The Silent World (Intro)

         Adrian lurched awake, breathing in as if submerged underwater for the last minute. He reached up to touch his face, small beads of sweat collecting and melting against his fingertips. Why was this happening now? Why after so long? He moved to get out of bed, his hand coming down on brown, crusted sheets. Strings of pus and sticky orange jelly trailed against the backs of his legs as he swung them free, placing his feet firmly on the ground. Heavy, warm breath licked the back of his neck, but he did not turn around. Instead he looked down to see that his carpet had been replaced with a writhing mass of spider and centipede legs. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath out. The tip of a cold nose traced his spine from the base of his neck to his hairline.

            “I thought we were done with this,” he said aloud. He stood, doing his best not to shake or tremble. The little legs tickled beneath his feet and between his toes and he shuffled through them to reach the bathroom. He flipped on the light and grabbed either side of his sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The black marble was cool between his hands, and he tried to focus all of his attention on the sensation. He suddenly felt a firm, uniform pressure in both of his arms as if someone were blowing them up with a bicycle pump. “I’m not doing this,” he said, maintaining eye contact with himself. “Goddamn it, I’m not doing it.” He felt small incisions being made on his ankles. Many of the legs on the floor had found their bodies, and they were making cuts in his ankles so they could crawl up just beneath the surface of his skin. He felt lumps of various sizes making their way up towards his knees. Gritting his teeth, he looked down. The sink drain was open, and fingers were inching out like cockroaches fleeing the sewer. Gripping the edge of the sink harder, the pressure in his arms continued to increase.

            How long until sunrise? Looking through the mirror, he saw the reverse image of 3:26 on his bedside table. Only a couple of hours. The two green dots winked at him, knowing.

            Little Henry Warner sat on a stool out by the shed,

            He melted Mama’s clock,

            Watching it all day, listening to “tick-tock, tock-tick”

            Of cogs and wheels, chalky with dust

            And Mama’s powdered face.

His arms had swollen to the point that every pore had a puffy ring around it, each one butting up against the next, their centers starting to dilate. He put his elbows on the cool, black marble and clutched his temples between his hands. There was now no place on his legs that something was not crawling under with tittering, rhythmic footsteps. He raised his head, meeting his own gaze with wide, angry eyes. He saw in the mirror that white, fleshy heads were crowning in the center of the swollen circles all over his arms: maggots. Wriggling in reaching, twitching motions, first one then the next freed itself from his pores as if they had gnawed themselves into the open air from some central nest within him. He may have been screaming as his fist flew at the mirror before him, shattering both his knuckles and the glass in a mess of shards and blood, but within the dark halls of his empty Wisconsin home, certainly no one else would have been aware of it. 

Cowboy

Once he had reached a certain age, his mother had told him “You can’t be a cowboy. There aren’t any cowboys left.” The words hit his soft boy-heart like a meteor to mud: it had stuck, and it had stuck deep. Even now, between the quiet gasping of his oxygen tanks and the static of his helmet headset, they clung to his eardrums. Dropping down from the ladder, he landed almost silently on the fine gray dust below. He couldn’t help but imagine all of the night skies this same dust had illuminated, though it wasn’t so white or glowing up close. He half stepped, half hopped a few paces forward, feeling as if an invisible bungee cord aided his progress. Then, he stopped. Hanging in the blackness like half of some kind of ripe fruit, he beheld an unfamiliar view of a very familiar place.

…

            Back in Houston, 39 pairs of tired, straining ears gathered around a speaker that had just crackled to life. They made out a voice, but any words were lost in a steady chorus of static. “Please repeat, Apollo, we’re not hearing you,” said the team leader, setting down his half-filled mug of lukewarm coffee. The speaker paused for just a moment before two words pushed through the white noise.

            “Yee haw.”

Bread Trees

I took the crumbs you gave me, father,

And planted them in rows

Along that old, muddy creek bed

Tucked behind the summer home.

I waited there, father, waited fearlessly

For the grove of bread trees sure to grow,

Cupping each bud as it emerged,

Watching for season’s first loaf.

Imagine, father, when the bread trees grow,

How the people will walk between

And wonder beneath their shades and lines

How hunger came to be.

Wings and beaks, father, wings and beaks

Stole them from us, snatching,

Yet I could not make them stop;

They were hungry, so hungry, me watching.

I fed your crumbs to the ducks, father,

And I hope that it’s all right,

Next season we’ll have bread trees, father,

And they will feed us through the night.

