Kyle David Iverson's Blog, page 2

Bum Guns: A Love Story

Pants around my ankles, I can’t look away. It’s staring at me, a droplet of water slithering slowly down its face. The droplet reaches the bottom, clings, swells, then splatters against the tile floor. And I’m thinking no, I mean, they can’t, can they? They can’t actually- the angles alone! But they must, because every bathroom into which I’ve slapped my slippery flip-flops has one installed. Right there, next to the toilet. Sometimes righty, sometimes lefty, but always, always there: a spray nozzle not unlike the one next to the faucet on my mother’s kitchen sink. The one I used to chisel beneath a strata of charred egg when I forgot to grease the pan. But this spraygun ain’t for mama’s pans.

Allow me to state the obvious. The gun I’m referring to is meant for your bum; the stuff that comes out when you empty your tum. This is the way the vast majority of Southeast Asians wipe. Bum gun for the heavy lifting; toilet paper to dry and polish. If not for tourists, I would venture a single roll of two-ply could last three weeks in Chiang Mai.

Allow me to state the also obvious: as a tourist, the mere idea of a bum gun sent shivers up my spine. You’ve got to be- and pardon the expression- shitting me.

The nozzle was a thing so alien, so off-putting, I avoided eye contact let alone body. But I was seven months in Southeast Asia, that’s a long time, and sometimes things happen. I might be walking away from a temple or reclining buddha, feeling rarified as you like, and on the breeze catch a whiff of mystery meat, skewered over a pile of wadded newspaper, roasting over a bit of blackened tin, and before you know it, I’ve run out of options. Not all bathrooms provide western amenities.

Knees shaking, palms enslickened, I reach out. Slow and unsteady, I fingerprint the sprayer, only slightly! A slow-motion minimalist in a college black-and-white. The lone droplet slips from the nozzle to my knuckle and I draw back sharply, like it isn’t water but magma. Instinctively, I want to pull hand to mouth to nurse the wound, but stop halfway, repulsed.

I retreat. Lean back to consolidate and strategize. I look at the nozzle, staring down and sizing up. I might have withered on that toilet seat if not for the shuffling of footsteps outside the stall. The mutter of voices and ricochets of strange tongues off the tile floor, prodding me into action, exposing the defensive limits of my stall door.

With the courage and ragged breathing of a South Pole expeditioner, I seize the sprayer, work the angles, and let loose an exploratory squeeze of the trigger. The temperature and pressure both startle and cause me to shudder in my seat. Nonplussed, I screw up my face, swallow sawdust, and squeeze again, this time for keeps. So tense I’m sure I’ve burst a blood vessel, the spray greets the clench and- what’s this? The world maintains its spin. The coolness of the water subsides until it becomes, I daresay, tepid. The pressure, so startling at first, makes it’s case. Businesslike yes, but attending to the job with empathy, not sadism. The helpful insurance adjuster or affable tax collector. I spray on and realize: this is downright pleasant!

And then the case breaks wide. An example, if it please the court: You’re stood under a tree and some vacant, speckled pigeon lets loose upon your forearm, do you A.) Wipe the mess with a neatly folded facial tissue? or B.) Rinse the nastiness with water, then dry again with the same? I’ll leave it for the jury to decide.

I finish, satisfied after a job well done, and exit the Gent’s feeling like I’ve come through the other side of a spiritual experience. An ashram for my- you get the idea. And thus begins a robust and passionate love affair. I become evangelistic, a zealot, proselytizing at ponds and parks in Kuala Lumpur, over backalley noodles in Hanoi, under soppy skies in peeling Yangon. I experience bum guns of every size, boasting sprays of every shape. And when the time comes to leave this part of the world, I feel as though I’m leaving something of myself. And sitting on the throne in the West, wadding toilet tissue into golf balls (always been a crumpler), I can’t help but think of those endless, beautiful nozzles, and the lucky few who, maybe even today, will take the leap, and experience a sweet caress in their moment of need. And finally, I’m wistful for the day my own fair country will come to her senses, and reunite me once more with the love I lost.

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Islanders

The superiority complex contained within the following post must be acknowledged. Immediately, straight at the top, big and bold in a font sans serif. Arial probably. In a moment, I’m going to suggest that I have more deliberate (read: better), taste than a lot of other people. I will also make the claim that people with curated taste set themselves apart from everybody else. Please note, I’m not saying I think I’m better than you, but I am obliquely implying it. Sorry.

