No. Not going out tonight. Want to, but – but all I would do is stand around and think. Write inside of my head, desperately grasp for my pen and a random piece of paper. I certainly want to see you, to have you around me – but I would ignore you, to a certain degree. I would of course have grace, be amicable – but I wouldn’t be there with you. Not in my head. I would cheat you. You deserve more than I can offer right now. My head is here.

It doesn’t matter what I want to write, I never know that – I just start and see where it goes, no structure, seldom any intention. Sparked by the music I listen to and the image I see in the mirror. Sometimes I recognize myself, usually not. I have many faces, and they are all me. I offer my dreams, and with them – my nightmares. It’s a whole fucking package that comes out in performance, but is not as simple as that. every part of me you see is a part of me – from the deepest darkness to the light that lifts. I think Danger Angel, who I have known for lifetimes and is someone who reads with a solid bullshit meter knows this. Can’t help but adore the very few that call me on my shit – bur it mostly isn’t. Just a need to write, to be me, to dream larger. So little bullshit here. You deserve more than that, and I try not to lead you on a false path, try not to let you down. I only ask that whoever reads this never, ever folows me. Read, and learn from my mistakes. Perhaps that is the reason that I started writing in a public forum? I’ve been here. do your best not to come, but if you need to, here are the tools I’ve learned to get out of it.

Don’t believe in the illusion that everything is beautiful – there is an immesurable amount of pain that is a part of this life, a part of us. IT’S A FUCKING LESSON! Yeah. most everything is beautiful – even the pain, even the nightmares. All depends  how you look at ’em now, doesen’t it? We’re here to learn. We’re here to BE as much as we can. Are you a warrior? Or are you a pawn. Your choice, fucker.

Really. Your choice.

And really – everything IS beautiful – just depends on how you look at it.  (Except for mosquitoes. hate those fuckers. NOT beautiful in any way.)

Me? I’m a warrior. This doesn’t mean I fight – it means I know better. A Warrior of the Light. My heart is full of grace and beauty, but the capacity of this heart is immeasuable. I am a warrior. The life I have chosen has made this certain. I do not say this with any arrogance, I am just me – and fuck, there is nothing more valuable to me than bringing you along.

I read, become the sacred paths. I understand, and know still how small I am, know the depths of my heart. I have grace. I know love. That is all we need. I am nothing, everything. I am you, you – me.

See waht happens when I write?

Pffffft. Good thing I’m not going out tonight.

Five in the ay em, Boe’s house on 26th and Dolores. Soon, our bus will be my home. I’m looking forward to that. Just need to get the genny working, but it is alien to me. The plug has no spark, but the wire is attached to a strange tiny box, about an inch square – not a coil, and it looses me there. What the fuck? Lost. Don’t like not being able to fix things. At least I was able to get it started when the tumbler for the key fell out and dissapeared in Reno. (hmmm. not ignition, just the key tumbler.) Logic is a curse and blessing, and hell – while Boe was out looking for the tumbler, I took a common tool and made our bus come to life. I was a hero for about 30 seconds. Good enough. A few cheers and we were on the road.

I’m fucking 40 now. That’s weird. Just another anticlimactic lack of celebration, but fuck it. There were three things that made it matter – a delightful childrens book hand delivered on the Playa by Rising (she said it reminded her of me), a treat and wonderful card from Anastasia, and finding wonderful birthday wishes everywhere I looked from Keri. Yeah, not so bad.

Time to sleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

12:35pm, aftersleep

When I returned to The City, it was still all work – I didn’t want to play so much, just do what I needed to. When we were unloading the 53 foot trailer someone (I forget his name) gave me a matchbook. Not just any matchbook – what they do is take the unused Burning Man tickets and make them into covers for the matches. He works for the company that makes the tix, and this is what they do. Coolest friggin’ thing ever, and except for the piece of conch shell that Vegas gave me, the best schwag I recieved.

This matchbook, made out of a 2005 ticket, missing the striker (it fell off) was/is something very dear to me. I didn’t know how much I needed to give it away until I saw Belva again, hours before she needed to head back to Canada. She’s one of us, but not allowed to join.

That evening, while we were wandering around, drunk on booze and bacon, this beautiful being read me my rights, called me on my shit. She seemed startled that I took it so well, but fuck – I am only me, and long ago I decided that the most important things to have in life are Grace, Honesty, and Style. With grace and honesty, new worlds can be created. With style – hell, we’ll make ’em look good. Personal style. Who are you? Show me.

In the wee hours of the night, in the glimpse of the morning light I knew that she had to go, and I pulled the matchbook out of my pocket and gave it to her, telling her not to use it – but be sure to bring it back when she returns. Bring it back to me, to us. Make this matchbook bring her back.

Then, she said a piece of her mind.
We say a lot, but do little – and now is the time to act. We do a little, and need to do more. Words are only that, we need to act. We need to focus on ourselves and become what we can and only after that will we be able to shine as bright as we should. Lead by example. What right do I have to offer shit that may help, as I lay homeless and broke? I am not a martyr, I am a warrior. it is grace and style, it is dignity that I need to show the way – but fuck, there’s a bottom as well, and not everything is pretty, and not everything is beautiful and filled with light. I know this. I’ve seen it, and it is a part of me. This is one hell of a fight – but really, it’s not a fight at all. If you fall, you just get up, know your wounds, care for them until they are smaller. Never ignore them… but I ramble. This is Belva’s message to me. It is time to reach goals – the past year was simply igniting the fire…

~ ~ ~

A Matchbook…

Thank you ever so much for hearing me out last night. I didn’t realize it was all sitting there until it started to come out. Your a blessed man KSea….take advantage of that ;0)

So I’m kinda serious about connecting in a year and taking a look at where we’re at. I say this for you but also for me too!!! It’s time for me to pull up my socks as well in my own way and get really serious about some things.