Register 5

There are times, neither predictable nor regular, when I am overcome by an overwhelming sense of petty awareness and directional anemia. Everything comes into painful focus, and I am forced to evaluate my every action on the basis of its eternal worth. Trouble is, this sensation is unaccompanied by any strong feelings of resolution or resolve to compensate for the sudden heaviness of my existence. Tonight, for instance, I stood in front of a wall of lettuce for ten minutes debating whether or not I needed two bags or one. I’m using my parents’ money to buy this I reasoned, so it’s not like I’m incurring the financial deficit of this decision. Still, it would be a shame to let lettuce go to waste if I didn’t eat it fast enough or simply forgot about it in the fridge. On the other hand, what if I became ravenously hungry for salad over the next few days? Wouldn’t I be annoyed with myself for only getting one meager bag? Maybe if I get two I’ll be forced to eat more salad, if not for the sake of health then from the dread of being a wasteful slob. There were worse things than force-feeing oneself salad, right? I decided to give myself a chance for greatness, a chance to excel both in nutrition and sustainability; I got two bags. Naturally, the next item of interest was salad dressing. My perusing of the appropriate isle yielded a very disturbing result. I couldn’t find my usual bottle of Girard’s Italian dressing, the very pinnacle of salad dressing engineering. The only Girard’s available was of the Caesar persuasion, a flavor that I had never tried from this particular brand. This was a real problem. Of course, I could opt to get an Italian dressing from another brand, but I knew I would be sorely disappointed by the discrepancy in quality. Then again, I’d really be putting myself out on a limb by trying a variety of dressing I had never tried before. This was a big commitment too; I had already signed myself up for a king’s portion of half Spring Mix, half spinach salad. Time was no longer measured in minutes or hours but in lettuce bags, and I had two of them. Could I live with a new dressing for that period of time? What if I hated it? All that salad…wasted. I supposed I could choke it down even if it was horrible, but then, my enjoyment of salads might be ruined for life. My future happiness depended on this decision. Fortune favors the bold I finally thought, and bravely, I reached out for the unknown.

            At this point, I was beginning to regret not getting a shopping cart or even one of those carrying basket things at the beginning of my venture. I still had two half gallons of milk to get, one regular and one chocolate, and I knew I’d have to get crafty in order to hold everything. Deciding on the chocolate milk was easy; there was only one brand to choose from and I knew I didn’t have to worry about the expiration date given my strong affinity for the stuff. It was turning to the regular milk that I suddenly remembered a conversation I had just had with my roommates. I had asked them what grocery store was closest, Publix or Wal-Mart. After some discussion, it was determined that Publix was closer, but Wal-Mart was cheaper. “I gottcha,” I had said, “I’ll probably just go to Wal-Mart then.” But here I was like a giant hypocrite standing in front of a Publix milk display, balancing my two bags of lettuce in one hand and clutching my chocolate milk and dressing with the other. I can’t buy the Publix brand I thought to myself, my roommates will see it and know I’m a liar. Or worse, they might think I’m some spoiled rich kid who can afford to buy his milk at Publix. Too good for Wal-Mart, milk elitist: these were the titles I was risking by making such a purchase. I spotted a brand I was sure had to be carried in Wal-Mart too. Problem solved, right? But that price…way more than the Publix brand. I tried to remind myself that I wasn’t spending my own money, but the little part of me that will always be aware of any financial undertaking in which I am involved cringed at the idea. So here was my predicament: either accept my badge of milk snobbery or become an extravagant anti-thrifter for the sake of reputation. Instead of making a decision, I began to reason how far of a drive it might be to Wal-Mart. Twenty minutes maybe? Then I could buy the generic brand there and still be frugal with my parents’ assets. The perfect plan. It took about three seconds for me to kick this idea to the curb on account of stupidity, leaving me face to face with the wall of dairy that was not offering any assistance in my decision. So at the end of the day, when I’m looking myself in the mirror, what decision will I be able to live with? What kind of person are you going to choose to be? There was a ten second pause before I decided I would put my relationship with my roommates to the test and get the Publix brand. Now somehow holding two half gallons of milk, two bags of salad, and a bottle of salad dressing, I approached the front of the store, desperately hoping they had a self-checkout. The thought of some employee seeing me carrying all this crap without a shopping cart made me feel absurd, and all I wanted was to be able to slink away without anyone scrutinizing my grocery gathering decisions. A quick scan of the front of the store and a smile from a girl in a green apron confirmed what I had feared: no self-checkouts. Shuffling forward in the sad recognition that any reputation I might have had as a savvy shopper in this place was sure to be destroyed, I approached register number 5.