Let’s begin.

It’s an oversimplification to say there are two kinds of people in the world. The adage itself is so used and abused it ought to live in a shelter for battered proverbs. Should rest its smudgy laurels alongside ubiquities like ‘thoughts and prayers’ and ‘live, love, laugh.’ That said, there are two kinds of people in the world: mainlanders and islanders.

A mainlander is someone who accepts the way things are as the way things should be. They’ll tell you Don’t Stop Believin’ is a great song. That buying new is always smarter than buying used. They know exactly why Kylie Jenner is famous and think seven Fast and Furious movies is a completely acceptable number of Fast and Furious movies. Mainlanders want stability and security. Sweaters in November and sandals in July. They’re integral pieces of happy families. They go to barbecues on the weekends and head home around nine. Life, for a mainlander feels assured and comfortable. A song on the radio and they know all the lyrics. Mainlanders are part of something. They fit.

Islanders are different. They accept nothing, almost on principle. They question everything they’ve been told and constantly reassess what they believe, often to the point of self-immolation. They find the edges of what they find comfortable, and gives themselves little shoves beyond. To an islander, life shouldn’t be predictable and stability’s a cop-out. If an islander enters a room, their first instinct might not be to find the lightswitch, because what if there’s something special in the dark?

I told you this was going to be douchey.

Here’s an example. For me, and probably a lot of islanders, there’s a particular point where we pushed offshore: music. For some reason, music tends to be the star that guides us over dark and churning seas. Because almost always, we start impassive. Grow up not really listening or caring. The radio, our parents’ music, we might nod or sing along, but we aren’t touched. Music is music. It’s better than silence. Then we hear something, a song hanging from the fringes of the mainstream, and a world opens up. THIS. We might not know what it is and might not be able to say why, but THIS means something. And the act of listening becomes something active. But it isn’t enough. We need more, so we scour linear notes and go to shows and artists and genres open doors to other artists and other genres and soon we’re so deep into the rabbit-hole we’ve forgotten where we left the opening, and become legitimately flabbergasted that people know every word to Rihanna’s Umbrella and NOBODY’S HEARD OF CAPTAIN FUCKING BEEFHEART.

That, right there, that’s the island. And it doesn’t have to be music. It can be 1940’s films or french wines or mystery novels or city planning. Wherever you find that mix of passion and tunnel-vision that leads to a NEED to dive deeper and the realization that what’s popular isn’t always good, and what’s good isn’t always popular. While mainlanders might not care or notice the distinction. Islanders LIVE within it. And since we’ve developed such narrow focal points, we tend to blackout the world at large.

But it’s there. It’s been there the whole time. And as we look back from the shores of our island, we notice just how far we’ve pushed away. And that’s the sharp edge of the thing, because if we squint our eyes we can see there are a LOT of people walking those shores, where ours seems empty.

But what can we do? We’re too far gone. People without passion make us glassy-eyed. People with different passions leave us longing. We’re not a puzzle missing a piece, we’re a piece missing a puzzle.

Until those rare, shining moments when we’re not. Until we see someone just down the beach standing on our sand on our island. And we run breathless into them and find we’ve taken different journeys but we’ve somehow managed to find the same special place and managed to find each other, and a connection grows almost instantaneously. And those are the moments we cling to, that make us feel like we fit too. Just a shame they’re so far between.

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The Last Lilypad

A couple of years ago, when we were in Asia, Kate had the idea to write down our expectations. Nothing major, just a couple of things we thought might happen in the next few months. For ten minutes we scratched out some thoughts, then folded the pages longways into the spines of our journals. Three months later we opened them, marveling at our powers of prediction when we got it right and laughing at how far we missed the mark when we got it wrong. Most of the time we got it wrong. Still, it was so interesting we did it again. And again after that. We kept it up when we got to Australia, through Dingo and Cairns, the road trip and Airlie Beach. Every three months we’d unfold our expectations and write down new ones.

We don’t do it anymore.

Somewhere along the line, and I’m not sure where, three months transformed from something pretty digestible to something entirely abstract. Three months from now might as well be the other side of a black hole. The moment before the big bang. The socks that go missing from the dryer. Three months is fucking Narnia.

