Between Transitions

By James Bonner
Text copyright © 2016 James Bonner
All Rights Reserved
An Introspection
In Words
Table of Contents

Chapter I........................................................................................................................................................ 5
Chapter II..................................................................................................................................................... 12
Chapter III.................................................................................................................................................... 25
Chapter IV ................................................................................................................................................... 32
Chapter V .................................................................................................................................................... 40
Chapter VI ................................................................................................................................................... 51
Chapter VII .................................................................................................................................................. 61
Chapter VIII ................................................................................................................................................. 68
Chapter IX.................................................................................................................................................... 71
Chapter X..................................................................................................................................................... 80
Chapter XI.................................................................................................................................................... 94
Chapter XII................................................................................................................................................. 103
Chapter XIII................................................................................................................................................ 113
Chapter XIV ............................................................................................................................................... 122
Chapter XV ................................................................................................................................................ 130
Chapter XVI ............................................................................................................................................... 137
Chapter XVII .............................................................................................................................................. 147
Barakah ..................................................................................................................................................... 153
Chapter I

I skated through my twenties on the precipice of a series of very nearly. I very

nearly kept good jobs, and I very nearly nurtured good relationships, and I very nearly
became the person that—somewhere inside me inching its way to the rise, and very
nearly surfacing for air—I knew I was capable of being. There are glimpses of that
person, they are probably too few and too subtle for anyone other than myself to have
noticed, nevertheless I know he’s there, because I’ve seen him, and sometimes he and I
meet at the purview of the precipice that never comes to be. I was thirty when I moved
back home. Everything about it felt familiar. The two old houses nestled artfully
surrounded by a nursed backwoods just out of sight of the dead end road. The small,
German town secluded in obscurity, still lush with a small-town kindred, and the
rolling river near the city center. It was exactly as I remembered it, everything, that is,
save me.
The thick roil fume rollicked purposeless in front of my face before the wind
caught it dragging and redirecting it elsewhere, the cigar held a medium-full aroma
with a slight chocolate savor, and I exalt the taste with a cold dark beer. The sun is
nearly setting and I’m sitting alone, outside by a fire pit, around several families settling
on picnic tables scattered about the lawn, with their food from various food trucks,
while their children jump on a giant trampoline. “How is it?” Mark inquired as he nears
me, he has a torch in his hand ready to light the fire. “It’s great, thank you for ordering
these.” I respond. “I’ve been smoking them like crazy, since they came in.” Mark responds,
while he shuffles the wood in the pit before lighting. I’m at a beer garden just north of
town. One of the few places here unfamiliar to me. I’m content to enjoy this moment
without the necessity of having to appeal to any one persons’ thought or conversation.
As my beer wanes and I consider whether to get another and sit back down or to leave,
a handful of people I have come to know by association only settle around me at the fire
pit. They work in a coffeehouse that I frequent while I write a novel, my first novel.
Their presence is the deciding factor for me to refill my beer. I’ve spent the last few
months nurturing an unrequited infatuation for one of their coworkers, Cassia. She’s
always on my mind, and the situation is generally also on the minds of whomever
happens to be out with me—anyone also mutually acquainted with Cassia—when we
get together however the conversation rarely navigates in that direction. The six of us
sit around the fire and tell stories, or express random thoughts that come to mind.
I have had a guard up now for over a year, and I’m not sure how to get around
it. Living with this kind of a demur is not something that I have acclimated to yet, and
honestly I’m not sure that I ever will, so obviously I am having trouble getting around
it; and, respectively, I open up only when queried, and even then it’s not really all that
meaningful. I do secretly hope that someone else brings Cassia up while we’re sitting
around the fire pit, in part because I, of course, like talking about her, but also because I
can talk about her, and it would help me to open up about myself with a group of
people that are clearly curious about me but unsure how to get me to talk. Few of the
coffeepots know me well enough for me to confess my feelings, or concerns, or worries,
or anything of the like. I have tried, I think, and I would like to develop more intimate
relationships with them—it is possible that I haven’t tried at all, it’s possible even that
I’m not sure anymore what it takes to develop that kind of relationship.
Until recently I read and reviewed independently published books for a journal
based in California, a job that I loved but couldn’t maintain with my growing list of
projects, since my move back to Texas. I also write short stories with the intent of their
publication in literary journals. I fell into the work many years ago while living in a
small town in Idaho. I worked, for a short time, in a potato processing plant,
maintaining a packaging machine from 8:00PM to 8:00AM, every day, and all week. The
plant closed one weekend for Easter, and I drove the fifty miles to the nearest, largest
town and spent the day, and eventually the entire weekend in a coffeehouse near the
river. I wrote about it. A travelogue, if you will, and left it for the café owners. When
they saw me again they asked me to publish it in the local monthly magazine, which I
did, and I have been writing professionally ever since. I tried to write a novel shortly
after I started writing for Idaho Falls Magazine, it was considerably more challenging
than I expected, and I ultimately chopped it up and rewrote the chapters to sell as short
stories, hence my transition into short fiction. I haven’t even considered working on
another novel until recently, when I moved back to Texas. And I’ve been writing it now
for a month, or so. It’s surprising how much more straightforward the process has been
this time around. I guess working as both a writer and a reader makes a substantial
difference.
I met everyone at the coffeehouse while working on my novel. I have learned
that I write better when I’m surrounded by people, in public places, when I can feel the
different energies of people that wander in and out of the café throughout the day. I’ll
often engage in conversation with people, which can be counterproductive, considering
it takes away from my writing time, but when I set aside, hide in the corner of the
coffeehouse, and allow my thoughts to spill onto the page like an overflow of
expression pouring out and onto the surface, I can feel both the complement of the
people surrounding me and the recognition of myself, in the moment. As I reflect on the
story later—and perhaps even years later, as an old man—I’ll remember always the
feeling, the only thing routinely lost in retrospect.
Melody holds her phone up to her forehead as a blue screen counts down from
3…2…to prepare us for a game of Heads Up! I love Heads Up! And am always up for a
few rounds, especially with a few drinks in me—there are a few drinks in everybody.
We swiftly and haphazardly form teams in the midst of everyone yelling, and acting to
help Melody guess the cryptic name attached to her temples. She guesses it correctly,
and flips the phone over her head to both acknowledge the right answer and to
summon the next subject. There is a football game on. An undefeated team is
challenging an underdog, and the underdog is winning, there is a lot of indiscriminate
yelling, from us and everyone at the bar watching the game. It’s kind of a mess, and yet
most people are too drunk to notice or care. This time of year it cools dramatically later
into the night, and someone finally says something about the increasing chill and we
move inside, around a table underneath a porch heater, which is turned off. I turn it on
as one or two of the employees behind the bar exchange glances at one another and
then towards me, we sit under the heat for several moments taking a break from the
happenings of the night. I catch glimpses of the football game on a flat-screen overhead.
I haven’t followed any sport religiously in many years, but it does author a reason to go
to bars on off-nights alone and drink, while I loosely follow the game and engage in
half-assed conversation with whomever is sitting around me. If I go out it’s because I
don’t feel like being alone, and if I do find myself sitting alone at the bar it helps at least
to feel people around me.
As I amble to my car at the end of the night overwrought with my ability to walk
I chew over how I typically spend my days. I lean towards a depression after I drink.
The whole of the next day is always worse, but it begins, usually, on my walk to the car.
In the mornings I wake up early and read over what I wrote the day before. I shower,
dress, and head to the coffeehouse, where I will spend several hours writing, again. In
the evening I find a bar and have a few drinks. If I find someone to talk to I’ll stay and
talk, otherwise I’ll go home and huddle up on the couch with a movie and a glass of
wine, while I puff on a hookah. And more often than not that outlines my daily routine;
as much as I dislike maintaining routines. I feel like I haven’t accomplished much, like
I’m only killing, or wasting time, and my life is meaningless.