London Blog VI: The Conclusion

And so it happens, as it so often does, that the journey ends precisely where it began. Back home with friends and family, on the day after 4^th of July nonetheless, I find myself needing to submit some kind of closure to my time in Europe if for no other reason than to confirm that I did, in fact, make it back to land of the free and the home of the brave. The strangest thing about being back, more so than the different accents and food, is the fact that London still feels so close even though an ocean now stands between me and it. I feel like if I were to walk outside I still might be able to make it to Regent’s Park if only I would walk long enough. Sometimes I go to sleep and wake up thinking I might be in my dorm room still about to get up and grab a bite at the Refectory before going out and making a day of it. Thankfully my mom’s cooking is fifty times better than the food at the Refectory, so it’s actually a nice surprise to realize I’m back home after all.

            My last week in London was an eventful one to say the least. From finals to last minute sightseeing, I had my plate full at almost any hour in the day, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Some final destinations of note that I hit before leaving were the Tower of London, one of the Olympic parks, and of course, the shopping monstrosity known as Harrod’s. Out of these three, I think the Olympic park will stick with me the most, merely because the athlete in me was geeking out the whole time I was there. I can’t wait for the end of July when I can watch on TV the venues I saw in person come to life with all the competition and energy that comes every 4 years during the games. The Crown Jewels in the Tower would definitely contend as a close second, however. When I saw them I could hardly believe that everything I was looking at was actually real diamonds, gems, and gold; it looked like some overzealous kindergarteners had gone overboard during craft time and stuck as many sparkly things on each crown and scepter as humanly possible. I finished off my tourist adventure by finally watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. You would have thought I would have gotten around to this a lot sooner, but no, I enjoy waiting until the last minute to cram in more things than is healthy. The little ritual they have for changing the guard is pretty amusing what with the marching around, stopping, staring at one another, playing music, marching some more, riding horses, and then eventually shutting the gates knowing the queen is now sufficiently protected by red jackets and black puffy hats. In real life, though, some of the guards pack some pretty serious heat, so I would think twice about a mad dash for the palace if I felt so inclined.

            After it all, the time finally came to say goodbye to the streets, buildings, and blessedly cool air that we had grown to know and love. Suiting up with our obscenely large bags, we made our way back through the tube stations and train platforms just like we did at the onset of the trip, only this time not being quite so burdened with crushing ignorance and general state of confusion amidst the crowds. I didn’t believe that I was actually leaving. This was just another weekend excursion and I would be back at Regent’s by Monday ready to go for another week. Sadly, the nine hour plane ride and border security begged to differ. As I was in the air approaching America, I couldn’t help but remember a thought that had popped into my head during the plane ride over to London as I looked out of the window and caught my first glimpse of Europe. Watching little rivers snake across the green spaces of the ground below and hills and valleys cast their shadows like flecks on a canvas, I thought to myself “This could be anywhere.” From way up there you can’t tell where one country ends and another begins, it’s simply a place. Only once I had touched down and lived in that place for a month and a half did it become something more, something real, something I’ll be able to remember for the rest of my life. In the same way as I flew back over the fields and lakes that all look the same from 30,000 feet, I knew that what I was looking at wasn’t just some place: it was home. After all the sights, all the sounds, all the tastes, all the experiences, I had made it back to the one place on earth that I can place the four lettered label on. I count any trip a success that comes full circle to a warm bed, loving friends and family, and good old fashioned southern cooking. I hope this isn’t goodbye forever, but I’ll miss you, London. We had a good run together.

London Blog V

My apologies, first of all, for being so late in posting this next installment of my London blogs; a combination of schoolwork and the frantic realization that I have no more than a week now to do everything I want to do contributed to my negligence. But I believe last time I left off I was headed for Scotland, so I’ll start there. First off, let me say that there have been very few times in my life when I have stepped outside in the middle of June and fantasized about having a fur coat or layer of whale blubber to keep me warm, but such was the scene in Edinburgh as me and a few hardened companions completed a three hour walking tour of the city through rain, dreariness, and, yes, cold. The in hospitable weather did little to dampen my enjoyment of the city, however, and I instantly fell in love with the quaint pubs and shops, friendly people, and striking landscapes all around. Unlike London, Edinburgh feels much more like a small town even though it is actually pretty large, and the architecture and layout of the streets gives you the sense of being in a more rural location. It also helps that just beyond where the buildings of Edinburgh stop, hillsides of rolling green grass meander around in every direction before jutting up here and there into rocky cliffs, making it easy to imagine yourself out in the wilderness somewhere. These cliffs have played a big role in Edinburgh history, in no small part because the famous Edinburgh Castle sits on top of a particularly impressive and intimidating edifice; this castle, for all you Braveheart fans out there, is the one supposed to be represented in the movie, but whereas in real life this bad boy sits looming up in the sky looking down on you, the one in the movie was on a completely flat plane. Not quite as intimidating as the real thing.