Sometimes I feel like I’m spinning around really fast. Like I’m looking out at an incomprehensible smear of color, unable to stop myself or slow myself down. And in those times, every decision I make is a lunging attempt to grasp- something. And when I catch it, even if I don’t know what ‘it’ is, I close my fist like it’s a rescue rope or a child’s blanket, and find myself latching on to ideas I never thought I would. Take now for example.

If you would have asked me six months ago, I would have told you Melbourne was the last stop on this particular journey. ‘After Melbourne,’ I would have said, ‘I’m going stateside.’

The States were a foregone conclusion. I’m tired of being broke and sick of fucking with visas.

And Melbourne? Why not? Melbourne is a gorgeous city. I have friends there from all over the world. I ate better in Melbourne than I’ve probably ever eaten. I had a rad girlfriend and a bicycle. Lived right on the 96.

But hanging above me was the thing that hangs above all long-term backpackers, those skywritten words that linger among the clouds to remind you: ‘Sooner than you think, you will leave this behind.’

For a while, I thought about ignoring them. Fighting back. I considered a sponsorship offered by one of the bars where I worked, but the thought of three years working hospitality made my butthole pucker so I dropped the idea and once again started to spin.

If I wasn’t staying, what WAS I doing? Was I prepared to go back to the US? My hours were inconsistent so I wasn’t saving money, and not only that, they were shit, late nights and weekends. My relationship ended for want of a future and with it’s demise, Melbourne lost a bit of its shine and the spinning sped up.

So I started reaching. Could feel things brushing against my fingertips, but nothing I could grasp.

Then Kate reminded me of a place some friends told us about called Rottnest Island, off the coast of Fremantle in Western Australia. Eleven kilometers by four, Rottnest is a tourist trap sprinkled with rent-em-out cottages and 22,000 quokkas, which a quick google search will prove are the CUTEST MOTHERFUCKING CREATURES IN EXISTENCE.

My fist closed, and here I am. Another place I never thought I’d go. And for now, my spinning seems to have slowed.

Slowed, not stopped.

But from the island, even in the spin, I can see the shore. I’m looking, for the first time in two years, at a single fixed point. A place. Barring a quick stopover in the Philippines and another in Minnesota, I’m going somewhere I’m not trying to leave. Not for a while at least. Readers should note that in my head, three months is a decade. That makes a couple of years a lifetime and five practically a reincarnation cycle.

So while I haven’t chosen the city, while I’m not even sure of the state, whatever I choose I’m going to stick with, and that feels important. Feels like something.

And I can’t say whether this new place will stop the spin. I’m not sure if anything will. All I can say is that for the first time in a long time, the thing in my hand feels pretty solid.

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When I Smash into the Reef

It doesn’t happen often. In fact, it hardly happens at all. In the nearly two years I’ve been on the road, I can count the instances on one hand.

It comes like the Boogeyman, after I’ve fallen asleep. I wake in the middle of the night, sweating through the sheets; my insides gone hollow and a cold breath filling the empty space. My heartrate staccatos and I don’t remember where I am. Then, slowly, things begin to filter back.

I’m in my room. Yes, that’s it. I’m in Australia. I live here. I’ve been in Australia a year. Longer.

Then things speed up. Information rushes back; hits me in waves. I’m ten thousand miles from home. I haven’t seen my family in two years. My best friend is in another country. My brother’s having a baby. My mother misses me and my grandfather’s sick and my dad is recovering from a horrible bike accident. And I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time.

And waves keep coming. Punishing. Knocking me backwards.

And somewhere above the crash, there’s a question hanging in the spray. One that sounds like it should be simple.

It asks: What the fuck are you doing?

I cough water and sputter: ‘Traveling,’ but it isn’t good enough. It’s a postcard written in the rain, the ink distorts and slides down the paper.

It asks again: What are you doing?

I say: ‘Seeing the world. Trying to experience something different.’ And then I say: ‘Pushing myself. Making space.’

Then the question changes. Becomes simpler still.

Why?

I answer. ‘Because life is a prism. Because I’m inspired by the people and places light passes through. Because I need time to create something worthwhile and these experiences will be my tools.’

But the sacrifice.

