Showing posts with label Kintsugi Kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kintsugi Kids. Show all posts


The Unknown Girl

Meryl's grandmother has known her since she was nothing but stardust. She's known her since she was just an idea in her parent's dreams. She's known her since she was simply atoms connecting together to form the basic molecules of life. She's known her since she was but strands of DNA being torn apart. She's known her since mitoses created two halves. She's known her since an egg was fertilized and since a tiny heart first started to pump. She's known her since she was just a child with the smile of an angel.

Now Meryl is 19 and her grandmother doesn't know her anymore. Meryl went off to college to become a chemist and never thinks to call. When she visits, she barely speaks. Her clothes are different. Her hair is different. Even the way she talks is different. Maybe Meryl has a boyfriend now or maybe she's lonely and sad. She doesn't know. Even though she raised her, Meryl has become a stranger. People grow, people change. To her grandmother, Meryl has become the unknown girl.


The Humpty Dumpty

Humpty Dumpty (Donald) sat on a wall (silver spoon)
Humpty Dumpty (Donald) had a great fall (was hit by a car)
All the King's (Donald's father) horses (doctors) and all the King's (Donald's father) men (therapists)
Couldn't put Humpty Dumpty (Donald) back together again.

Donald's father is a wealthy medical doctor who owns a chain of clinics. When his son was in an accident he employed all his wealth and staff to make him good again. Unfortunately, not all the riches of the world could fix Donald. It's not easy to accept that things can be out of our hands. Especially when you control an empire of prevention and security as huge as Donald's father does. Sometimes, there is absolutely nothing you can do. A silver spoon is no guarantee of safety and no scepter of power can prevent you from falling.


The 100th Kid

Many years ago, my parents owned a grocery store where I worked Summers. Most of the costumers were simple people who to be honest, weren't very interesting. One of the exceptions however was Rosario. Rosario was a 98 year old woman who I eventually saw reach her 100th birthday. This also being the 100th Kintsugi Kid I'm posting, Rosario seemed like the ideal person to illustrate.
Rosario was a big fan of cheese and often joked how cheese was the cow's attempt to reach immortality. (Mooo!) Most importantly though, she taught me about Kintsugi. Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery using lacquer mixed with powdered gold. However, Kintsugi can also be understood as a philosophy of acceptance. Sometimes, Rosario would openly talk about her flaws or the mistakes she had made in life or even tell little stories of nothingness that molded her unique soul. They're like "cracks" I once suggested. She replied: "Indeed. The beauty of our personal history lies in these cracks. The uniqueness of our imperfections are what make us who we are."
Accepting my flaws hasn't always been easy on my ego. Time though has brought me to realize that failures matter as much as triumphs and that wisdom and beauty can be found in both. A lesson partially learned thanks to this 100th and 100 year old Kintsugi Kid.


The Elderly Gangsters

Both my grandmas are total sweethearts. That being said, I used to think that every grandma in the world was a sweetheart too. The kind that bakes cookies when you spend the weekend. That knits you awful yet thoughtful Christmas scarfs. That always has your back when your parents are about to yell at you. In general, just a nice sweet person.
I lived in this fairy tale for years until I discoverd a whole other side to these "sweet" old grandpeople: Most of them are total assholes! Seriously. When grandma couldn't live alone anymore and had to be placed in a home, I awakened to a whole new reality. Nursing homes are like fancy ghettos where old people behave like vicious gangsters. Petty bickering, greed, name calling, illegal gambling, bullying, mob mentality, physical assault, a show of total disgust for each other... I've seen it all. Strung out on sweets, abandonment, and ancient grudges, these old people will walk all over you with their walkers, beat you to a bloody pulp with their canes and fill up their diapers while they're at it. 
Alas, maybe when the time comes, we too, will become Elderly Gangsters.