And the next several months are more-or-less a reflection of a very basic and
emotionally conservative lifestyle: the frequency in which I go out after spending the
day writing to drink would wax-and-wane, but besides that my life has slipped into a
familiar pocket with an indistinct end towards the whoknows future. With my head
resting on my knuckles I stare out the windows directly across from me. Sitting in the
coffeehouse, per usual, after a long early afternoon of writing, editing, rewriting,
talking, wasting time I’m feeling hungry, and tired, light headed, and blurry-eyed. At
some point during my doleful phantasy Cassia showed up and was sitting in an
armchair against the window, also across from me. She had her hair, which was
recently dyed blonde with brown highlights layered beneath, down and draped loosely
over her shoulders, a black short sleeve T-shirt with a small green star and banner icon
on the top left—I can’t make out what was written in the banner—a pair of torn jeans,
and, of course, cowboy boots. As I slipped out of my daydream I was staring deep into
her blue absorbing eyes, and felt immediately an expression released from my
fingertips. I read my words over and over again, shaking my head, thinking to myself,
and feeling more and more content in knowing that I was done, I had inadvertently
finished my novel without realizing it! Cassia had graduated from an infatuation to the
muse necessary for me to accept what I had accomplished. After feeling complete
elation and a heightened joy I remembered that though the book had been written I had
no idea in what order I wanted to arrange the chapters…
Shit.
I was both excited and terrified to entrain on the next stage. It was time to read,
but with the lenses of a reader, I would not edit or rewrite. I would read, only. I used to
write book reviews, and I loved doing it, when I read with purpose, though, I had to
read out loud, so that I could absorb the material, and in doing so I tend to reflect on
what I’m reading in two very different ways. I would have to seclude myself while I
read, within the confines of my interior, both mentally and physically. Which would
mean no people, for a while. But before sitting down to study I decided to take a couple
of days off, from everything, to relax a bit, only I didn’t know what to do with myself. I
went to the coffeehouse anyway and sat in a chair watching people, the time passed
slower than I believed was possible. I finished my coffee much quicker than usual and
drove to a Nature Center on the other end of town. The center was kind of a second
home for me when I was a child. My mother managed it for several years. I worked
each summer, once I was old enough, as a volunteer camp counselor during the first
few years that the nature center held their summer camps. I parked and walked, passed
the dinosaur foot prints that were molded and transported from elsewhere, and across a
small bridge that overpasses a creek spawned by the marsh on the north end of the
nature center. I take the path to the right, towards the marsh, and I amble whilst
enjoying the unusually hot Texas winter weather. The marsh walk is a winding wooden
path built over the water that begins at a large platform with benches to sit and to
watch the multitude of marsh life, which can be fascinating but I rarely find this
environment relaxing by any means, I think it’s the mosquitoes, though there are fewer
this time of year than there would be during the summer and autumn seasons. I walk
through the marsh slowly but without stopping to look around. The marsh comes to an
end at the corner of the nature center where it and the City Park meet. A natural canopy
guides you towards the tall-grass prairie, where the grass can grow upwards to six feet,
and onto a hidden trail that cuts through the field where only the birds and the prying
eyes of hidden wildlife can find me, unless I happen upon a runner or young couple
walking hand-in-hand through the nature center. The deer and horse riders have made
their own trails, many of which comingle with the walking path leaving the mud
exposed at the center of the trails along with the occasional pile of manure. Large
grasshoppers of ostensibly in-numerous colors are parked in the center of the trails,
watching and waiting for people to walk by, and following people with their eyes, and
the grasshoppers spiral to trace my movements, if the need to jump overwhelms them,
then, and only then, will they jump in random and irrational directions sometimes
spreading their wings to guide them, though, without any obvious intention. Where
this trail ends I am faced with a decision to turn left and back into the tall-grass prairie
or right towards both the river and the woodland trails. I usually go right and walk on
the trail parallel to, and down river, this trail is almost too overcome by vegetation,
which also means that very few people actually walk it, at least beyond a certain point.
At the far end of the river trail a series of steps leads upwards to the woodland trail
above, this footpath is a circle that will direct you as long as you are willing, underneath
the heavy woodland canopy, or, at the start of the trail, you can follow an old dirt
driveway—which no longer allows vehicles—back down to the tall-grass prairie.
Today, however, I turn left and back through the prairie, a short cut to where I started,
by the dinosaur footprints, and to my car. As little as I have to do today I’m tired of
walking. Every Wednesday I drive to a nearby town and play pool at a bar that has an
open pool table on Wednesdays after 8:00PM. I haven’t missed a Wednesday since I
discovered The Coop. It’s a thirty or forty minute drive to Bandera so I made a long
playlist that covers the ambit of musical genre. This afternoon after walking through the
Nature Center I put on my playlist and tried to get lost somewhere down the many
country roads around town, singing along to the music, to the playlist, and mimicking
the guitar and drum solo’s on my steering wheel. Cassia is always lingering in the
cracks of my conscious mind, I wish she wasn’t, and yet I put very little effort into
keeping her away. Sometimes I’ll imagine that she slipped into the back seat of my car
and that we’re driving around together, singing and acting like idiots because we can,
and that behavior describes us in some way. But she’s never actually there.
Reading my novel is enlightening. I didn’t realize how much I was trying to
work through during the process, I mean, like, personal things that came up that my
characters are also dealing with, and how examining and broadening it is, for me.
Somehow my characters actually work through their issues though—my issues—and
reemerge as better people, and I have somehow managed to miss that. I didn’t
necessarily expect that I would enjoy reading it, at least not to the extent that I have. I
woke up early and just started reading, I haven’t been able to stop. I imagine that’s a
good sign. I grab a beer from the fridge and sit outside under the trees and the sun,
listening to, and watching redbirds warn the setting of my presence while
simultaneously begging me to spread seed in various places around the yard. One lands
on the chair next to me hopping side-to-side, and turning his head to see me, “Hi.” I
say. He turns his head again, and chirps. I take a sip of my Shiner and smiled at him
before returning my gaze to the yard and the reflection of the sun in the eternal green
trees and the browning grass. There’s a slight chill in the air, one that would probably
drive almost anyone accustomed to the Texas weather inside, fortunately I’m coming
from a decade living in much colder places, and this feels wonderful. The redbird flew
away. I went back to reading and again got lost in the story, and in my characters. In the
early evening I quit for the day and drove out to RANDOM where I ordered a beer. I
stood around the bar for a while chatting with the two bartenders, before finding a seat
outside next to the fire pit, it wasn’t lit. I didn’t expect anybody to join me this
afternoon, not in the middle of the week like this. I asked if it would be possible to light
a fire and the two girls looked at each other, “There’s really no one here that can light it.”
The said, almost in unison. My first thought was that either one of them would be more
than capable, and if not I could, but because of insurance purposes, I wasn’t legally
avowed. Eh, that’s fine, it just means that I won’t be staying after sunset. In the morning
I climbed out of bed and turned on NETFLIX. After finishing one movie I started
another, I didn’t necessarily care even what I was watching. Next to me, throughout the
day, was a box of coconut water, hot lemon water, and a Shiner, sometimes nachos
depending on whether I wanted to be on my feet enough to fill a plate full of chips and
then cover them with cheese before the labor of putting the plate in the microwave.
Despite how it appeared I did spend the day with my novel percolating on my mind, I
was thinking about the progression of the story, the characters, my style, my voice, how
it all changed from chapter to chapter and whether it changed too much or too often
without bridging in the best way that I was capable, and of course I thought also about
Cassia. I pictured her smiling and laughing into her arm. At first thinking about Cassia
made it difficult for me to concentrate but then I recognized that thinking about her
made it easier for me and sometimes even necessary if I wanted to write, and if I
wanted to feel pleased with what I’ve written. Although if I thought about it too much
it was frustrating, of course, because, you know, we’re not together. Towards the
beginning of the evening I noticed a pattern with my movie decision making process, I
seem to be alternating between ridiculous and unfathomably insane comedies and
romantic comedies, well well-written romantic comedies, because, let’s face it, there are
so many that are really excruciatingly bad. And I don’t mean so bad that they start to
become good again, I mean really, really awful. In the morning I started reading again,
where I left off, and before the early afternoon I had finished. I couldn’t stop thinking
about the story, but I couldn’t decide what it was, specifically, that I was thinking
about, so I decided to write a review. I sat down and wrote a review about the book I
had just finished writing. For the next few minutes I congratulated myself for having
such a seemingly brilliant idea; while it took me a day and a half to write the first three
sentences. After three days of throwing shit against the wall and tearing up
metaphorical word documents I emailed a copy of my review to myself, and after
reading it I had a completely new perspective of my novel. So, regardless of how
difficult it was to actually write the review, once I finished it, did help me beyond
measure. Starting at the end I went backwards through the story editing it, again,
chapter by chapter, which occurred exceptionally smooth and quickly. And then I left it
in my computer telling myself that I wouldn’t think about or work on it for a week.
That week was the longest of my life, but not necessarily because I wanted to think
about or work on the manuscript, I just didn’t know what to do with myself. I thought
about writing: working on a backlog of short stories that were left disregarded for too
long, but it felt like, I don’t know, I guess I just couldn’t focus appropriately. The idea of
getting a part-time job even crossed my mind. I could work at the coffeehouse. Ugh.
That could be a disaster. What am I going to do with my life!? I’m sure my father was
thinking that exact same question right now, as well. I could entertain myself with the
political arena, however that could also quickly turn bad, considering everything that is
going on right now. It’s ridiculous. Any reasonable human being who spends their days
following our political picnic would find themselves contemplating the merits of self-
murder very hurriedly. I could churn butter. I played Quiz Up on my iPhone, a lot. I
maintained the standing of 5th in the world in the category of Finish the Book Title. I
didn’t make the nightly news or anything, but I told every single person that I talked to.
I didn’t talk with too many people. I listened to a lot of people, sitting in different
coffeehouses around town I past the time by both people watching and eavesdropping,
there is a lot of gossip, and everyone gossips constantly, it really doesn’t matter if you’re
in your late teens or a professedly respectful adult. There is very little difference
between teenagers and adults aside from their age, and the responsibility that they
accept, for some reason people think that responsibility changes who we are and how
we relate to one another, but it really doesn’t, that’s a facade that adults accept in order
to carry on the illusion of separateness. However, people can change, the trick, simply,
is to decide that you want to behave differently, and then to behave differently. I reread
my manuscript and started the process of looking for an agent, I haven’t needed one
until now, selling short stories as a freelancer, it is easy enough to act as your own
agent, and manager, and accountant, and best friend, and counselor, and anything that
any one person might need in order to create the illusion of surviving as a fully
functional human being. I scoured the internet and found a list of agents currently
searching for manuscripts. Once I was pleased with my query letter I submitted it and
my manuscript to an agent that I felt would best represent me, and the story that I was
trying to tell. Then I waited. I’m going to D.C. next week to help my parents move from
one apartment to another apartment down the street. I’ll also have some time to myself
to wander around the city, it’s been years since I have been there, to D.C. I’m excited. If
I didn’t have something to occupy my mind I could lose it while waiting to hear from
the literary agent. In the meantime I went bowling. There is a new big bowling alley not
far from here that I keep hearing about but haven’t been to. I played a few frames and
nursed a pitcher of beer, or two and afterwards I went straight home and I passed out,
and I slept through the night and into the morning as if I hadn’t slept in months, I
dreamed of Cassia. In the morning I had the email waiting for me that I wasn’t
expecting for another few weeks, at least. I read it over and over again. I wondered too
if I was still dreaming. The agent that I had contacted responded favorably. I decided
ultimately to call her to talk about my manuscript, about me, and about them, and to do
my best to get to know her over the phone. We talked for over an hour, and agreed on a
date to meet in New York City next week while I was in Washington.
I’m sitting in my car in the dirt parking lot outside of RANDOM watching the
white thoroughbred stallion covered in dried mud staring hapless into nothingness
ahead of him, as horses sometimes do—he was probably sleeping. Because I’m so
excited I don’t know how to tell anyone about my manuscript, I wouldn’t even know
what to say, and, I suppose, since it hasn’t actually sold yet it might be better for me to
not say anything, to anybody. Yet. I ordered an IPA and sat outside. No cigar tonight.
Lithe and her boyfriend walked out and asked if I would mind if they sat with me. Of
course I didn’t mind. The three of us sat in relative awkward silence for a couple of
minutes before slipping into conversation. Lithe works in an Italian restaurant at the
north end of town, I’ve never eaten there, and I cannot honestly say that I have heard
anything good about the place, Lithe’s boyfriend, Eric, is in construction. Something
that came up in conversation between the three of us triggered a tangent between Lithe
and her boyfriend and in the meantime I couldn’t help but think, again, about what I
am supposed to do now that I finished my book.

