…so says the tickytock. Except without the tick, or the tock. It just does it. And I was done writing…

but I just do it – or at least, I try.

I like where my mind goes when I get back into the words – everything I see has a poetry to it, and perhaps I even talk differently… that I don;t know, but I was saturated with words when Tea met me, was writing the love of adventure, the agony of Bean (which she helped me through to no end) and a love that I had hopes for… gods, what a time.

There is a lot I can’t write about right now, but one thing I can – an incredible honor – Tea says that she is going to name her child after me if it’s a boy. A string of four names, and one is kSea…


I seem to touch people as I go through their lives, for reasons I truly don’t understand – but I guess that they all have their own. Maybe they see the way I see me when I know that the world is mine to be shared; maybe they see the vulnerable me, the child who has no past, but dreams of a future he is willing to sacrifice everything for… and has. And will again. And again, until I am fucking done.

The words aren’t coming.




It’s almost as if everything is too familiar again to write – or perhaps more likely, I’ve lost myself in the grind.

I haven’t gone crazy- truly crazy, in far too long.

First the poetry goes, then prose – then, ultimately, my soul…

Or is it that I’ve been consumed by frustration?

Something, somewhere. Something somewhere needs to change…



you may be right…

…the song comes over the speakers at the store and instantly, helplessly I am transported back to my childhood room.

“…even rode my mo-tor-cy-cle in the ruuuuaaaiiin…”

back to innocence, when air was good to breathe and the ocean was clean, waking up every day to sunshine and the view of the Pacific, if I wasn’t already down there surfing at North Pier or Blacks, before that winter that came and took the break at North Pier away…

School was never right – bored the hell out of me, especially the people; Blond hair Blue eyed hell, talking unkindly about them and them and what they did and I never understood that until I realized that it was just a way to direct attention away from their own faults, while it was everything I could do to not constantly think about mine and I was always unsuccessful so always silent but gods, those were easy, fucked up days…

…”I may be crazyyyy…”

and here I sit, up earlier than usual due to an uncommon good night of sleep, loving the warmth of my Vau de Vire hoodie and wondering what the day will bring. The days are far from easy anymore, that simplicity is long, long gone, as far away as the innocence when I had hopes behind the words

…”but it just may be a looonatic you’re looking for…”

and here I sit, about to meditate and begin the day, back to work and work and work on Big Top Magazine to do whatever I can to make it survive, because it seems as if the two of us are linked these days, one and the same. So many hopes, so many plans for it and me… but it’s terrifying. Wondrous, beautiful, consuming, terrifying.

…”don’t try to save me…”

so another day starts, with Billy Joel going through my head. I must admit, he’s one of my not so guilty pleasures – bringing me back to the warm room, the Sea, the sunshine, and the sweet, sweet innocence, where I knew that there was a world just waiting for me out there, and I was supposed to do something in it, something good. Hell – brown hair and green eyes, I didn’t belong there… so here I am world, here I am. Let’s rock this place, and make some kind of difference.


Okay? Ready when you are, world… here, I’ll start. Catch up to me when you can.


for making me

to myself, I say fuck you for making me do this.

to myself, I wonder if I am worthy of it.

An ever-present need, it is not a gift to anyone – but some see it as such. If it works…

words. they’re coming again, like this. The DELUGE, opened again, as I’ve hidden myself in Big Top magazine =- and this, this is the same, this is different – so different.

This is subcutaneous – far beyond Big Top, far beyond its flesh which I have shrouded myself in.


Not like they used to be, these fingers of mine. There was a time – ten years ago, before any of you knew me, as I got to finally know myself, where they would grasp anything to write with, anything to write on. Trash in the car, fogged windows, a knife scraping a few words wherever they needed to come out – and of course, hundreds upon hundreds of lost bar napkins.

There was even a time I was sent home from work because I couldn’t stop writing. It was the time of the flood, and 31 years of surpressed emotion had finally found an outlet. When I set my mind to it – made the words soft, palatable, a few poems were even published, and I was invited to a group that discussed such things, and tried, always unsuccessfully, to make sense of what we , as adopted children, felt, to ease the pain of repentant birth mothers, to console anyone in the “triad”.  . I still have the pieces, but it’s nothing that anyone would have seen – not anyone here at least – no one that I know now.  It was pretty cool though – not only did I bring every fucking one of them to tears (including me) but I met and became good acquaintances with Karen Vedder – Eddie’s birth mother.

If only I could focus on creating music – I mean hell – Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl Jam – how many others were fronted by… heh – one of us? No, It sure as hell isn’t a club, that’s for sure…there is no “us”. Always wanted to, though.

Create music, that is…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Okay – what’s this thing I hear of… Nanowrimo. Yeah, I think that’s it… AAAAUUUGGGH! Looks like hell when I dig up the twitter feed – but then again, the novel is already here: http://ksea.livejournal.com/2005/09/23/ – forward, back – have a blast, I’ll sell you the movie rights for cheap if you want them – but only me or Johnny Depp play me.