            On our walking tour we visited several places with historical significance, but maybe one of my favorites was The Elephant House, which is the place where J.K. Rowling wrote the first three of her Harry Potter books. We also got to tour the cemetery just adjacent to the café that Rowling was said to frequent when writing, and our guide mentioned that many of the characters’ names in Harry Potter can trace their origins to names found on some of the gravestones here, including a one Tom Riddle. I also really enjoyed learning about Greyfriars Bobby: a little dog who, as legend has it, remained loyally beside his fallen master’s grave year after year until he himself passed away. The city loved the dog so much that he now has his own headstone, statue, and pub named after him. The final thing we did before leaving Scotland was hike to the top of Arthur’s Seat which is essentially just one of the cliffs I mentioned before that affords a great view of the whole city. It was incredibly foggy the day we went up, so our range of visibility was not quite stellar, but the combination of fog, countryside, and city was nothing short of poetic still. Without much competition, Edinburgh has been the most beautiful place in terms of landscape that I have visited thus far on my trip. I had a huge moral battle with myself before we left trying to decide if I should get a kilt or not, but I am sorry to say I left the land of the Scots utterly kiltless but nonetheless in love with the city I only got to stay in for two days.

            Next on the docket was to visit the land to which I owe the color of my hair: Ireland. What I couldn’t get over, both in Edinburgh and Dublin, was the hospitality of the people. I guess London had conditioned me to expect minimal and formal interactions with strangers, but both the Scots and Irish seemed ready to offer a smile and easy conversation if you wanted. I was very much reminded of the Southern hospitality from back home. Being in Dublin, we naturally took a tour of the Guinness factory which was actually really interesting, mainly just for the fact of getting to see each step in the process of how they make it. Later that evening, we went to a popular hangout spot, Temple Bar, where we stood packed in a room filled with people listening to some of the most legit Irish music I’ve ever heard. I found out a little bit later that the guitarist playing in the band that night was actually the world record holder for the longest marathon of guitar playing with a ridiculous 114 hours straight. The guy was amazing. I stood with my jaw hanging open half of the time watching his fingers moving faster than most people can think. Great live music would prove to be a theme in Dublin; whether you were in a restaurant or out in the street, somebody was bound to be playing something and singing along, not only that but well too. The highlight of the night, however, took place when I was conversing with an Irishman I happened to meet in one of the other rooms of Temple Bar. At some point, I jokingly asked him “I look Irish, right?” pointing to my hair. He immediately said “Oh yeah, sure,” and ruffled my hair before clasping a hand around the back of my neck, pulling my face close to his, planting a kiss on my check before releasing me with a hearty “Welcome back, brother.” It seemed that I had found my place among my people.

            Skipping ahead about a week, I hopped on a train for a day trip to Oxford. My primary objective in going, and what was for me the coolest thing I did while I was there, was to visit the Eagle and Child pub: former meeting place of the Inklings (C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Charles Williams among others) and housing to conversations which resulted in works such as the Chronicles of Narnia and Lord of the Rings. I was surreal to be occupying the same space and walking on the same floors as some of the men that have inspired, entertained, and challenged me like few others have. To try and fathom the hours, days, years of fascination and boundless imagination these men provided me growing up would be entirely impossible, yet here I was sitting in the very building where they sat and discussed the very things that so influenced my childhood and adolescence and still continue to inspire me today. Later, I would visit Tolkien’s gravesite, even taking the time to read a bit of The Hobbit next to the author. I wanted to be able to thank the man in person for creating a world and characters that has brought so many people together and quite literally defined an era of my childhood. All in all, my time in Oxford was one filled with literary nostalgia and appreciation.

            Less than a week. It doesn’t make sense at all to me, but that’s all I have. Here’s to making the most of that time, even if it doesn’t seem like any at all.