The Runner

Harris is a lot older than me, but inside, his spirit is still young. For good and for bad, his inner youth fuels him to be a runner, a special kind of runner. Not the kind that runs social cause marathons with friends on the weekend. No. Instead, Harris runs from life. He runs from city to city, escaping his past. He runs from family and friends, escaping their judgement. He runs from jobs and leases, escaping responsibilities and debt. Most of all though, Harris runs from love. Like a shark that can't stop, he leaves his lovers to choke on the dust raised by his running heart. A charming vagabond or an utter asshole? Certainly both. Seemingly untreatable, there's nothing to do for Harris, but see him go and yell: 
Run Harris, run!


The Angel

In another era, the institution I was trying to get my shit together in would be called an Asylum. Now, washed of butcher quacks and the blood-thirsty lobotomies, it also lacked the anguished mad poets you see in movies and books. Instead, I mostly met sad sick people who weren't in there because they liked to recite Shakespeare in their underwear, but because something in their head was seriously wrong. Some drowned in their own drool, some deafened our ears with their nightmare screams, others had paranoia chase them down to exhaustion, and others still were captives in the clutches of depression.
Somehow among all the madness, there was a patient who stood out: A beautiful girl; too beautiful to be there, too beautiful to portray. Quiet as a mouse, graceful as a swan, and as gentle as an angel. With her rare smiles, she would spread beauty and peace like fairy dust on all of us losers. It was, in a way, a form a therapy.

We'll name her Kalani, the angel of the fallen.


The Information Victim

If you're lucky enough, your brain chisels information into knowledge and morphs knowledge into wisdom.
Unfortunately, not all of us are kissed by lady luck. Sometimes, you read too many of the same books, you obsess over some addictive nonsense, and/or you've got a chemical imbalance in the brain. The information isn't processed correctly and instead, generates a hazardous overload in your head. Like Chernobyl, it builds up until a meltdown that either dives you into depression or triggers a manic episode. Either way, your soul burns into madness. 
In this information age it's easy to be dragged into fiery tornadoes of nothingness spewed out by our favorite social media devices and the inexhaustible virtual libraries. It's easy to be a victim of information. This was the fate of Kostya.


The Dragon Slayer

Once upon a time in a faraway bar, a group of friends and I were feeling rather bored. Fortunately, thank the gods, there was enough beer money for us to come up with some form of entertainment. We courageously drank ourselves into a discussion about the coolest "impossible" job to have: 1930's Hardboiled Detective? International Hitman? Cold-War Honeypot Spy? Space-Age Superhero? For Sebastian, it was Medieval Dragon Slayer!
I busted out into laughter when I heard him say it. The reason why lies in the fact that I've only ever seen Sebastian get into a fight once, and before I was able to separate him from the other guy, they knocked each other out cold with a single synchronized punch each. Just like that. A single punch each was all it took. Now, I've seen and been involved in my fair share of bar fights, but I had never seen something like that. It took me awhile to get over it. Only then, did I finally try to wake Sebastian up and unglue him from the sticky beer soaked floor. So, based on his battling history, I told the others that I had a pretty good idea about the end result of Sebastian's dragon slaying day: 


The Pimple Popper

Different strokes for different folks.
It never ceases to amaze me how sexually deviant we can be. From the fondue cheese to the dildo gas mask to the Cthulhu tentacles, there's always something surprisingly new... and weird. If you can think it up, I guarantee there's someone getting off on it.
Once, while we were hanging out, my friend Zoe noticed that I had a few pimples on my back. She begged me to let her pop them and thinking it'd be funny, I let her do it. Zoe wrapped her legs around me and every time she popped a pimple, she squeezed me harder and whispered "mmm, half an orgasm". We didn't see anything wrong with it until her boyfriend found out. I guess seeing his girl quivering from pimple-popping induced half orgasms wasn't that funny. His jealousy also came from the fact that he was unequipped to satisfy her pimple popping needs. They broke up soon after. I haven't seen Zoe in years, but I wonder if she still gets that explosive discharge whenever she pops a pimple or if she's forgotten all about it.

To be honest, having her crotch  press against my lower back every time she squeezed her legs, turned me on.