Chapter II

“Ok, listen, after the third or fourth time the song plays everyone at the bar who will
start looking around, trying to figure out who did it.” Sebastian was explaining the general
reactions of people in the bar to him putting $20 into the jukebox and playing as many
different versions of Frosty the Snow Man as was available, it’s June. “After six plays the
bartender is going to reveal the remote to the jukebox…” This is one of those new nifty
digital jukeboxes, “…and, he is going to start skipping the song.” This was our first—and
likely, our last—visit to Brady’s, Dylan was at the pool tables arguing with a pair of
regulars about the house rules. This would most definitely be our last Brady’s
experience. “But, because each is a different version the intro to each is different, the bartender
won’t know we’re listening to Frosty again until they start singing.” Sebastian continues. “So,
how many times have you actually done this?” I ask. “Ooh, you know, I don’t remember.” He
responds. I nod. Dylan’s impending fist-fight escalates behind us. “Eventually, the
bartender is going to turn the jukebox off entirely.” Sebastian says, winking. He and I are
sitting at the bar, we each have a Stella in front of us. At the moment we are not
suspected for any wrong doing. I cannot help but think that we are the only unfamiliar
faces here, the only people that have not consistently come in every day for the last 20
years; it shouldn’t take the house too long to recognize who is at fault for everything
that goes horribly wrong within the next couple of hours. I turn slightly, thinking that I
might take a quick panoramic prospect of the place before we are forcibly removed, and
our photos are plastered above the cash register as a reminder never to come back.
Sebastian slaps my shoulder. “Dude, what are you doing? Don’t look around, act normal.”
“Sebastian, we are the only people in here not engaging or looking around at all, besides
everyone here knows everyone else—except us.” I say. “Oh shit, your right.” Sebastian says,
looking around. “You get Dylan, I’ll tell everyone else we’re leaving.” I stood next to the
pool table listening to the ensuing argument. “Who the fuck are you? What the fuck do you
want?” Some guy flashing a queue stick demands. I ignore him. “Dylan, we’re
leaving…right now. Forget the game.” I looked back, just before the door slammed shut, at
the bartender directing a small remote-esque device at the jukebox.