‘It’s worth it.’

Is it worth it if you fail?

‘What?’

Is it worth it if you fail? Because you’re going to fail. You’re not good enough. You’ll never translate any of this. Nothing you write means anything.

And I’ll think and I’ll search for a response but I won’t find one, and the waves will smash me into the reef.

I’ll lie awake, blinking in the dark, convinced I’ve fucked everything up. Thrown my life away. Wandered too far and got lost.

Sometimes I’ll fall asleep. Sometimes I won’t.

And in the morning, I’ll watch as objects outline themselves in faded gray. I’ll try to sleep but won’t be able to. I’ll rub my eyes and stand. Dress barefoot on the cold floor.

And I’ll go out, into whatever room I’ve got, and I’ll write. And I don’t know if it’s going to save me. And I don’t know if it will be worthwhile.

But here’s what I do know: you’re only smashed when you stay smashed.

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Leaving Airlie

In just over a week, I’m going to leave Airlie Beach. Let me tell you how it’s going to go.

I’ll wake up before my alarm.

I’ll sift through the pile on my soon-to-be former bed and cram my backpack full. I’ll want to bring more, but I won’t. On moral grounds, I refuse to carry two bags, so I’ll pick and choose and leave things behind.

If my housemates are asleep I won’t wake them. Just swing my backpack onto my shoulders and wait for the airport transfer in the soft morning sunlight. I’ll memorize the scratches on my watchface.

I’ll get to Melbourne at two. It will be freezing. I’ll pull a sweater out of my backpack and take the bus into the city. After Airlie, the skyline will seem overwhelming. Impenetrable and alien.

I’ve booked a week at a hostel in the center of the city. There, I’ll spread my stuff on a bunk and shovel it into a locker. Shower off that stale, airport feeling. Wonder aloud what life choices I’ve made to put me back in a shared room.

And then I’ll start. I’ll go to the library and print copies of my resume. I’ll wander aimlessly and pass one along to every bar and restaurant I see. People will look up from polishing glasswear to tell me they’re not sure if they’re hiring. They’ll ask how long I intend to stay and I’ll say ‘six months,’ even though I don’t know if that’s true. After each approach I’ll think of ways I can improve, but it probably won’t matter. If you’re confident, know your way around the Queen’s, and are rocking a tan like mine, the important thing is timing. Is someone leaving? When? How soon can you start?

The last time I looked for a job, in Airlie, it took two weeks. The time before that took a week. But Airlie is small and it takes an hour to paper the whole town. You could throw a ream over Melbourne and you’d still be in Fitzroy. I take that as a good sign.

Some people live in hostels for months. They share dorms and eat pancakes and build furniture out of milkcrates, and good. Good for them. But I’ve done it and I’m off it. I might be enduringly indigent, but I’ve got standards. I’m going to find an apartment. It won’t be easy. I’ll scour Flatmates and Fairy Floss, Google Mapsing addresses to puzzle out unfamiliar neighborhoods. I’ll message people about rooms, and most reactions will fall flat when I admit I’m not entirely sure how long I plan to stay. But I’ll keep searching and sending messages and eventually I’ll find something. Who knows how long it’ll take or what it will look like, but I’ll find it.

I don’t know who I’ll live with or whether we’ll get along. I don’t know where I’ll work or what I’ll be doing. I could work mornings or nights. Serve coffee or beer. For a boss that’s cool or a dickhead. I don’t know where in the city I’ll live. How I’ll spend my time or who I’ll spend it with. Things like this can go either way. They can make an experience or break it.

It’s all terribly exciting.

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I’m Going To Die Alone

‘Shut up,’ people say. Eyebrows raise around the table, the beach blanket, the living room, ‘do you really mean that?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, the word a defiant tattoo. ‘I really mean it.’

‘Do you think you’ll change your mind?’

‘No,’ I say, ‘I don’t think I’ll change my mind.’

Further questions dissolve into the statement. The same one that always comes when you tell people you’re not interested in having kids. ‘Yeah, well, maybe you’ll change your mind eventually.’