Perhaps we can set some goals between us that we hope to have achieved in the next year. We can hold each other accountable ;0) It’s these things that make me work hard…being held accountable.

you in?

AGain KSea, thank you ever so much for hearing me with such grace. I am grateful for your forgiveness in it all.

with love
belva

~ ~ ~

We exchanged words, ate bacon. Vegas almost cut his pinky finger off, but didn’t remember how. Strangely, I did. Four of them went to sleep on a bed, I was fine on the couch.  I remember Belva coming in later to cover me with a blanket.
I am too fimiliar with alone these days – but that’s fine, I guess. There is shit I need to do, and on top of that – I’ve become one selective bastard. Gone are the days of satiating the flesh in a random way. I don’t need to relive that emptiness.

The one I would consider, the one I adore – well, she’s pretty damn busy too. So it goes. So it goes. I’ll just be happy to laugh with her again, the way we did before…

And now I’m getting all sappy, and the writing needs to stop before I say too much.

Of all places, I certainly didn’t expect to find myself here tonight. There’s been too much to say to say anything.

I’ve been neglecting everything as much as I can, wanting to be around people but not wanting to talk, a strange unrest swimming inside of me. Thinking incessantly of what I’m trying to put together for the show on the 28th, something new for me and I’m terrified. An idea I’ve had for months but haven’t had the opportunity until now, and while in my mind I think it will be incredible, it is nowhere I’ve ever been before.

We’ll see how it goes. Still so much to do – but all I can do is think about it. Things need to be right in order to write what I need to for it, still need to build props and figure out where they will come into play, figure out timing, theatrics, sound.
It will work out. I’ll do it, and then it will be over. I have the opportunity to reach further and need to take it.

It will work out, one way or the other.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Burning Man was exquisite. I had the opportunity to share work, food, great conversation and laughter with some amazing people who I now consider my friends. In my world, that opportunity is rare. I perform with people, we’re in the same place for hours at a time, but we run past each other, busy doing this and that, preparing, performing, watching the show when we can and then packiing up, exhausted, and saying our goodbyes. I’ve performed with many of the people I spent the majority of my 12 days on the Playa with before, but never knew them. Never put up a huge circus tent or sat on a couch across from them before when all there was to do was relax and talk a bit. It was glorious.

In the beginning of the week, while the camp was still small and there were only around 60 of the soon to be 270 people, we had socials. Our first one was the best – Scott (Professor Violet) organized a little speed-meeting thing, the people divieded into two groups and after a while evenually doing what he asked and forming an inner and outer circle of people, facing each other. The inner circle rotated, and had a couple minutes facing the person on the outer ring to talk and get to know them a bit. Cheesy as hell and I went into it with a laughing reluctance, but…
We were all supposed to think of one question that we would ask the person we were in front of, and I couldn’t think of one. Thankfully, the first person I faces was Indigo, and he asked simply “Who are you?” I liked the question, and instead of answering it, told him that I’m stealing it, which I did.
Some peple I let off giving an easy answer – others I didn’t. It was when I faced Astra, and after I wouldn’t let her give an easy answer (“No – go deeper. WHO are YOU?) that she turned the tables on me, and asked me the same question. Now, Astra is not only gorgeous, but has an incredible energy inside of her – and a beautiful depth. She asked me the question with the same intensity that I asked of her, so I had to pause, and think.  This is not an easy question to answer.

Who the fuck am I? I’ve been everyone, done quite a bit. My life has been full, but that’s not *who* I am. Who am I? I thought – I’m days away from the 40th anniversary of my birth, and while most of my life I’ve been someone who I thought might be the person to please my parents, or get me that false sense of security that money buys you, or this, or that – well, now… Now, I am a performer. I work with a few incredible groups, and am so fucking wealthy with friends my heart is perpetually on the verge of bursting. I am moving forward in trying to get the deepest parts of me from the last four years published, and when they are, they just might help a few people realize that even through all the pain and darkness, there is light, and it is beautiful. I’m trying to create a magazine, the first of its kind, which will possibly help the people who rush past each other back stage learn a bit more about the people they perform with, and let the rest of the world know what we are doing as well.
I’ve been a street performer in nine or ten cities, and through that found out that I could survive almost anywhere, and in my silence as a statue realized the purest love that I have ever felt, and knew that it was who I had worked so hard to become.
I have been called beautiful by the youngest and the oldest of passerby, I have shared the wonder of silent secrets with children with a wink as they were pulled along by their parents. I have made numerous people laugh. I have let a man cry in front of his teen-aged daughter, right after he said to me “I’m so happy you guys are coming back…” – in New Orleans, five months after Katrina.

I help people smile. I help people remember the wonder they had as a child, if I’m lucky. I do what I want to do. I only answer to myself, and the needs of my passions. I survive. Barely – but I survive, and with my friends, I create magick.

Who am I?

I am kSea flux, a name chosen for my love of the ocean and the way my life constantly changes.

Who am I?

I gave Astra this answer:

“I am finally the person that I dreamed of being as a child.”

This brought tears to her eyes.

I am the ancient black man smoking a corncob pipe, sitting in a rocking chair on the front deck of a ramshackle one room house, offering ageless wisdom to the schoolchildren who wandered by on the dirt road. That was my vision when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up – but I could never say it.
I am the motocross superstar that I saw every time I looked out the back seat window of my parents car on long drives, jumping the freeway overpasses, always landing gracefully on hill built up to support the next one. I was always there, riding hard as hell, and I could always see me as I sat in the back seat, silent.

Who am I?

I am my dreams, and I am making them come true.

I didn’t expect to be here tonight, there is too much to say to say anything – but I said a little bit of something,

and I feel a bit better now.