“So, Pat’s?” I say. “Nah, let’s walk down this way.” Sebastian says. I look over at
Dylan, “We should see what Jess and Laurel are up to, maybe separate from Sebastian for a
while.” I suggest. Dylan pulls his phone from his pocket and calls Jess. Hey, are you with
Laurel? Good. What are you two up to? Really? Just now? Hmm. OK. Well, we’ll see you soon.
He hangs up, expressionless. “Hey, so, what’s up?” I inquire. “Apparently Sebastian just
got off the phone with them and they are going to meet us at 75th street.” Dylan responds.
“What? No. Did you suggest something else?” I continue. “No. I mean, when we see them
maybe we can break-off.” We caught up with Sebastian and his two Broadway dancer
friends. The type that only eat cotton balls soaked with orange juice, I can’t relate. We
all met up outside a karaoke bar on the Upper East Side that seems to have been rented
out for a birthday. Yes, we went in anyway. Inside everyone was gathered around the
stage. I almost left to make something of my own late afternoon until I saw Sebastian
jump on stage and exchange a few words with the DJ, he then handed her $20 and
disappeared behind a curtain. Shit. I began weaving in, out, and around people looking
for everyone so that I might explain what was about to happen until I heard, “Who the
fuck is that guy?” Someone in the crowd was pointing towards the stage. Sebastian was
standing with his back to the crowd. He had a microphone in his right hand. His left
arm was raised, his pointer finger was extended and directed towards the heavens.
That’s when his monologue began. I found Dylan, Jess, and Laurel, “I really think we
need to go.” I suggested. Sebastian’s monologue ran over and interrupted the intro to
Neil Diamonds, America. Halfway through the song obscenities from both on and off
the stage nearly disrupt Sebastian from laying on the floor edging himself backwards,
his eyes are closed, and he is capable almost of disregarding his scorn for the hostile
audience as he belts is patriotic inclination. When the crowd converged on him, we
made our way to the exit, and waited there for Sebastian and his friends. We waited for
a while. His friends were pretty much carrying him out the door and a handful of
others followed. Sebastian locks eyes with a woman who was pulled outside with the
mob and introduced himself. Her unhappy boyfriend took exception; the boyfriend
took to verbally assaulting Sebastian, so—as any sane, and slightly tanked human being
would do—Sebastian took the man’s head between his palms as if it were a volleyball
and licked him from his chin to his hairline. Time, in that moment, pretty much
stopped. Every one of us was taken aback and somewhat appalled, our mouths agape,
eyes wide, we were all frozen—not in suspension or anticipation, no, it was only that
the moment had ceased to exact meaning of any kind. I look first at Jess, then Dylan,
and finally Laurel, not one of us had anything to say, there was nothing to be said. “I’ll
race you!” The moment suddenly acknowledged reality and we were once again
competent and perceptive human beings. “I’ll race you.” Well, kind of. “I bet that I can
run faster backwards around…” Sebastian looks around, there’s a taxi parked in front of
the bar. “…around this cab, then you can forwards.” This guy had apparently shaken off
his abashment and accepted Sebastian’s challenge. “What!?” I say, “Seriously, you’re
accepting this challenge?” I continued. “I have to defend my girlfriends honor.” He declares,
very matter-of-factly. “What happened to you as a child that makes you think you can defend
anyone’s honor by running circles, inebriated around a New York City Taxi?” I ask. I don’t
think he heard me. The idiot is stretching. Jess, Laurel, Dylan, a large handful of others,
and myself are standing on the sidewalk gearing up to witness two idiots run circles
around a taxi. “Go!” someone randomly yells and the two take off. The first time around
the cab is hilarious and stupid. Sebastian manages to take and keep the lead until he
trips around the front left bumper of the car, on his second time around, and he gets his
ankle caught in the tire of a van parked in front of the cab, as he is laying in the street in
obvious pain—even as glazed as he is—the other guy looks back at him just before the
door of a second cab is opening and an elderly women with a cane is cautiously
stepping out; he runs first into the door and then slams his shoulder in the cab that he is
racing around, before falling into the street, and rolling under the taxi, finally the
elderly woman is knocked over into the street moaning and screaming, simultaneously.
“Geezus!” I cry, as Dylan, some other guy, and I run over to the elderly woman laying
helpless in the street. Fortunately, as we’re asking her questions—“Are you OK? How do
you feel? Oh my God!”—we soon discover that she’s fine, she has no injuries, and she is
only, undoubtedly, shaken up. “What the hell were they doing?” The elderly woman asks
as we help her to her feet. “Well, honestly, I don’t think you really want to know. But we’re
all very sorry that you were caught in the middle of it.” I respond. Later in the evening the
four of us help Sebastian to the subway, because his foot is pretty messed-up, and we
leave him with his girlfriend who opened the apartment door half asleep and floored.
“What happened?” She asks. I just started laughing, it was the only thing I could do,
which, of course, roused laughter from the rest of us. His girlfriend stood there
watching four people so overwhelmed by the events of the evening that we could no
longer accept it as reality, she then pulled Sebastian inside, and gently closed the door,
leaving the four of us outside enraged in uncontrollable laughter.

I settled in on a bench at the 86th and Lex subway station, that night. It wasn’t the
most comfortable arrangement but my options were limited. When my apartment fell
through, and I had nothing else lined-up, I considered, at first, sleeping on the semi-
comfortable benches on the subway itself; however standing on the car just before the
doors closed it occurred to me that there wasn’t a line in the city that didn’t pass
through neighborhoods that I did not want to be caught sleeping in. So I got off. The
wooden benches in the stations had clefts built in to the seat to both separate space for
multiple people on a single bench, and to make it as uncomfortable as possible to lay,
and therefore sleep on. I managed, though; and eventually even grew accustom to it.
Which doesn’t exactly mean that I enjoyed it. But what an experience! That’s what
people call it: an experience. Yeah I bet being homeless in New York City is quite the
experience, it’s such an experience even-that not a single person alive would ever
deliberately put themselves in that position. Above the bench that would be my pallet
tonight was a vent that opened up into the sidewalk above, belching sounds of the
restless intersection into the station and providing the white noise that would hereafter
precondition my ability to sleep. Occasionally a brisk wind would sail in through the
drain and, cumulatively inflict my calloused skin. There is an insistent light, also.
Fluorescent midnight. In the mornings, on the Great Lawn, the dew bathed and
cleansed me in preparedness, sprawled—in eagerness, the morning sun would fill me
with sidereal day. Then I would walk the streets, seemingly aimless. In actuality I
allowed the progressive Walk/Do Not Walk indicators to dictate my route. And then I
would sit somewhere, and people watch, and write stories in a notebook, and talk to
everybody. I tried to write about last night, but I had no clue whatsoever where to start,
and the more I thought about it the less capable I was at chronicling the bizarre events
in a coherent manner, because I couldn’t get past my fractious laughter. People stared. I
imagine no one had ever witnessed someone interrupt laughter with a more deep-
rooted and ridiculous laughter, it was the amusement of the certifiably insane, and only
the mad could erupt in a laughter as persistent without breathing. I pictured myself
rolling on the floor outside Sebastian’s apartment crying with hilarity. How is it
possible that events can create so much angst that you become anesthetized in the
moment, but overwhelmed with amusement not even 24 hours later? It
seems…perhaps, actually, my behavior is a symptom of discontinuous sleep every
night for weeks. Awe, it’s the symptom of a fractured mind. I just may, in fact, be
bonkers, or I am, at the very least, unhurriedly on my way there. If I come away from
this, um, “experience”, with an inclination of sanity, I know, with an unabashed
certainty that I will no longer critique the intoxication of the displaced, but rather I will
support their perspectives, and embrace them as equals.