Maybe I should actually try to write…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Three candles are all that shed light on these rusty fingers, all white this time, two burning low enough that I look at them every few minutes wondering when they will go out. I swear, if nothing else causes worry lines, the incessant dead-candle-watch will. The drawer with ones to replace them is open, and just like almost everything else in here, within reach – but this is where my fingers want to be for now, where thoughts are quiet and the words just simply come.

Words just simply come.  HELLOOOOOOOO, words!!!! That’s your cue, damnit!

Screw it – I’m getting new candles ready. Maybe

Gods, I love the scent of beeswax. I get the dripless candles, as this is such a small place that the smallest mess or disturbance is far too visible, and gods, I do try to keep a clean home. Not like I ever have any visitors to be concerned about, but just for me. Far from anal, but with so little, the little things really matter.

I look around at each of the beautiful candle holders that I use, and realize – each one of them are beautiful, solid brass – that I picked out of my “parents” trash, years and years ago. In back I have my grandmothers gorgeous candelabra – let’s see if I can figure out the picture thing on WordPress…

wait – is that it? Holy FUCH, that was easy! You are also the first ever (besides me) to see the one of me looking like  – well, looking like an idiot who knows that the world is his. Looking like me. Looking at it for the first time in three years, I think I like it… more now.

1:13 am. The time I glanced at. I like that…

Enough for now…

Here we go… again.

This writing thing – definitely not like riding a bicycle.

And with that profoundly brilliant observation I begin again, this writing thing. More out of love and need than want, more to prove to myself that I still can, and mostly – because I used to write really well, and I miss using that talent – or letting it use me.  If I can do it again, if I can do anything well, then I feel it’s a minor tragedy to let it go to waste.

I think that this is a part where I can have some fun, and be inspired at the same time: For those of you who used to read my blogs back when I was writing every day in Tribe or LiveJournal – could you please did through your memories – or hell, even dig through the words I wrote back then, and let me know of your favorite time, or entry, or – anything?

Yeah, I’m calling upon you to validate me, if you would. Let me know, let me remember that I used to make a difference through my words. That, I believe, might help. I mean hell – even some of my emails were beautiful things, to the point of someone wanting to make a movie about me and a love affair I had through words while living in New Orleans, and some pretty serious talk about it…

But alas, that never came to  happen – at least not yet. There may be talks again.

…In order to move forward I should probably bring you up to date – briefly, at least. In moving back to San Francisco, I found that Fisherman’s Wharf was not the same for a Busker – which is the official name for a ‘Street Performer’.  It had changed, been saturated by the silver-painted pieces of shit who took all art away from what was once one of the nations most wonderful – and lucrative, places to busk. Eventually there just wasn’t enough money in it to continue, and though I miss it dearly and have every intention of busking again, it won’t be there.

I live in a motor-home in the Portrero/Mission area of San Francisco, and I think the name of my motor home is “The Rabbit” – in hopes that the highways and odd, seldom traveled routes of this country will once again become my rabbit hole- full of never ending adventure and amazing people met along the way.

My laptops name is Clotho – first of the Three Fates, the giver of life. Kinda pathetic, I know – but it is what it is.

In Busking, as in performing with groups such as Vau de Vire Society and many others, I found my love – but wanted to take the beauty further. Take it to everyone who could find it, and let them know how much beauty there is in the world – the amazing performers, troupes, events… so I created a magazine in order to do that. Big Top Magazine is now my current obsession, and the first issue went online on May 1st, 2008 – Mayday, Beltane. Working endlessly every day to make it better  is what I do. Almost literally, all I do, day in and day out – as except for an amazingly wonderful person – appropriately named Angel – who does all of the transcribing, I do every tiny thing for Big Top Magazine, from interviews to site design to finding advertisers so it (and I ) can survive, and hopefully very soon, prosper.

Credit where credit is due though, a person named Cameron took it upon herself and volunteered to build the new Big Top site,  and the base of the new Big Top site, which is much better than the last one, was built by her. It went live on February 9th, 2009.

It’s now 3:39am and I’m still waiting for the street sweeper to go by so I can get my incredibly coveted parking spot on this street where I am able to pick up an open WiFi connection. The candles are burning, I’m getting tired, the writing has deteriorated into mundane blather.

Enough for the first day back in the words. Right now the Big Top Magazine site is down for a very brief time, but it will be back again – and better than ever, with many wonderful articles of the New Circus, Steampunk, Style, ATS Belly Dance and so very much more!  I intend to have it in print by the second anniversary, May 10th, 2010.

I’m going to be writing every day in order to find the language of the words again, as I need to – but if you happen to read this, let me know. Knowing that it is read by someone is perhaps the most inspiring thing these days, and will make a better writer of me a bit quicker – back to where I was when I stopped… Why the fuck did I stop, anyway? Lesson learned. Must. keep Writing.

With love, dreams, and the waiting adventure,

~ kSea

By the way? I think I’m already in love with WordPress for my new blog. That will help. They seem to really know their shit.