I’m not a nurturer. I don’t have the gene. Ask anyone who’s been sick around me. Seriously. You’re in the other room hacking up a lung, and I’m like ‘Are your legs broken? Get your own fucking soup, can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?‘

Maybe it has something to do with not growing up with a pet. At least, not a proper one. A dog or a cat or a well-loved rabbit. I had a hamster for a month. Spunky. She bit me whenever I picked her up, and kicked wood shavings all over my bedroom carpet. I gave her to a neighbor. I think his cat ate her. I had a zebra finch. Then it died and my life remained unaffected. Every year at Easter, my mom brought home chicks, as in baby chickens. Sometimes ducklings. They’d spend two weeks in a cardboard box under a heat lamp in our living room, which, in hindsight, seems somewhat inexplicable. Where did she get them? Where did she take them? I guess I never asked.

Now let’s not beat around our bushes, a lot of this has to do with the fact that I’m self-centered. A claim I’m not denying. But in my defense, I think I’ve kind of earned it. We all have. Hear me out: We’re born right? Right. And we spend like, a solid 12 years sucking at life. Running around and wearing capes and basically being pointless. Then we become teenagers. Lanky and awkward, having swisher sweet-flavored Deep and Meaningfuls, trying to figure shit out. Then we hit our twenties. Maybe we go to college. Either way, we experiment. And we end up with a halfway decent handle on who we are, what we like and what we don’t. We’ve sorted through the cloudy miasma of our teenage thinking, so easily influenced, and we’re starting to actually understand ourselves. We’ve learned what we value, what kind of lives we want, and how exactly we’re going to reach it. And that’s when a bunch of us start blasting out babies.

Which, awesome. Cool. Blast away. I’ll be the first to facebook like that gummy smile every month. But here’s my take: I’m finally starting to get good at being me. Like, the me I want to be. That I’ve wanted to be since I was a teenager, but couldn’t quite figure out how. This is what I’ve been working toward. And yeah, it’s not perfect; you could fill books with shit I don’t know, and bigger books with shit I think I know but actually don’t, but I’m the closest I’ve been. I’m honing in on a moving target.

I heard somewhere that having a baby ruins your life in a way that’s absolutely and completely worth it. I don’t doubt it. I imagine it’s one of the most challenging, rewarding, and fulfilling things a human can do. It’s literally the goal of EVERY SINGLE LIVING THING ON EARTH. From hummingbirds to hydrangeas. Everything they do. Everything. It’s about reproduction. Popping out those sweet, delicious babies.

I’m just not into it. I can’t say why. And I understand how it sounds: nothing short of acting against my own evolutionary programming and self-interest. But if something’s going to ruin my life, I want the life that’s ruined to be the best possible life I can create for myself. And while that might include failed businesses and middling artistic endeavors. Bad decisions and morally ambiguous women. It doesn’t include a child. To me, that life can be worth it too.

Look, the sacrifice made by human parents is possibly one of the greatest in nature. It’s incredible. No parent is perfect, but out of all the ones I know, there isn’t one who wouldn’t give up everything for their child. That’s beautiful. I admire it. I just don’t want to make it.

But who knows. Maybe I’ll change my mind.

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Ruined

When I was a kid, I thought stamp collectors collected rubber stamps. I pictured heaving shelves overflowing with stamps and inkpads, die-cut into letters, numbers, dinosaurs and rocket ships; their owners going apeshit, stamping the hell out of crisp sheets of white paper.

Disclaimer: This isn’t a bragging post.

But. Since the year of the Tiger, 2010, I have been outside the US for smatterings of months totaling nearly three years. I’ve spent time in something like 25 countries. I’ve slept under hundreds of roofs, walked the streets of dozens of cities. I’ve lost more beach towels than I can count (eight in Southeast Asia alone). And along the way I realized something: I have a hard time staying put.

Which to me makes total sense. This world is big and complex and multifaceted. I’d be doing my tiny life a disservice if I didn’t try to see something of it. But that goal is a dangerous, self-fulfilling prophecy, because seeing one thing makes you acutely aware of other things you haven’t seen. So you go see those things and, like heads of the hydra, your list keeps doubling in size.

But vagabonding like that gets pretty fucking old.

Seriously. Your friends flit and flicker in and out of your presence every couple of months. Your family lives across an ocean. You miss births, weddings, Christmases. You can’t get too attached to people and places because you’re not sticking around, and disassociation seeps into everything you do. You’re like an astronaut who has to stay tethered to the outside of the ship. You’re there, but you aren’t exactly part of the mission are you?

