It takes practice. 

You grow up. You try to define yourself and you try to find yourself. If you’re lucky, if you’re one of the ones who don’t fall through the cracks, you end up spending a large amount of your early years studying. You theorize, you get criticized and you build a thick skin. There are days you want to die and there are days you can’t stand life because it’s such a mind-fuck of beautiful things all around you. 

But then you get older. 

Some of your friends do die and some of them fall through the cracks, but there you are, still standing, a tiny fleck on this planet mourning another tiny fleck. You turn to a God. You wish you could have helped, you wish you could have done something different. But time moves forward and now, the most difficult task of your day is trying to drag your anchored-heart along the messy blue bottomed floor, hoping it doesn’t snag, praying that you can find the strength to heave it up and out, and into the daylight. 

You meet other people and they’re wonderful. You shake a hand, smile at a friend of a friend of a friend and you wish you were them, dating them, talking to them and laughing with them. And then you snap out of it and you’re still standing there, staring at them from across the room, so you take your drink and walk away looking for someone real to laugh with. 

And then there is that period of your life where you wake up every afternoon and spend twenty minutes criticizing yourself in the mirror. You don’t meet your own expectations and no one can ever seem to meet yours. Even thought you ended it, you wish they’d call back, tell you that you were wrong, that you’re worth fighting for and that they’re going to do it. But they don’t, and every time you see their name your heart aches a little because a part of you knew that if everything worked out, you could have become such a better person. Worked harder, played harder, and loved yourself more. But there you are, standing in front of the mirror, staring at the body that’s had too much drinking, partying, smoking, drug use, sex, freedom and other things that eventually get a hold of you in your mid-twenties. And you realize it’s all getting a little too much.

But then it happens. 

Because all it takes is a walk to the convenience store to buy another pack of cigarettes, and because chain smoking on your balcony in the freezing cold is more romantic than sitting inside and doing what you love to do on your day off from pushing coffee, beer, technology, jeans and makeup. 

You bump into them. 

They’re in a fancy coat (of course they’re in a fancy coat) with a hat and leather gloves (those leather gloves you bought for them a little too early on), while you’re in your sweats, a ball cap and a mustard stain from two days ago when you ate a hotdog without the bun because you had no bread and were too lazy to go out and buy a real breakfast.

So they ask you how you are, and you struggle to cough up something interesting, something different from one year ago and they can see you choke. So they cut it short for your sake, half-heartedly hug you, tell you it’s great to see you, and as they walk away, you: you with that familiar shame you’ve tried to get rid of, you step above it and find the courage to thank them secretly because you’re just not ready for anyone to know. 

And it’s enough to turn you back around to your bedroom, and it’s enough to inspire you to quit your job, push you to take the risks you’ve avoided all your life and finally try to become the person you’ve always wanted to be instead of the person you currently are. 

Outside, it snows. 

Small tiny flecks that float on down from the sky, gently tumbling through the air until they land quietly on the ground. It’s barely enough to constitute  an actual snowfall, but the crisp cold air and the smell of firewood says otherwise, because that old friend nostalgia has come home to roost and it’s almost beautiful out tonight. 

I’m standing in the middle of a high school parking lot, located somewhere south of where I used to live and a whole lot north of where I live now. Nothing about this place is familiar, but it feels like as if it should be because it all looks the same. For the two guys standing beside me though, this is their home, their old stomping grounds, and for a while, they make it feel like as if I spent my days here with them as well. 

The joint goes around, but it takes a while to circulate with the cold air continually putting out the tiny embers. Dylan holds it to my mouth while I curve my hands and give it a light. I inhale and let the smoke rush in, the orange glow pulsing with every puff like a heartbeat. I hold the air in my lungs as Dylan pulls it away towards his own mouth, inhaling the smoke and pulling the orange closer towards him. 

And then it begins: my mind races through a million thoughts per second  in complete awareness of every thought and sense receptor that passes through my body—the cold, the tingle, the heat, the sky, the lights, the colours, the smells and more, it rushes in on me like a wave and I struggle to fight the beautiful nausea that rides me like the tide. We begin talking about our lives, moving from our sordid sexual exploits to the futility of family, government and protest. But somewhere between multiple personalities and the cult of Facebook, I lose them and retreat into my own twisted spiral of darkness. 

The world grows silent. The two of my friends notice that I’ve checked out, and I can feel their eyes on me like a million tiny needles digging in at me through my skin. I close my own eyes, but I can still feel them prodding at me in an attempt to elicit any sign of life, something, anything to cure them of their paranoia.

And then it happens. 

Why this body? 

Why this earth? 