In the morning, standing upright next to an empty chair in the coffeehouse, is a

wooden baseball bat, on which the words: Louisville Slugger are printed. I am nearly
lost in my writings, while also heeding Browning’s Slugger, and the empty seat. The bat
has a handle built into the knob, the base of the lumber, clearly manipulated to act as a
cane-a cane that I have come to be protective of. Any person that even appears to
approach the seat or the cane is demanding of my attention. The more time that passes
without anyone claiming the bat escalates my anxiety, to the point even that I am
having to reread my passages written—sometimes multiple times—in order to verify
that my intent is being made, and is not defused in inconsistency and contempt. A man
with a limp walks by and I nearly spill my coffee I’m so excited, he stares at me and
walks off. An elderly man dragging the left side of his body appears near the restrooms
and slowly makes his way my direction. He sits, and looks me over, clearly wanting to
talk, but uncertain of what to say. “That’s a neat cane.” I tell him. “Hmm? Wha…what’s
that?” He responds. “Your cane…” I say again, this time pointing, “…it’s neat. I like it.”
He smiles. “Oh, yeah, yeah it’s…it’s au…authentic. My…my wi…wife got it for me.” He
says, nodding. “Louisville Slugger. I’m…I’m Tom. My…my…wi…wife past away…away
four yea…years ago.” He continues. “I’m sorry to hear that, I’m Jonah.” I say, extending my
hand. We exchange in choppy but pleasant conversation, and finally I begin raddling
on about things that I didn’t even realize I was thinking about, and about things that
have been weighing heavy on my mind lately, while Tom listens. Our conversation was
unexpected but necessary. In the meantime another gentleman sat down in the chair
next to Tom, and the two of them spoke casually. “What…what do you do?” I was so
involved in writing that I didn’t realize he was talking to me, “What…what do you do?”
Tom asked a second time. “Me? …I’m sorry” I started, composing myself, “I’m an
author.” I said. “An au…author? Re…Really?” Tom asked. “I am.” I said, nodding my
head. “What do you write?” The gentleman who would later identify himself as Adam
asked. To be clear, I hate this question, what do you write? It’s a stupid question, initially
whenever I am asked I don’t mind, I simply respond with “Fiction...” to which the usual
immediate response is “Really?” the answer, of course, is “Yes. Sir.” But then everyone,
without fail, always asks, and maybe this is actually the question that really irks me.
“What do you write about? What type of fiction?” I never have an answer to this question. I
suppose many people don’t often consider that there are really only three specific
genres of fiction: Mystery, Science Fiction/Fantasy, and Romance, and these make-up,
really, a small percentage of fiction written, the rest is, for all intents and purposes
general fiction or “Drama”, which includes writers from Edward Abbey to Roberto
Bolaño, Abraham Verghese to David Foster Wallace, these are authors, too, that have no
relation in any way whatsoever, other than that they are (or in Abbey, Bolaño, and
Wallace’s case—were) writers and write (wrote), fiction. “I write stories about people, life,
general, simple—I don’t write mystery or fantasy or anything like that.” Nobody really
knows how to continue the conversation beyond that, though—which, I suppose, is a
good thing—when you consider I strongly dislike that particular conversation to begin
with. “I used to consult with Howard Shultz.” Adam said. “Oh, OK…” I wonder how often
he begins conversations this way. I don’t like embarrassing people, or watching people
be embarrassed, it’s an awkward state, and one of everyone’s least favorite emotions
because, I think, our struggle, as humans, to manage embarrassment above other—
though also difficult emotions—makes us feel exceptionally vulnerable, which we are
not equipped to handle, so instead we either get angry or we get really sad; usually
angry. “That’s pretty cool. What’s your field?” I asked. “Healthcare.” Adam said. “Starbucks
has one of the best in-house healthcare plans.” He continued. “Yeah, I’ve heard that. Shultz, I
think, is a very understanding and conscious human being.” I respond, somewhat pandering
but, really, I’m just trying to maintain conversation. “Do you know how they come up with
ideas?” Adam asks. “No.” I said. “They follow trends, in the world, and will write the top ten
most popular trends on a dry erase board and discuss the best way to incorporate these trends in
the company, in the stores.” “That’s great, excellent brainstorming opportunities.” I respond.
“Yeah. Except when they tried to get their staff to talk about race.” Adam said. “I guess. I do
think it was a good concept, but forcing employees to talk to customers about race is short-
sighted.” “It can make people uncomfortable.” Adam said. “Yes. It can. Nevertheless it is an
important conversation to have.” “There is no racism in America.” Adam said. “What?” I
responded. “When you compare racism to other countries and how people there react to race.”
He continued. “Well, I mean, sure I know that racism between Sunni and Shi’ite in the Middle
East, or that of Northern Indians and Southern Indians. But just because racism exists
elsewhere, and sometimes more extremely, does not mean it doesn’t exist here. Take, for instance,
when you turn on the Teevee and see a predominately white culture, white culture and white
privilege are heavy in American Society.” I say. “White privilege doesn’t exist. Everybody has
opportunity here.” Adam responds. “You don’t accept that some people, specifically the black
community, and women even, struggle in our society; opportunity does exist here, of course, but
for some they are held back, it’s made more difficult.” I said. “Not if you work hard.” Adam
responded. “Some people have to work harder, and even then are denied the rewards.” I
continued. “Look at it this way…” Adam started, “…and this is something that I’ve actually
posed to some of my students…” Apparently Adam is a professor, and this makes me
nervous, overly opinionated people should not profess, or at least their slanted
perspectives. “…if it weren’t for slavery, many of the black people living in America today
would not be here. They would be in Africa. And, I’ve asked my students: “Would you prefer to
be here, in the States, or in Africa?” I’m here, today, because someone somewhere way down in
my family line was wronged.” Adam finished. I sat there for several moments in awe,
stupefied. “That is the most ludicrous and racist bullshit I have ever personally witnessed, in
my entire life.” I responded. I guess I just threw that whole disliking embarrassing
people out the window, but in some situations you have to make an exception. “Look,
Adam, White people in America can do something as simple as turning on the Teevee and it
reinforces the White American worldview: we see White families, White professionals, and White
children; and there may be one or two Black or Hispanic people to ‘represent.’ Take for example;
um…OK, say you worked for a company that moved to a predominately Black neighborhood…”
Adam chuckled, as if somewhere deep down he knew any company he worked for
would never relocated to a Black neighborhood. “…Yes, it’s unlikely, but hypothetically—
you wouldn’t move your family into that neighborhood, you would find the closest affluent
neighborhood , 45 minutes away, and buy a house there. Your kids would go to school in that
predominantly White affluent neighborhood. Why? Because schools in Black neighborhoods are
sorely underfunded, understaffed, and overcrowded, and what’s more…you know this, you
know, so good luck getting an education there, because they don’t have the money and the
resources that the more affluent neighborhood school has. And let’s say, by chance, that a bright
Black student graduates high school from one of those underfunded, understaffed, overcrowded
schools with the prospects of getting in to college; it doesn’t matter, because he can’t afford it…”
Adam interrupted me to say, “Well, he could get a loan!” And I continue. “…a loan, right,
thanks Adam, you know that almost everything you say solidifies your ignorance of race, and
your racist perspective. I mean, that’s your first thought—oh, he could he a loan—because that’s
what you did, that’s what you could do for your kids, and you’ve never known a reality where
that was not a possibility, for you. You are able to convince the bank that your children are an
investment, and that if the bank invests in their education it will be a return, and you are also
able to convince the bank that if that investment doesn’t work out than you are able to return the
costs of their failed investment. Remember earlier when I hypothesized about your company
moving into a Black neighborhood, you chuckled, and I reiterated by saying it was unlikely,
yeah, well that’s because it’s more likely for companies to move away from Black neighborhoods,
leaving no work, and no money. So the parents of our young Black high school graduate can’t
find a job, because their company up-and-left, and they can’t get a loan because they cannot
convince the bank that their son is an investment, and even if they could, how could they
possibly convince the bank that if the investment doesn’t work out they could cover the return?
They can’t. But they want to send their son to college so that he could have a good life. Well, the
only thing they can do, the only thing left to do in this neighborhood is probably sell drugs. They
take to selling drugs so they can send their son through college. But they get arrested, no more
money flow; now let’s generously assume that the justice system recognizes that they were only
trying to make sacrifices in order to send their kid through school, and releases them, under the
pretense that they can no longer sell drugs or they will go to prison. So now they have no cash
flow, no money for college, no job prospects, no means to leave this neighborhood and try to find
work somewhere else; so they are left with two unrealistic possibilities: 1.) they continue selling
drugs, and, at this point, it is the only source of income because people like YOU were
(hypothetically) responsible for repealing Welfare, and they have to eat, right, but eventually
they get caught, again, go to prison and leave their son without parents. Or, 2.) They don’t sell
drugs, they are, at the very least, in their son’s life, though he doesn’t have much of a life because
college is out of the question, and there are no jobs…Do you get my point Adam? And this isn’t
something that happens on the rare occasion, this shit is happening all the time, every day, this is
people’s reality, while you sit with me, in this coffeehouse, prejudicating how other people should
be living their lives.” Adam didn’t say anything for a moment, I sat there, somewhat
heated thinking about how easy it is for people to develop and maintain comfortable
worldviews so that they can pretend that struggle is a form of entertainment and not
realistic, and then get so comfortable with that idea that they have convinced
themselves that their reality is the only reality. “I take it you don’t care for the Confederate
Flag?” Adam says. “What?” I look around confounded. “What does that have to do with
anything?” I respond. “People are talking about it. I think it’s stupid a stupid conversation, it
takes away from the shootings in Charleston.” Adam continued. “…um, well it’s a flag that
flew over a rogue nation of American separatists that fought against the United States for the
purpose solely of maintain ownership of a human being because of their race. And it only takes
away from the massacre at Charleston if you allow it, it’s a parallel issue.” I said. “It’s only a
symbol of Southern Pride.” Adam said. “Where are you from?” I inquired. “Texas, originally.
I taught at A&M San Antonio for my first professorship.” He responded. “I see. Well, the
Confederate Flag doesn’t offer anything in the way of Southern Pride that the American Flag
doesn’t offer—it’s all a state of reference and mind, anyway—besides the Confederacy doesn’t
exist. The only remaining tie to the Confederacy is racism. Also, the flag people fly today is not
even one of the 3 official flags adopted by the Confederacy. The contemporary “Confederate
Flag,” the one everyone today flies, was adapted in the late 40’s by segregationists and racist
organizations such as the KKK, only—much like how the Nazi’s adopted and adapted the
