept on all of our shoes.

after you went, I pulled out my little notepad and wrote you a note:

as you can tell, this one stayed with me - I gave you the second one.

see, this one only had my first name and I thought ‘well, Queen – if she is, even the slightest bit interested, she wouldn’t be able to just find an ‘Aric’, so I wrote the same thing, but with my last name.

[btw - I am painfully aware that the first note was a stretch, but for it to have been revised and re-written is reason enough for a court order. sorry.]

the next 30 minutes were spent figuring out how to get it to you. I almost asked your friend quietly to ‘give this to her if/when the appropriate time comes’, but that would have required a whole lot of talking, which would have been hard, as my throat wasn’t completely working.

I could just walk up to you, but that could’ve been awkward if you freaked out…

as we were on a small boat in the middle of one of the world’s largest lakes.

there was really no way to do it, I told myself, and I was beginning to worry I might miss my chance.

it began to get cold up top, so I came back down. you were asleep on the little bench, which meant my hopes of even attempting some eye contact were screwed. so I sat there and listened to Otis Redding… which, if you know anything about Otis Redding, was a mistake.

the boat docked and I saw you wake up, Elizabeth. everyone else began standing – as people do when boats stop – but I hung back, which was weird, seeing how I was the first in line to go. but I took a chance and stayed back and almost everyone else left the boat [including your friends/friend and boyfriend], leaving only about 5 of us left.

the rest you know – I waited until you were behind me, turned around, refused to look at you, handed you note v2 and said ‘I’m really sorry if this comes across inappropriate’. the worst part of that was that I was trembling when I said it and was hoping to impress you with my great voice.

you took the note – as people tend to do when handed notes – and I turned around [hoping my bottom wasn't wet] and tried so very hard to calmly walk away. it didn’t go so well, as I slipped a little when walking down the jetty. I tried to picture the scene behind me – if you read it, if you hid it, if you laughed at it… but I never turned around. I walked to my hotel and chain-smoked for half-an-hour, trying to calm down.

I forced myself to stay online until the battery on my computer died, hoping you all would have taken a bus out of town or had eaten early.

when I walked into town, I kept my head down. I ate my fish, I drank my wine, and I prayed you 3 didn’t walk into the same restaurant. you didn’t, for which I am thankful - so I don’t know if you’re still here or not…

nor do I know what I would do with that information if I had it.

so… I guess what I’m trying to say is:

I’m sorry about the note.

I’m super sorry about the photo.

and I’m really sorry about this – one of the longest blog entries I’ve ever written.

I just…

well…

I just thought you were beautiful.

 

alllllllllmost there.

By On January 13, 2012 In a queen and country, travel With 2 Comments Permanent Link to alllllllllmost there.Permalink

hi. I’m sorry things have been so quiet. trust it’s for a reason. a few reasons, actually. this new project is taking longer than I expected, but that might have something to do with me being a control freak and having no money. whatever it is, it’s very, very close and I’m very, very excited to show it to you. there’s some other stuff happening as well that I hope to be able to share with you soon, but because I’ve been bad about stopping by here [thank you, Tara for carrying the load], I’ll give you a little peek into happenings. this is for someone else, and I do hope she doesn’t mind me showing it. it’s raw [somewhat disturbing for some as well], and just some of the stuff from the iPhone, but this is just a little somethin’ to keep you interested. please don’t forget. I just don’t know what I would do if you forgot. probably remind you. but still…

hang tight.

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