A Memo Concerning: Cartwheels, Encinitas, and Swimming in Fountains.

Time is far too precious to keep track of. That is what I say to myself when obsessively checking clocks in anticipation of some next great, grand and wonderful thing, all the while letting moments escape. I was once propositioned by a horrible person. When she became offended that I declined her advances I simply answered “I'm sorry, I'm more concerned with having good memories.” She didn't like that. I suppose I could have done some rather sinful things, and perhaps would have liked it within the moment, but the manner in which Time returns to us is far too precious my friends. The following memo isn't about wasting time/waiting or about declining to bang sub-par partners, it is about how the Wind Cries Mary, and the act of suckling the delicious teat that is one's own pulsing heart. And so we have A Memo Concerning: Cartwheels, Encinitas, and Swimming in Fountains.

When Encinitas, Califronia, my home town, opens itself, swollen and raw, pulling the sun down upon it, there are those who ignore its bold and explosive advances. Prudes. The day spreads itself before you, ripe, and you may yawn. As many of you know, my tolerances have been exhausted. Of late I have been targeting the Emo, those with a despondent disposition, self imposed derelicts, dickheads who have decided that life is what presses down upon our shoulders with each passing moment. I believe in moments, that our happiness hinges on our ability to make each moment more kick ass than the last, or next. I believe that happiness is a decision--that we can draw strength from even the most hideous of elements. I enjoy high-fives from strangers at the DMV when I give a rebel yell and first pump after my number is finally called. As a child, when at the Dentist, I used to imagine myself being transformed into a glorious half man/half robot/100 percent bad ass machine that could crush the shit out of kickballs when at bat and be able to do handstands on top of monkey bars. The pain of the Dentists knuckles slamming my jaws open further, tooth shrapnel spraying into my eyes, Michael Bolton pillaging my ears through the office speakers, all of these things were just a means to become a more efficient warrior. I'd get home, with sore jaws and swollen cheeks, and chase my dog feverishly around the yard until it felt like the Novocain had spread across my entire head. Me: invincible.

I'm impatient, when walking somewhere to experience something specific, more often than not I will run.

At age four I started WWIII via a series of deft and savage maneuvers. It was an act of bold strategery that history has not seen since Germany allowed Lenin to return to Russia. Unfortunately none of you will get to read about my fury in history books or watch over-powdered actors feign journalism and grotesquely comment that my war defined the Greatest of Generations (those born in the year of our lord 1983). The lone trigger of my War: being told that older people, most importantly my siblings, lived and shared memories from before my birth. At the moment of tragic realization (anagorisis, really) I screamed and ran from the room, returning only to wag my finger in vicious accusation and denial. My explosions were intense and even long after my family had talked me down into accepting that others lived well before my time, when trying to sleep, deep into my pillow, trying to think of nothing so that my brain could move into slumber, all I could focus on was the time, the life that I did not get to live before my own began. The pain kept me up all night.

I've made a concerted effort to not turn “Memarandus” into a platform on which to explain myself or my behavior. And that is probably why I have failed in that very regard. The fact of the matter is that there are many who don't understand why I will do a cartwheel in public or yell “LETS MAKE A SANDWICH” with both arms in the air when walking into a Subway, or dance with myself when waiting in an unforgiving line. I'm haunted by memories of opportunities that I have let pass. The chick in Intro to Shakespeare Freshman year of college. We used to secretively hold up sheets of paper with frown faces on them when pretentious students would talk for too long. Never asked her out, she totally wanted me. Not calling out a teacher at La Costa Canyon High School for blatantly lying to all of us about students that he had taught. But then again, lets be honest, I did whatever the hell I wanted at that school. Or maybe swimming in the fountain inside of Terrace Dining hall at Ithaca College, one of the few fountains within a five mile radius that I did not swim in. Entering my diorama of our Solar System in the 5^th and 6^th grade science fair even though I was only in third grade. My teacher wanted me to. I was scared. That diorama belonged in the freaking Smithsonian. These are just a few of the regrets that drive me forward though. They remind me that every opportunity is precious. That is why I find life to be delicious-- a supple element, meant to be experienced in glorious terms and as such I choose to give it the very things that I draw from it. Simple moments, waiting for love to be made with them, waiting in the “same way that the complex form of a plant is contained in the seed.” The tragedy of our lives are the moments un-lived.

There are those who don't allow themselves to be shaken. These are those who walk right by magnificence and blindly find concern with other, supposed practical or serious things. The unimpressed continue to move forward, unmoved by the majesty that surrounds them in the way a song strikes them at the perfect moment, or how the wind pushes a cluster of clouds over them, or someones words catch exactly what they are feeling. And they are fucking cowards. They lack the courage to allow elements to change them. I want everything I encounter to change me, and I only want to be surrounded by those who feel the same. Quality of life comes down to being bold and open to inspiration within any moment. I have listened to Beethoven's “Ode To Joy” while while watching the sun rise from a park resting against the ocean, the rolling waves behind me, deliriously tired, but so thankful for each breath as it falls into the next. I hold my experiences to be self evident, the only things we get to keep when tomorrow washes everything away. Will you come with me?