Buddhist symbol of luck as their emblem, and we all know how that worked out.” I finished.
Adam was silent for a bit, again. “What do you think of income inequality?” he asked. “Um,
it’s terrible.” I respond. “Is it?” Adam continued. “You know what, I need to finish writing
this today, so I need to get back to it. I wish I could say it was nice talking to you. Take care.” I
buried myself again in my writing, this time immersing myself into it entirely.
Overthinking the situation I was more concerned that switching off that conversation,
and reengaging with someone else would be overtly insulting, even though he deserves
the insult; so, instead, I focused entirely upon my own expression of thought. Although,
it felt, suddenly, as if an ominous wind swept over me, a wind that had not affected
anyone else in the café, but me. Instantly I became overwhelmed with a desire to know
and to do nothing. I continued to sit, still, in the coffeehouse, my body seemed
unaffected, although a fog had enveloped my mind, infiltrating my limbic system, and
paralyzing my emotions. I felt nothing, and yet consumed by hopelessness. Feeling the
nothing transgressed both my soul and my intellect; prescribing feeling nothing to a
prospect of a meditative nothingness—actively thinking nothing, as if nothing could be
objectively contemplated. I stared only, ahead. Occasionally I would turn and attempt
to create subjective thought about the people surrounding me. This, however, would
turn out to be an exercise in futility. I gave up only to give the impression that I was
watching people, in order to give the impression of normalcy. I believe that our
routines, our lives—are made possible, or just, and more discerningly—easier, knowing
that we are connected to everything, and to everyone; many people ignore, or have
forgotten that idea simply because it is commonplace, and when a new standard
replaces an old the new one will, eventually, become so normal that the old will seem
peculiar. Depression occurs when our connection is severed. Depressives have a
unique, albeit unfortunate, relationship with the network that our consciousness is
hardwired to, because only depressives are capable of recognizing both the affiliation
to, and the separation of that connection. Antidepressants increase the biological
component, the serotonin, which bridges the corporeal with the ethereal. “Tha...that’s
interest…interesting.” It took a moment for the achromatic effect behind my eyes to
wane, I shook my head even, again I was sitting in the coffeehouse—I didn’t know that
I had left. A residual component of me remained in the chair but for all intents and
purposes I was gone. It was also in that moment that I realized the extrinsic component
of self that lingered in the chair at the coffeehouse had expressed every thought out
loud and Tom, as forlorn as he likely is, welcomed the attention, accidental or
otherwise. I did read somewhere that the observed and the observer are linked, which
is to say that we directly affect our surroundings—or, more specifically—the object of
our attention. This made me think of the countless times that I had been driving and,
apparently, zoned-out, and eventually realizing that—once some form of consciousness
returns—I had driven a considerable distance without having any recollection of it
whatsoever, what if, in fact, I had simply transported to that point, and because I was
both the observer and the observed, there was nothing keeping me at any specific place
once my mind began to wander. Perhaps my intentions of relative travel were thwarted
by Tom’s acknowledgment of my existence. “I just started feeling a bit depressed.
Sometimes it comes out-of-nowhere. And again, at other times, the realization that there are
people in the world like Adam…” I responded. Tom didn’t respond, he nodded, only, in
acknowledgment. “Thank you for listening. Talking about it, I don’t know, it helps me, I think,
to bring myself out-of-it. I guess I don’t really have anyone to talk about anything.” I said. Tom
nodded, again, while also looking the people in the café over. Adam had left. The
coffeehouse began to fill; people: couples, families, friends, pushed through the doors in
droves, crowding floor space as it came available. Most people would be waiting longer
than sought. People expect to wait, in most places, in others, waiting is a hassle—one
that I cannot fully understand. Impatience is a symptom of unconsciousness. You can
allow the people around you to affect your moods to the point of frustration or you can
choose to be accepting of your reliance on others, reliance and the unavoidable truth
that we will all, always, be surrounded by people. I nodded at Tom as I stood to leave,
and thanked him for our conversation. “That really is a neat cane.” I said, again. Tom
laughed, quietly. I wasn’t far from the park. I cut straight across the avenues along 79th
street, braved Central Park West, and headed south through The Park towards The Lake.
It’s not often that I’ll spend time in Sheep Meadow. Because it does tend to be overrun by
one or more of the following: Yuppies: hipsters with attitude and money—these are
people you will find shopping at Whole Foods (over-priced organic and natural foods that
represents status more than anything else), they will be boasting their
immaterial/metaphysical development as spiritual beings while simultaneously
predicating material satisfaction, usually indirectly, but not always. Neo-Hippies:
flower children whom are equally as judgmental as their antithetical counterparts—
these people likely, also, shop at Whole Foods, but will then find a grassy field to play in,
emphasizing their free-spirited, fairy, effigy before resting, naked, with Whole Foods
coffee brewed from a hand-cranked REI grinder, and are reading tattered copies of
anything written by Friedrich Nietzsche, their intermittent breaks are filled by fiercely
evincing their superiority as enlightened beings and judging everyone who is not, and
they are, quite honestly, as far from the hippie mentality as Conservative Christians.
And/or, Bro-Jocks: abusive reputes who flaunt self-proclaimed popularity to belittle
people they are threatened by—these people grunt abhorrently and obtrusively before,
during, and following minor physical accomplishments such as tossing a beanbag into a
hole a-dozen-feet-away and catching a Frisbee, this is generally followed by caustic
chest-pounding and an elaborate series of high-fives with the audible pairing of the
word, EXTREME!. For me the problem with most people in either of these
classifications is that none of them really are understanding or accepting of others, I
find that irritating. People adapt to these formulas, these institutions of conventional
society, because they choose to—likely subconsciously—those who adapt more
resolutely than others will be those that are the most offended by their stereotype. But
there really is no reason for any person to so adhesively conform to any one stereotype,
it’s all really a product of self-doubt and complacency. Many people—especially the
people I have stereotyped—have an inherently negative perspective of stereotypes, in
general; which more than anything, really, only, reflects their perspective worldview,
but for all intents and purposes that’s irrelevant. For example, I am an introvert;
psychologically this isn’t really a stereotype, but it’s become one—and one that is
consistently misunderstood—however I am, nevertheless, still, an introvert. The thing
that separates me from that or any other stereotype is my unwillingness to allow the
stereotype, the adaptation, to decide my interests for me. This, of course, increases the
challenges of making friends, which I think is ridiculous, simply because people
unintentionally—unconsciously—apply stereotypes to themselves in order to develop
friendships, while simultaneously rejecting those same stereotypes. That’s what we call
irony. I sat at the top of the hill on the west side of Sheep Meadow. I quickly placed all
three groups in the park. One of the inherent beauties of The City is that so many
different people, ethnicities, and affiliations can coexist in such a small place
simultaneously, even though everybody here, today, is noiselessly judging one another.
I think the thing that really bugs me, regarding stereotypes, is not the stereotype itself,
or the fact that we do stereotype—obviously—but rather the fact that people are so
afraid of being themselves that they base significance on condition, and not condition
on their significance. And then, on top of that, the fact that we are unwilling to take
responsibility for our behavior and our choices, so instead we reject the obviousness of
our opposition. I’m abrupt, I come-off strong, I have political perspectives that only
seemingly contradict one another simply because they don’t adhere to any one
affiliation, my religious views are all over the map, and I judge people solely by how
they treat others, which, again, seems contradictory, but I disagree. I am not dishonest
about who I am. And because so many people are, they are unconsciously threatened
by me. Dylan and Eustacio joined me in the park. Eustacio brought a Frisbee, the three
of us tossed it around a-bit, and talked about an exhibit at the MoMA. We were walking
through just after a performance artist had sat down at a table, she was welcoming
people to sit with her in silence, an exhibition illustrating both the necessity and the
difficulty of maintaining eye contact and keeping space with a stranger, or anybody
really. It was powerful, and humbling to have witnessed. It is moments such as that one
that make it worth the monthly fee—also, of course, the Tim Burton exhibit. “Did you
hear that at some point during that sitting, one of the guys that sat with her was actually a
former co-performance artist and ex-lover from decades ago? That was the first time that either of
them saw the other in…decades.” Dylan shared. “That’s incredible.” I said. “Really?”
Eustacio asked. “Yeah, I can’t remember where I heard that. But they sat in silence for a while
and eventually he stood and walked away.” Dylan continued. “Wow.” “I’m not sure, even, if
they spoke after the performance or anything. For all anyone knows, I think, the two just went
their separate ways, again, afterwards.” Dylan threw the Frisbee over Eustacio and it
scattered a handful of fairies critiquing Thus Spoke Zarathustra, they reacted
unsympathetically and Eustacio apologized emphatically, it didn’t matter. “Calm
down!” I exclaimed, “It really will be OK.” I extended. I received a handful of ‘fingers.’
“That’s very extemporaneous of you.” I responded. They persist in whispering amongst
themselves, aghast that anyone could do something as terrible as making a mistake.
“Understanding and acceptance, nature and balance are apparently not as intrinsically accepted
as conflict and hypocrisy, I guess.” I just couldn’t stop antagonizing them. Their
contradictive philosophy is way too deeply-rooted for me to let go. “What would you
know, you…you harbinger of natural destruction!” Someone shouted. “What does that even
mean?” I countered. “See, you are so separated for your natural order that you cannot even
recognize your negativity.” Someone else shouted. This time I did take the high road and
just shook my head. “How was that? Was that fun? Can we get back to playing Frisbee?”
Dylan questioned me. “No, I think I’m going to go back and acerbate the situation further.” I
said, turning and walking in the direction of the pecking-free-spirited-fairy-monsters. I
was, of course, flimflamming. I had no desire to pursue that banter further, or maybe I
did, until Jess walked-up, waving from just north of where my source of abrogating
entertainment stemmed. I waved back. “Hey, what’s up?” She asked. “I was considering
fanning the flame of an already semi-hostile situation. What are you up to?” I ask. “What?
What do you mean?” Jess inquired. “Nothing, we’re throwing the Frisbee. Did you hear about
the exhibit at the MoMA?” “No, which one?” “The woman who challenged people to sit with
her in silence.” “Nope, didn’t hear about it.” “Alright, well, never mind then.” “OK.” “Whore!”
One of the fairy monsters yelled. “Wait, what? Are they talking to me?” “Don’t worry about
it. Let’s go.” “What the hell did you three do?” “We’re living wrongly near their metaphorically
peaceful-ish existence.” I said. “Oh, OK.” She responded. Jess joined us throwing the
Frisbee. “So, what’s up with this exhibit, at the MoMA?” Jess asked.

