tales from an incurable optimist

A true idealist is not someone who can’t see negativity and believes it doesn’t exist.
An idealist is someone who is internally affected more heavily by that negativity than most.

When a true idealist lets the staunch nature of reality set in, instead of accepting it, like the realist (who sees it, maybe even predicts it, and is able to move on with their day)

an idealist feels it
to their core
to the point of tears
to the point of deep, deep sadness.

And that sensitivity is an embarrassment.
That sensitivity is perceived by many as a weakness.

An idealist is not someone who doesn’t see the negative.
A true idealist is not ignorant.

An idealist sees the world in the most positive light and bases their actions on that view not necessarily because they believe it to be the reality,

but because they know if they let reality into their soul, the crippling sadness that will come over them will cease their will to live.

They see the world in a positive light because it’s the only way they can fight their extreme sensitivity to humans not acting kindly to one another.

Unwavering idealism does not spin from the idealist’s perceptions,
it spins from their emotions.
And from the need to protect their fragile hearts at all costs.

brooklyn 2016




star notes

I’m walking down a street in Reykjavik, Iceland with my oldest best friend and I look up and see the stars.

I’m on a night train in Australia, traveling between Sydney and Melbourne and I look out of the window and I see the southern cross and the little dipper for the first time.

I’m skinny dipping in the middle of the night in a small surf town in Queensland, Australia with a best friend, lying naked in warm ocean water staring at the infinite sea of constellations above me.

I’m tripping on acid in a secluded bay called Tonsai in Thailand, with someone I only met a day ago, playing with the phosphorescence in the night ocean and staring at the stars.

I’m sitting on a wicker chair outside a hostel in Ubud, Bali, talking about god with a boy, looking up and naming stars.

I’ve just hiked up a mini mountain outside of Kuala Lumpur in the middle of the night with a most eclectic group of people and now, at the top, I’m watching the stars disappear and and sun start to rise.

I’m on a night boat safari in Borneo going down the Kabanatuan river and the stars seem more plentiful than the space between them and I have never seen them so close.

I’m all alone on an island in Malaysia, spending the night in complete solace, sleeping on a beach, with just the galaxies above keeping me company.

And now I sit on my roof in my hometown, smoking a cigarette, and I’m looking at the stars.


It’s hard to write about looking at the stars without it being totally cheesy, but the fact is, some of my strongest memories (the kind of memories where you can remember everything about the moment; what you were wearing, what the air smelt like, who you were with, how you felt) revolve around me staring up at the night sky. Looking at the stars has always brought me intense contrasting feelings: the feeling of existential dread, that we’re just tiny specs in this giant world that barely matter, along with a grand feeling of beauty and optimism and wonder.

When I look up and see lights from celestial bodies lightyears away, I feel insignificant and I know I’m merely a minuscule blip in this massive universe. But I also feel amazement and gratitude.

I feel the vastness and the beauty of this world and I feel lucky to be able to exist and experience it all.

We are a way for the universe to know itself. Some part of our being knows this is where we came from. We long to return. And we can, because the cosmos is also within us. We’re made of star stuff.” (Carl Sagan)

white rock, 2016


fear, part 2

I’ve been thinking about fear.

So many spend their lives avoiding fear.

But the things I feared the most are the things that have brought me the most growth, the most profound experiences, the most joy.

I see so many people who are scared.

Scared to move, scared to risk, scared of the unknown.

I am scared too. That is not where we are different.
I am different, or slowly becoming more and more different, because I have learned to value fear. To crave fear. To seek out things that scare me.

Everytime I do something that scares me, my fear gets less and less and my appetite for life grows more and more.

vancouver, 2016

the cure for everything is salt water: tears, sweat, or the sea

But in a way you can say that after leaving the sea, after all those millions of years of living inside the sea, we took the ocean with us. When a woman makes a baby, she gives it water, inside her body, to grow in. That water inside her body is almost exactly the same as the water of the sea. It is salty, by just the same amount. She makes a little ocean in her body. And not only this. Our blood and our sweating, they both salty, almost exactly like the water from the sea salty. We carry oceans inside of us, in our blood and our sweat. And we are crying the oceans, in our tears.


maybe i always was

This is probably the last time I will visit this place, that I will be in this house, that I will be this comfortable. And thank god for that.
Comfort is a drug.
It’s alright to indulge now and then.
But it lures you in, it steals your life, it makes you settle.
You don’t learn new things when your comfortable.
You don’t take risks in fear that you might lose your comfort.
You see less and you do less.

“our lust for future comfort is the biggest thief of life”

A confession to the void: I’m scared of what is to come.
But the more I scare myself the more I find that being scared is a sign that I’m about to experience LIFE.
The more I feel fear, the less the feeling of fear scares me, and the more it excites me.
I have been scared before, and during, some of the best moments of my life.
Now I push myself to seek out fear.

Maybe I’m becoming daring.
Or maybe I always was.

white rock, 2016



Maybe, I understood religion today.
Or, at least, the feeling of faith.
The sense of something bigger than myself overtook my mind
and my body
and my heart.
The connection I felt to nature, this planet, reached someplace new.
I think I felt what people feel when they are at their church or their mosque or their temple.
I can only describe what I felt as real faith.
But I’m worshipping the ground beneath me, I’m worshipping the jungle around me, and I’m worshipping the existence of this beautiful creature swinging above me.

Orangutans share 96% percent of our DNA.
4% of data separates us from another species.

How can so much be done and believed because of words other humans wrote?
It never felt right to me to hear human words in a human language and except them as holy, or sacred, or divine.
Swimming in the ocean feels holy.
Having the skies open up and pour down rain feels sacred.
Being in the presence of a wild, beautiful animal feels divine.
Alone, we are not special.
We are special through our connection to the world around us.

I might not believe in one creator, in one supreme being, in one high and almighty.
But if there is a god, maybe she is an orangutan.

borneo, may 2016


Nick and King, the lovely locals of Ubud, Bali. King dresses regal, to suit his name, and Nick, well, his tattoos dress him up. they give me laughs, they give me rice wine, they give me love, they give me massages, the give me cigarettes, they give me guidance. King barely speaks english, but tries to teach me their gambling game. Nick tells me much about his life: his past addiction, his love for music, his family, his philosophy, his idea of beauty. he lives slow, he lives simple, he lives kind. everyday, we drive back into the courtyard and I am just as happy to see their faces as I am exploring the beautiful town of Ubud.

bali, march 2016