Astronauts on Earth

This is Richard Duardo, and You're Not

kayo — Thu, 14 Aug 2014 17:59:34 GMT

I think I figured it out. Displacement excites me. The act of placing myself somewhere, feeling uncomfortable until I finally fit in. It's my little addiction, a small tear in my soul that makes one disappear into that adventurous abyss. And then the camera! Capturing moments and transforming them into something infinite...the "flashback".

At the end of the day, experience trumps money. The most beautiful films and photographs describe the creator's life, allowing you to take a glimpse into their miscommunications, romances, and escapades. I've been a film maker for nearly four years now, escaping from an undergraduate Neuroscience degree to enter a bigger world. Yet, even in those years, I had devoted my life to training intensively in martial arts, since the competitions took me to training with Olympians to fighting in front of hundreds of people betting on you to lose. Of course, these have all been placed under the memory category. I can only relive them through the scattered clippings and videos taken by third parties.

Film gives me another chance to reclaim everything the mind loses. I want to continue traveling, crusading into deserts, endless mountains, or mad events, adding to my life movie. Over the years, my films developed alongside me, with hints of grunginess, naiveté, anger and happiness. Whatever the situation, I've gotten better at capturing something beyond the moment. In Mexico, I'm ready to capture feeling...I feel it.

Photos: My Scholarship entry - A 'place' I have visited

kayo — Fri, 5 Jul 2013 05:18:00 GMT

In the western corner of my room, an unsystematic assortment of photographs hangs by a piece of artist's tape. Some belong to me while others had been viciously torn from a favorite magazine or book. The perforated scars still line the edge. As the traction from the tape wears off, these pictures will eventually slide off into that forsaken space between my desk and the wall, and a few months from now, more photographs will fall, leaving only a barren wall of adhesive tombstones. Recently, I drew my desk back to uncover a treasure trove of hidden memories. That afternoon, old photos of my parents, my travels, and my inspirations all nestled back into the southern hemisphere of my brain, back to a place where they had once existed. To me, photography (both mine and others) represents that fleeting moment, preciously stored onto that wall in my room. Like memories, those moments will eventually slip away, until that one day I uncover them again. And when I do, I sit there, carefully appreciating every bit until I look up to see an entire afternoon gone. There's always more space on my wall. I think Greenland will fit nicely.

My Nameless Introduction to Fighting

kayo — Fri, 4 May 2012 09:53:00 GMT

I got tricked into doing Karate; not by my parents or peers, but by a gimmicky enrollment box a nearby dojo put up in a family friend’s restaurant. They plastered “Win a FREE Karate lessons” in gaudy colors next to photographs of overly excited children throwing rigid punches into the air. But at age seven, the combination of the word FREE and a lack of understanding about commercialism caught me.

Looking back, this may have been the first time I ever won anything. Prior to Karate, I lacked the natural athleticism and physical discipline to succeed at standard sports. On a soccer field, I became more fascinated with finding the animals living inside gopher holes. On a basketball court, height deficiency came into play. On a baseball field…actually, I rarely ever set foot on the field because I sat the whole time. This intrinsic hierarchy in team sports always displaced the bracket I fell into: the physically inferior. Despite what they say, being in team sports increased my self-consciousness. Karate fits my natural disposition a bit more.

Like any corporate martial arts school in the U.S., my first sensei was a lanky white college student with an eyelid piercing and a brown to blonde gradient of hair on his head. Like my father at the time, the smell stained onto his body made him an easily identifiable smoker. Our first “free” lesson consisted of an introduction to Martial Arts basics and the Smashing Pumpkins, (which ultimately became one of the first CDs I ever owned a few years later). Everything about him was undoubtedly improper for a professional setting.

This was my first introduction to martial arts – a kid who, by appearance, butchered the cultural integrity and symbolism behind the sport. I don’t even remember his name. Yet, in these distinct physical qualities that I can recall, the subconscious dichotomy between this kid’s demeanor and my structured life intrigued me to the extent that I stayed at that school for 12 more years. To think, it only took that one-month for some nameless memory to reconstruct my entire life.

Perspectives in Otaru: My Scholarship entry - A local encounter that changed my life

kayo — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 08:50:00 GMT

Twenty-three years older, and I still can’t place myself anywhere.