We walked north and hung out on a bench at Literary Walk. Near the cul-de-sac a
woman stood frozen, painted from head-to-toe, and dressed as a fairy, she adjusted her
pose slightly, gracefully, almost unnoticeably; when an onlooker rewarded her finesse
with loose change or a couple of dollars, she would then lithely reach into a purse tied
to her belt, and, pulling-out a handful of fairy dust—with her lips furrowed—she
would whistle the dust towards whomever gifted her. It was fun to watch. On the
opposite end of the Walk a crowd was forming around a group of break dancers that
specialize, also, in various tricks. They annoyed me because they’re a troupe. It’s a
school of dancers that will organize in all the touristy spots concurrently, and they all
do the same dances, and the same tricks. They take away from any original artists,
musicians, and the like that would otherwise be there, but they’re not because they are.
Nevertheless they are fun to watch, once. Just the once, I reiterated that to my friends
every-single-time that we happen across them, which is pretty often. The four of us
proceeded to people-watch, and also to guess whom the New Yorkers are and whom
the tourists are. Several minutes into our gaming Yoko Ono walked by us, pushing a
stroller. “Was that?” Dylan started to say. “Yoko Ono?” I said, “Yes, it was, or rather, it is.”
I continued. “You’re kidding!” Eustacio said. “I’ve seen her before. We’ve spoken, actually.” I
said. “You talked to Yoko Ono?” Eustacio asked. “When my parents were in town, we were
walking through Central Park one afternoon, and we walked past this woman and her stroller,
either she or the baby dropped a bottle, and I picked it up and handed it to her. We spoke, very
briefly, and then went our separate ways. My dad was watching me stunned. “I think that was
Yoko Ono.” he said. We were standing in Strawberry fields, and were directly across the street
from the Dakota building, where she lives, so it wouldn’t be, you know, all that unusual. So my
Dad suggested that we follow her, and she was headed in the direction of the Dakota building.
Shadowing her across the street we watched her talk to the door man, and then go inside.” I said.
“You followed Yoko Ono! Creep!” Dylan yelled. Yoko, who was only several yards away
stopped and turned around, she didn’t say anything, watching us, only, for, what felt
like, awhile. We all froze, and took mechanical steps, like robot pigeons wandering
hapless in circles. A few minutes later Yoko Ono was gone. And the four of us took one
big, deep communal breath. Laughing. As we walked around the path that frames the
Great Lawn I ran into a girl I went to high school with, in Texas. She stopped and looked
at me, “Jonah!?” She said, I stopped, looked at her, and paused, I knew that I knew her,
by association only, but at the moment I could not recall her name, “Marylyn.” Slipped
out, I’m not sure even where it came from, her name spilled out of my mouth without
contact with my brain of any kind. The most extraordinary thing is that her name is in
fact Marylyn. “Hey…” I said, “…are you living here now?” I asked. “Oh, no, I’m just
spending a few days here with some friends.” She said. “Oh, that’s great!” I responded. “Do
you live here?” Marylyn asked me. “I do, yeah.” “Oh wow, that’s cool! What’s it like to live
here?” Marylyn asked. What is it like to live here? I thought to myself. Why do people ask
questions with no desire for, or the understanding of the answer to the question that
they’ve asked? She is looking for a simple, couple-of-word answer, or a sentence at the
most, to describe what it’s like to live in New York City, and that’s just not going to
happen. “Oh, you know, it’s great. It’s great. Intense!” I say. “Yeah, I bet. That’s a good way to
describe it.” She said. Is it? I wonder. “Yeah, well, geezus, it was good to see you! Right. It’s
crazy, running into each other like this in Central Park.” I said. “I know, right.” She
responded. “Take Care. Enjoy the rest of your sabbatical.” I said to her “Bye!” she says,
waving. My friends and I walked one direction, while Marylyn and her friends walked
the other. “That seemed kind of awkward.” Jess said. “Did it? Damn. I was hoping to play that
off. I couldn’t even remember her name. As I was saying it I was still doubting it, and even after
saying it I wondered where it came from. We didn’t talk in high school. She was always bitter
about everything, and everybody, you know, the type that is always angry, and as a result she
wasn’t all that friendly, to anyone.” We walked around the Great Lawn a few times, and
talked about whatever it is that writers, such as myself, and bookstore employees, such
as my friends, talk about. Sometimes, when I think about our lot of friends I wonder
what it is that keeps us engaged so long, the-four-of-us, we are good together. Dylan
has a girlfriend, they live together, she works a lot and, though we know her, we
haven’t connected with her all that well. One evening we spent some time with her and
Dylan at their apartment on the Upper East Side, we played games like Never-have-I-ever,
and, I don’t know, other similar games. We all had a good time, and it was at this
gathering at Dylan and his girlfriend’s apartment that everyone learned about Abby—
another friend that on occasion goes out with us, she also works at the bookstore—and I
making out one evening a few weeks back, that was fairly interesting. You see, Jess has
nursed a crush on me since we’ve met, but I don’t feel anything for her beyond our
friendship—she didn’t take the news about Abby and I all that well. I’m single, and
have been since my divorce a couple of years ago. If something comes along I would be
open to it but only if we have a real emotional connection, otherwise it’s not worth it,
not at this point in my life. Eustacio is head-over-heels for Jess. Obviously, there is a
great deal of potential for conflict between the four of us but, still, somehow we make it
work. “Has anybody heard from Sebastian?” I asked. “Yeah. Oh, God. He broke his foot. So
he’s been on crutches. He’ll miss a couple days of work, and then he’ll be at the Information desk
every shift for the next, I can’t remember exactly, 8 weeks, I think.” Jess said. “He broke his foot.
Wow. Did he say anything about what his girlfriend said, how she reacted?” I asked. “No, but I
don’t think they broke-up if that’s what you mean.” “I wish I could have been there for that.”
Eustacio said. “No, you don’t. You don’t.” I responded. “Where were you for that?” Jess
asked. “I was at the store. I was working.” Eustacio shared. “It was pretty crazy. It would
have been awesome if you were there for it.” Dylan jumped in. “Genius…” I, on occasion,
refer to Eustacio as Genius, “…Dylan almost got into a bar fight over a billiards game,
everyone at Brady’s would have collectively engaged in beating all of us if we had stayed any
longer than we did. And that happened before Sebastian both licked this guy and then
challenged him to race around a New York City Cab, it’s kind of a miracle that the night ended
as smoothly as it did.” I said. “Yeah, I would have loved to be there, for all of that.” Genius
said. We stopped at Belvedere Castle, climbed the north wall, and sat on the rocks. From
that spot we can hear and see the backs of the actors performing at Shakespeare-in-the
Park. It beats sitting in line at 4:00AM waiting for tickets. It is nice, though, to
occasionally sit in the amphitheater and actually watch the performance, but we had a
bottle of wine and some cheeses to enjoy while we listened, so the rocks, and the view—
of the Lawn—was exactly what we wanted tonight. As we left we walked throughout
Belvedere. On the east side of the castle Eustacio got it in his head to play: so he jumped
over a wall supporting himself only with his right arm and hand, but unlike the ground
a yard from where he jumped—only a few feet below the wall—at that particular spot
the earth descends by fifteen feet, at least. All we saw was Eustachio’s leap, and then a
dramatic shift in his facial expression as he disappeared below. We were concerned, of
course, at first, but as we peered over the edge and saw him standing there brushing
leaves off of his clothes our concern quickly transitioned to laughter. He looked up to
see us all standing there looking down at him, Genius grinned real big, and shrugged.
“I didn’t know the ground would be so far below the wall.” He said. “No, I’m sure you didn’t.”
Jess said, chuckling. Eustacio worked his way around until he was able to find a place
to climb back over the wall. “Are you OK?” Jess asked. “Yeah for the most part. My ankle
hurts a little.” “Not broken, is it?” Dylan asked, smirking.