Why this race, this culture, this moment in time—was I nothing but a series of chemical processes—? A fluke, a mistake, a disposable outcome of this great beast called life—where was God, where was faith and hope and all these totems of human greatness that we’ve struggled for centuries to discover and conquer, all for what? Rivers of blood down city streets, shattered bones and mangled flesh; just look at what we’ve done to each other! How can you stand idly by and not say a word? Men and women combusting in self immolation—throw yourself upon your sword, death before dishonour, don’t let them see you die, but how can you not? Death is so beautiful, such a mangled twisted experience, what a show, what a show this all is… So bare your ugly soul for a measly photo. Capture yourself in this moment, because it will never happen again; you standing beside your mother, her arm around you, the long curls of her hair brushing along your face, the smell of her perfume and the taste of iced tea that hit your lips, when you rushed inside immediately after that photography was taken! You won’t ever be as happy as you are now, you won’t ever be as young, pretty, smart, intelligent or alive… Can you feel the Earth shifting? Can you feel yourself being pulled further and further out to sea? Can you feel yourself drowning and coming to peace with letting it all go?

Can you feel yourself giving up?

His hands, hot like embers, touch my cheek and I’m roused awake, pulled out by Dylan’s eyes. They look deep into me, searching for a trace of where I went, a postcard, anything to give an explanation, but instead I smile and let the paper burn out at the edge of my fingertips, the smoke vanishing, never to be seen again.

June began and ended in ordinary quarter life-fashion: it came and went like a really hot one night stand. You knew that June was in the cards. You felt it in your bones. And when June finally followed you back home to your apartment, stripped off their clothes and fucked you good and hard for 31 days, June leaves you sweaty, emotional, and begging for more. 

And then July comes around and you forget about June. You think about the last two months of summer left to go and what you might do to savour it. What epic trips can you plan? Who or what is waiting for you in those dark, hot, sweltering summer nights to come?

***

July 1st. The last night of Pride. I’m walking out of the club, tired and alone. My feet hurt and I’m ready to collapse, but up ahead on the main road I can see that people are still out and about; roaming, cruising, laughing, and clearly not giving a single fuck that it’s almost 2AM on a Sunday night. Through the noise, heat and my general post-Pride exhaustion, I can feel that there’s still a bit of magic in the air. I force a final wind to carry me towards the main strip; this doesn’t have to be over, yet. And as I’m about to turn the corner, out of the shadows and into the lamplit street, three boys run past me, each with a freshly lit roman candle in hand and begin firing them up towards the stars. And as the first burst of light hits the sky, everyone around me turns in unison and we all begin to cheer.

See you next year, June. 

***

The first thunderstorm of July wakes you up in the middle of the night. It’s 1:47 AM and you’ve left your window open. You can hear the rain pelting down on the pavement, on your roof, and against your window. You’re still stuck in that sweet in-between, a little annoyed and more than groggy, with a pinch of dreamy. But when that crack of thunder shakes you out of bed, you can’t help but let out a slight smile. You smell the rain slipping into your room, the hot pavement sighing with relief. You go back to sleep, staring out at the window from your bed, the purple and blue raindrop kaleidoscope the last thing you see. 

And if June was the full out party, then July is the calm after the storm. It is the clean up and the healing, full of soft sunsets to reflect upon… 

I think about where I’ve been in the last few days, and then critically examine the decisions I’ve made. I go back and forth between letting go and holding on, unsure of which is better—how do you let go without forgetting? How do you hold on without moving backwards? Why are there only ever two directions to move towards? 

I await the arrival of August. July has been good to me, patched me up some, but still, July leaves me with more questions than before. But as I move through my days, I keep the questions bottled up inside, hoping that when the leaves begin to fall and the colours begin to shift, I’ll find the courage to let it all go. 

Change is a common theme amongst the self-reflective. For me, it’s something I use to gauge growth. I’m not sure why I care so much about personal growth sometimes. Perhaps it’s the writer in me trying to gain a better understanding of human development—motives, character, etc. It’s all research! Or so they say. Regardless, over the past few years I’ve discovered that I have managed to become increasingly miserable about certain things. I mean, there was the perpetual artist buried deep inside of me, struggling to find the beauty amidst the chaos, the creative in the destructive, the corny in the mundane! But I continually managed to burden myself with this overwhelming sense of dread about the world! My civil rights causes had opened up the flood gates to some very accurate horrors of the society in which we live, and I was frightened. More so, I was angry, hurt, and I also felt a little betrayed, as academia had taught me so! But while I continue to recount the past few months to try and make sense of all that has happened, I can’t help but feel this growing sense of goodness about all that has happened, and for the first time in a long while, I am excited about the future.