The Compassionately Impaired

"Just because he's in a wheelchair, doesn't mean he's not a fucking asshole. I don't want my brother to suffer any more pain then what he's already been through, I just wish I could chop off whatever is making him prey on people's sympathy and take advantage of their kindness. The little prick even laughs when he sees someone struggling and in pain. It's like he lost all his compassion when he lost his legs. Life fucked him up, I know that, but bitterness is no excuse to exploit and fuck people over."
The words of a friend of mine on his younger brother, Luther. Among Luther's many sins, there was the time when he made fun of a kid who's kitten had just died. Dead kittens are no laughing matter, I don't care who the fuck you are.


The Relentless One

There is something fundamentally wrong with me: I always go for the most unstable of girls. Every single girlfriend I've ever loved has teared my heart out with her madness. It's not that they're mean or selfish, or even that they break up with me; it's just that they are so fucking crazy. Too jealous, too in-love, too unstable...
My tornado... Her name was as unique as her soul, but we'll call her Marilyn. It started beautifully... Promises of a never ending love, a relentless love, enough to rip the world apart. And it did. My world. How can such a dazzling unstable universe promise a relentless love? It can't. Doomed from the start, it was obvious to all except to us, the blinded lovers. Like a kid who believes in Santa Claus, I thought she would be the relentless one.  And maybe some day she will, but for now, the only truth I know is:
Love will tear us apart. Relentlessly.


The God Seeker

Someone told Vincent there were only two places where he could find God: Inside a church or at the bottom of a bottle.
Since Vincent's been fruitlessly going to church all his life, he recently chose the second path. Because of his pansy taste buds, Vincent is also forced to look for God through a crate of beer instead of a single bottle of the hard stuff. He drinks himself into oblivion seeking the answers that no one else can give him. Whenever I see him hungover the next morning, I ask if he's found God yet. His answer is always no. Vincent likes the feeling he gets from the process, though. He finds a certain peace in it. Personally, I prefer the godly peace I find in between a girl's thighs, but that's me. Vincent, he's the God Seeker... I hope he finds what he's looking for.


The Shooter

We drag a lot of bullshit with us. Arrogance, hypocrisy, self-pity... 
Sometimes, we don't even realize it. Most times, we let these feelings linger by making  excuses for them or by finding someone as miserable as us. Misery loves company, right? My friend Rita has no patience for any of it. She has a thing for dressing up and wearing masks, but she's as honest as they come. She's her own hardest internal critic and has the same attitude towards everyone else. Rita will be your best friend if you've got a genuine problem, but she'll shoot you down like a mutant dog if you annoy her with your bullshit drama. With sarcastic fire and a witty hammer of irony, Rita will mold your bullshit into bullets of clarity and shoot the ugly truth into your soul. No mercy.
Shooters like Rita might wound our feelings (ego), but they help us see the truth.


The Collaterally Damaged

It doesn't matter if Donnie also wanted to get in her pants. What matters is that he was nice to her... and paid for it. Sometimes, you try to be nice to a person and all you get for your troubles is shrapnel in the soul. Donnie didn't even get the sympathy you would give a victim. She was the victim here. Him? He was nothing but the collateral damage... less than a footnote in someone else's love story. What a shitty fate.


The Fake Celebrity

Some bloggers are just so full of themselves. This guy Anton has a celebrity blog and he's always hungry for followers. What's the point of having a thousand followers if you don't care what any of them has to say and if they don't give a shit about you? He gets comments on every post, but they're all the same: "Hi! Amazing blog! Let's follow each other?" What's the point of these meaningless spews of nothingness? He also calls his readers 'his fans' and highlights his blog awards in a disgusting way. Singers give us songs. Actors give us characters. Even models give us sexy photos. Why do these kids act like celebrities when all they have to give are their vain dreams of being famous?
The internet shouldn't be a popularity contest. We should be using this platform to have fun, know other people, and maybe learn a few things. I'm not a hypocrite, I like having views and followers and I know it's impossible to keep in touch with everybody. However, I try my best to get to know other people and I look for meaning... This douchebag is as meaningful as a skid mark on a celebrity's pair of underwear.