And increasingly, I’m finding that I want to join in. That I crave stability. To be able to tell people I’ll be somewhere specific a year from now. To see the same people for more than a few months and finally stop saying goodbye. To have a job that lets me use my brain and doesn’t demand I wear head-to-toe black. I want a dresser for my clothes. Art on my walls. Electric guitars and maybe another pair of shoes.

But here’s the kicker: once I get it, I’m going to want out. It’ll be like my elevator’s jammed between floors, and I’ll get all sweaty and claustrophobic. I’m a nomad. I follow the winds and chase the sun. Routine is depressing and the grass is always greener on the other side. Besides, I still haven’t seen the Bolivian salt flats. I haven’t been to Scandinavia. I haven’t seen Eastern Europe and I’ve barely scratched the surface of the West.

And why the fuck should I even bother if I haven’t been to Papua New Guinea?

If you’ve read some of my other shit; my book or my blog posts, here’s where you might be expecting a turnaround. A Bob Saget from Full House life lesson that ties everything together neat and tidy. That says ‘I don’t know how to sort this out but it’s probably okay because aren’t we all a little lost?’ No. That’s not where this goes. This ends on a sour note. A minor chord. Because I DO collect rubber stamps. They fall between the pages of my passport. And I know the second I stop moving, I’m going to want to start collecting again. And that the second I start, I’m going to want to stop somewhere else. I can’t stay and I can’t leave. I’m ruined.

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On Change

We experience life through a microscope. An extreme closeup that’s hard to step away from. Things blend together. Days blur into weeks and months and years. And somewhere in all that, we stop noticing that the world around us is changing.

But it’s changing.

I met a racist couple the other day. They stopped me as I was clearing dishes, that third plate wobbling nervously on my forearm. They told me they were from Sydney, and wasted no time explaining how their city had gone to shit. Apparently, it was because of the immigrants. All the damn immigrants. The houses and neighborhoods of their youth were gone, replaced by tenements and apartment complexes where foreigners were crammed in shoulder to shoulder. Gaudy public buildings where they sat glassy-eyed through pointless English classes. Restaurants that wouldn’t recognize Australian cooking if it crawled, covered in weetbix, down their throats while they slept.

‘When I was a kid it was Greeks and Italians.’ The gentleman of the couple was older, late 70’s. He had a piece of corn stuck to the side of his mouth that I kept thinking was going to fall off but never did. ‘The Europeans assimilated. They became Australian. Adopted our way of life. They learned the bloody language. These new immigrants? They’re all Chinese. Indian. They live here for years and don’t speak a word of English. They’re taking it over. That’s what they’re doing. They’re taking Sydney over.’

I stood and listened like a good little hospitality worker until my fake smile was wavering as much as my plates. Eventually I managed to escape, but what he said stuck with me.

They’re taking Sydney over.

As if Sydney had been co-opted. As if the city could have been protected if only it was walled off from outside influence. It made me think of my own country. The countless Americans who would see a wall built to separate us from our neighbors to the South. As if that would keep people away. As if that could keep things how they are or return them to the way they were, frozen in polished, golden amber just the way we liked it. The old man had this idea ingrained so deep in his mind it was like a vault, and he allowed himself to crawl inside it and curl up, so anything different made him bitter. Had him bitching to the waitstaff and clinging to the impossible like that kernel of corn stuck to his saggy, waggling mouth.

I wanted to tell him the healthiest dogs aren’t purebreds, they’re mutts. I wanted to tell him the healthiest forests aren’t made up of one single breed of tree. It’s variety makes a forest healthy. In my opinion, it’s variety that makes societies healthy too. We’ve seen what happens when one idea gets pushed too far. Stalinism. McCarthyism. Different opinions are what tempers ideas into manageable shapes. Chips away the weak spots until it becomes something beneficial for the whole.

If you didn’t know, I’m getting ordained next summer so I can perform a wedding; maybe that’s why this post is so preachy. And I know that 600 words is an oversimplification. But for fuck’s sake guys, the world changes. Cultures shift. The world isn’t going to be dominated by white males for much longer, and I for one, am excited. We’ve had our chance and look what we’ve done with it. Nothing stays the same. Learn to embrace it.

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