There are many things that I benefit from, such as the work of all the gay women and men before me. I can’t thank them enough. Change is happening everyday, and this very thought is more than I need to see the beautiful, amorphous, twisted and glorious world for what it is. 

“Young people are abandoning the “save the world” rhetoric we were raised with and seeking out a more practical, complex analysis of social change. We don’t want to “save the world.” We’re too smart to think we can. We want to live in it — flawed, fierce, loving, and humble.”

yourveryfleshshallbeagreatpoem:

Tell kids everywhere—
The world is your underwear.

It’s time you changed it.

—Derrick Brown 

to make change whenever and wherever you can. 

Don’t stay silent. I cannot say this enough. I am constantly plagued by fears of a world where we are censored, silenced and cast so far out in the margins that we won’t even exist; no blip on any radar. Support your cause, any cause, just pick one. Whether it’s a like on facebook, a tweet, a dollar donated, standing up for a friend, a stranger, volunteering time, spreading the word, just do something.

Be Brave. Be Brave. Be Brave. When you’re brave, we’re brave with you.

And don’t forget that you’re a part of a community on tumblr. People follow and read your posts and ask you how you’re doing for a reason.

Love,

Kai

Doing something with it and instigating change, however, can. 

If you’ve been around me for the past few weeks, you’ll know that I’ve been a complete baby over getting my braces. I have been sitting around complaining about how my life will soon be over and that I will die alone, as well as proclaiming my future recluse status. However, my complaining does include a silver-lining: the Grande Coming Out Party of Kaila Montanna!

But before we get to that beautiful day, there’s a heck of a lot of ground to cover. Starting with…

So what exactly is my dental prognosis?  A lot of my friends have asked me this question (not in those exact words), mostly because they haven’t noticed anything wrong with ma teeeeeth. Yay! For them, I guess. But frankly I notice every morning, every time I’m standing in front of a camera, every time I laugh really hard and open my mouth, and every time I hear that Lady Gaga song, my teeth are on my mind. 

My top row is overcrowded, causing certain teeth to be quite noticeably (for me) out of place. My bottom row is actually fine, but because I’m going to be adjusting the upper I have to adjust the lower. The original plan was to remove two teeth from the top and two from the bottom, but I wasn’t too keen on the idea of losing four chompers. So after a small search and referral, I found a new dentist who came up with a whole new solution. She is going to be filing micrometers of space between the back molars to create space so that she can pull front teeth into place. There is a back up plan if this doesn’t work (it should be pretty evident what that plan is), but I’d like to focus on happy, beautiful energy at the moment.

Sounds like fun, right? So much fun that I’m committing myself to 26 months of this shit. This is going to be the longest relationship I’ve ever had. Fuck! This is the longest thing I’ve ever committed myself to! Actually, that’s a complete lie. I’ve spent 6 years doing my undergrad (graduating in June! WOOT!).

And everything seems relatively well planned and optimistic: I’m getting braces, I know how long I’m going to have them for, I know the risks, and I’m well aware that many people have had braces and that even now there are a lot of people getting them in their adult years. So then you’re probably asking: “Kai! What the hell is wrong with you? What’s with all the anxiety? Why all the fear and drama you stupid little bitch?”

Well kids, it seems that after four weeks of being a whiny little shit I’ve finally figured it out, and for the most part it all has to do with my self esteem. I’ve only recently begun to feel comfortable in my own skin; with the colour of my skin, my weight, with the shape of my body and heck, I’ve even gotten used to my thick, shiny, silky smooth (DIRTY!) head of black-as-night hair. All in all, I’ve begun to feel “sexy” as a young and virile gay Asian man. HOWEVER, despite this tiny mouthful of setback, I will rise above this. No doubt this shit is gonna’ hit me hard, and who knows, I may even burst into tears at some random moment when I’m alone in my room, watching Ugly Betty and eating the 16th-last-bite of my McCain chocolate cake, but that’s all a part of the process. Vanity is a rough and painful road. 

But sometimes we have to really consider the lengths of which we will go to feel pretty—to feel confident, beautiful, and happy. It takes a lot of discipline and courage to reach that point, and at times we get lost and end up hurting ourselves instead. But the fear that I speak of, my fear of this long, expensive and painful journey comes from the original intent, my original intent: Why am I doing this to myself?

What do I really hope to achieve beyond gaining confidence, beauty and eventual happiness? 

Because… well, what if nothing changes?

What if after everything that I’ve done, my story doesn’t change?

***

It’s 8:46 PM.

My appointment is tomorrow afternoon at 1:00 PM.

Blog to ya’ll soon.