The Milk Carton Boy

Back when we were little kids, my friends and I would bitch about how our parents would always make us eat our vegetables and drink our milk. Edgar, however, never had to drink his milk. His parents were hotshot lawyers and we all thought they were more concerned with some new case than with their own son’s milk consumption. Edgar would also be gone for days without ever getting into trouble. We envied him, even though this lack of caring made him sad. Being a cocky asshole at the time, I made a joke about how one day Edgar’s parents would find his picture on a milk carton long before they even realized he was missing. Everyone laughed. Edgar didn't. He punched me in stomach, making me drop my milk, and walked away. I totally deserved it, but as the milk spilled over the ground, I could almost hear Edgar’s tears role down his cheeks.
I later found out that Edgar was actually lacto-intolerant. Even so, I'm sure he still wished his parents cared more about him.


The Expired Lovers

Everything has an expiration date. Milk, rice, meat, cookies, beer, dreams... everything. Even most relationships are best enjoyed before a certain date. Canned stuff usually lasts a bit longer. It may even last a few years, but eventually, it too, will go bad. This is something Dagny and Hugo learned the hard way. Air oxidizes, bacteria grows, boredom settles in, goals change... It's a shame we don't have expiration-date labels to warn us when our relationships will start to spoil and rot. It would avoid a lot of heartbreak.
Although, it would probably take away some of the flavor, as well.


The Origami Travelers

That's what their sign said. Late last summer, I met these two guys who were hitchhiking across the country. Andy and Frank. Their plan was to see the most they could in a month's time, but spend the least amount of money possible. They had a small per diem for food and, of course, a little extra for beer. For the rest, they traded origami cranes.
Besides the ride, my roommates and I offered them a couch to sleep on. After a couple of weeks of sleeping in a tent, Andy and Frank looked at the couch like it was a king-sized bed at a 5-star hotel packed with a couple of sexy masseuses ready to make them happy. That day, we took them to see the city, swapped stories, had a mean steak dinner and hit the bars as hard as we could. The next morning, horribly hungover, we said our goodbyes to Andy and Frank. They left our little city to continue their adventure, trading more origamis with all those they met.
We shouldn't need much to be happy and when it comes to travelling and meeting new people, all we really need are a few origamis and an open spirit.


The Multitasker

Multitasking can be a very useful talent. I used to know this girl who was an outstanding multitasker. She would mentally divide her tasks into categorized boxes and then she would juggle these tasks with such amazing ease that her life ran like a smooth machine. I learned two important things from this girl. The first thing was that, to be a really efficient multitasker, you can't juggle the tasks alone, you must juggle your emotions, as well. For example, she would smile at a client even if in the previous minute, she was screaming at her thieving mechanic or crying about some weight remark her mother might have made. The other thing I learned from this girl was that a good multitasker can also be a pretty good liar. The lies become another task to juggle, but one misstep and your boxes are ripped to shreds. The girl's name is Angelica and not only is she a multitasker, she's also a lying bitch.


The Giant Battler

If you've heard the story of David and Goliath, then you'll also know the story of Barry's bookstore and his tireless battle against the major online retailer who's name shall not stain this post. As a scare tactic, this ruthless giant never washes off the blood of it's victims and it's heart became a hole when the beast grew too big. Attacking it with any sort of sentimentality is pointless. Still, some small businesses wish to court the ugly Goliath, but Barry believes that this is the same as bending over, letting it empty your pockets while it anally probes you, and then saying 'thanks' at the end. Barry will not bend over.
Barry told me that to get his bookstore to prosper, he has to attack the giant's head. He has to outsmart it by giving his clients what the big beast can't: A thoroughly personalized, innovating, friendly and agile service. Barry's financial situation is not always the best, but year after year, he manages to battle the hungry giant away from his market, one stone at a time... I mean, one book at a time.