I had successfully escaped Tokyo - its garish demeanor and unearthly rhythm – and traveled north to rearrange my jumbled sense of humanity. Within Hokkaido’s staggering spaciousness and evaporating mountain peaks, a small town in Otaru tempted me to stay with its old-world simplicity. Quaint reconstructions of English architecture triumphantly overshadowed the land, but to the dismay of westernization, a small fish market defiantly survived between the foreign structures. In this confined space, a culture of fishermen thrived.

Despite my attempts at camouflage, my attire and age distinguished me from the denizens. In this town, I was the lone ranger of a generation too young or too old; even so, the various vendors enjoyed my new face and unintended cluelessness regarding seafood. Per their recommendations, I made my way to a local sushiya. Inside, I was immediately greeted by the golden glow of a wood interior and a vibrant array of fresh fish. After a few seconds, the chef emerged from the back.

To my surprise he was a young man in his mid-20s. As he molded my sushi with amazing grace, we stumbled through conversation until I finally asked him about his age. He smiled. “I decided to stay,” he responded. Apparently, most of his peers had moved to the city after high school, while he had an obligation to carry on the family business. Yet, in his self-possessed manner, he seemed perfectly content, and the elegance of his craft showed he cared. We returned to small talk as I savored each alluring bite.

When I stood up to leave, he wished me luck on the rest of my trip. I unconsciously nodded, whether to comfort him or myself. With a final farewell, I left him and the sushiya that would one day be his. As I rounded the corner, the ocean suddenly splayed out before me - I had reached the end of the market. I thought of turning back, but gazing into the nothingness past the horizon, I lost myself again.

Photos: The Places We Will Go!

kayo — Fri, 1 Jul 2011 07:04:00 GMT

Photos from Japan

Photos: To the City (March to May)

kayo — Tue, 8 Mar 2011 07:17:00 GMT

Los Angeles to North Carolina to New York to San Diego

Photos: Glimpses of everything in between and afterwards

kayo — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 07:19:00 GMT

Favorites from Everywhere

The Fighters - Thailand Dangerous Part 7

kayo — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 09:50:00 GMT

He rushes in, senseless, lost in the rush of adrenaline and the fear of the fight. The poise he exhibited in training disappears. Tizoc throws a few overhands that catch his opponent, a stocky Thai fighter with a bulged forehead, but his opponent jabs, snapping Tizoc’s head back. He comes to his senses a bit, stepping back, and assesses the situation. Jake, Mike, and I quietly sit ringside while Bryce and sensei shout from the corner. Jordan is somewhere, preparing for his fight.

And somewhere within the tension, Tizoc connects, and again, and again. The opponent’s arms limp to the side, wobbling, held up by the tension of the red ropes behind him, and the referee steps in. I’m up, screaming from the back of my throat without realizing it. Under the confusion, Tizoc violently jumps onto the ring ropes, which helplessly snaps under his weight. It takes nearly twenty minutes to repair.

Tizoc strides out of the ring, silently strutting to where the rest of the team invites his dignity. Foreigners and their girlfriends snap photos faking kisses and molding bodies into extravagant fighting poses. He’s an instant hero. As the energy depletes, Tizoc settles in with a sigh, wishing Jordan good luck.

Jordan enters the ring, naturally, poised, but possessed with the confidence from the interview. His opponent (as generally the case) has a significantly smaller build, but the Neanderthal visage displays raised scars from his battles. It’s always terrifying looking into the ring at Jordan. While he never affects me much in training, there’s always a sociopathic fearlessness in his eyes. The human center of the brain suddenly turns off, it seems, and in the moment all ability to understand emotion disappears. It’s almost too natural for him.

What’s more, it almost always ends the same way. Jordan’s fists aimlessly attack every vulnerable point in the opponent’s body until they break down into a motionless bag of bones. Perhaps I expended my excitement on Tizoc, but I can’t rouse myself up as much after Jordan’s dominant performance. I walk to ringside where the wooden eyes of the beaten opponent glares back at me. The foreigners rush to take photographs with the winner, posing with fists up. All these photographs are carbon copies of each other. The Thai gets taken out on a stretcher, but no one else notices.

That night, Bryce and Jordan manage to sneak alcohol into the rooms. We all quietly make our way to the roof, where we look over Thailand’s naturalism. Eventually the familiar feeling of alcohol kicks in, and the city below us blend together with the celestial sky.