Chapter III

As the shuttle came over the hill and into the valley that is Santa Fe, New Mexico
I immediately felt a cocktail of emotions. My first thought, coming directly from New
York City and having never been to Santa Fe, was where’s the fucking city, where is
downtown Santa Fe? The highest structure in Santa Fe, New Mexico is three stories high,
and from the hill coming from Albuquerque, overlooking the valley the city didn’t look
like much more than an abandoned Mexican farming village. I made a mistake, I made a
mistake, and I made a mistake. I didn’t exactly hyper-ventilate because I was in a crowded
transport shuttle and didn’t want to frighten people, but I probably came close. A week
ago I was pacing back-and-forth on the phone in my Bronx apartment making
arrangements for my move to Santa Fe. Almost everyone I speak- or have spoken to in
the last month has cited this New Mexican art community in one way or another, and
previous to now I had, actually, never heard of it. The shuttle driver made his rounds
through the city starting on the Southside, he dropped people off in various hotels
along Cerrillos Road heading north towards, what I suppose is, the downtown-ish area. I
was his last stop. Las Palomas Inn on San Francisco Street. The room was really nice; a
small casita: there was a full kitchen, a living area with a Keva fire place in the corner of
the room, and a separate bedroom with a queen bed. I could live like this. I organized my
things, dressed myself for the late winter weather, and headed East down San Francisco
in search of Santa Fe, it was nearly 6:00PM. It was only 6:00PM. The downtown-ish area
was half-a-mile away along San Francisco Street. Almost every shop that I passed on the
way was closed and aside from a handful of cars—mostly Subaru’s—I didn’t see a
single person. Not one. I stopped inside the Starbucks just off of the plaza and ordered a
chai. I made small-talk with the baristas while they made my drink and then sat at a
table against the wall facing the coffeehouse. My iPhone was plugged into my ears and
I was listening to a playlist I made for the plane ride, and stomping my foot in beat with
the song. The barista was cute. I would later find out her name was Ren—short for
Lauren, and she was studying at the local philosophy school, St. Johns. A school that
offered two programs only, Western and Eastern Philosophy. The curriculum consisted
of a book program, the students would read designated books on philosophers and then
verify their knowledge via a panel of teachers, and a discussion topic, preceding a
Q&A. It sounds like an incredible program. It wouldn’t take me long to realize that
engaging in any type of real philosophical discussion with any of these people was a
terrible idea, not necessarily because they were more knowledgeable—which they are—
it was more that they seldom offered their own personal insights, they extend only the
reflections of various aforetime thinkers. I couldn’t learn anything from them that I
could learn by picking up a book. Most of them were pretty pompous, too; which
annoys me. I feel inferior to people, a lot. The most comfortable I have been in my life
was with a group of people—of friends—whom were, or learned to be, accepting
because we all, in some way, felt a strong sense of insecurity. If I am asserting myself
into developing new friendships or in previously developed groups of friends I almost
always feel like a fraud, especially if an intertwining force amongst them is something
artistic or intellectual or specific—I feel as if I don’t belong. And when people that seem
interesting to me spend a great deal of their social time sitting around talking about past
thinkers in-between talking about how much smarter or better they are than anybody it
frustrates me, in part because that’s such a horrible way to behave, and also, in part,
because I want to feel welcomed. What would I have to sacrifice in order to be, for all
intents and purposes, involved? There is a parallel frustration in knowing that people,
all people, are capable of finding common ground, and can be friendly, and welcoming,
and accepting of one another, but they don’t because they also seem to have to exploit
each other to appear better, as if life were some kind of popularity contest in which no
one could ever actually win; and because I recognize this and no one else seems to, I
also walk around with an air of superiority, but I do not mean to, not at all. I think
pushing our intelligence on to people is as dangerous as it is antagonistic, so much so
that I no longer equate intelligence to ‘being smart’, or as a measurement of mental
capacity. Our intelligence should be measured—if we measure it at all—by how we
treat people. When I left Starbucks it was dark, the streetlights illuminated the city
street. That plaza coerced me. Almost every tree in the center of town was lit from base
to branch with lights, so I sat under the obelisk, and realized for the first time how crisp
and pure the mountain air was. Santa Fe is a high desert, over 7,000 feet above sea level.
I didn’t sit for too long, a few minutes at most, and walked slowly back to the hotel
room. I went back to Starbucks in the morning, with my computer, and researched
apartments. While I was sitting there I got into conversation with a man sitting alone on
his lunch break. He manages an art gallery on Canyon Road just east of the plaza. The
gallery across the street from his is looking for a marketing assistant and he had spent
his lunch recruiting for them. I told him I had been making a living as a freelance
writer: writing short stories for literary journals these past five years, but it would be
interesting doing the marking for an art gallery for a while. I was set up with a meeting
to be had with the proprietor of the gallery that afternoon. In the meantime I made a
few phone calls regarding an apartment in the downtown area. One guy asked if I
could meet him as-soon-as-possible, he gave me the address. I Googled it, the place was
three blocks away. I walked over there and met him, looked at the room—it was perfect
for one person, for me. A one bedroom casita at the intersection of Guadalupe and San
Francisco Streets, right downtown. In fact it was a couple of blocks from Las Palomas,
where I’m staying; and is, actually, closer to downtown Santa Fe. It was somewhat
hidden behind the Dinner for Two restaurant on Guadalupe. I would sign the lease the
following day. The meeting with the gallery owner went extremely well. It was decided
then that I would come in and take over all social media and general marketing, as-
well-as any photography work that would be necessary. I would be at the gallery five
days a week, and have to spend my evenings writing, but I didn’t know anybody in
Santa Fe yet so I wasn’t especially concerned with my social life. There would be a great
deal of establishing myself foundationally and financially that I would need to focus on,
as is the case whenever you move to an unfamiliar place. I haven’t been in Santa Fe for
more than 24 hours and already I am arrogating the marketing and photography fields,
and I found an apartment that people who had been living in the city for years would
probably kill for. I was feeling incredible.

A few weeks of friendly waves and hello’s between myself and my neighbors
built a rapport. Though we didn’t really talk at all. “Hey, how are you?” The youngest,
that I could tell, of my neighbors was sitting on her stoop smoking a cigarette as I
walked outside to get some air. “Hi!” I said, waving. “I’m Madison.” She said, exhaling.
“Jonah.” I replied, and walked over towards her. “Are you new to Santa Fe?” Madison
inquired. “Yeah, within a few weeks.” “Where are you from?” she asked. “Oh, I’m not really
from anywhere, exactly. But I moved here, directly, from New York.” “New York City?” she
asked. I nodded. “Yes.” “I’m from Maine.” “Really!? I’ve never been, but I’ve always wanted
to.” “You really should. It’s beautiful.” “That’s what I hear.” “What do you do?” Madison
asked. “I’m a writer, primarily. Since I’ve been in Santa Fe, though, I have also been in
marketing and photography. I’m working in an art gallery on Canyon Road.” “Which one?”
“Sun-Dried-Brick Gallery.” I said. She was silent for a moment, trying to place the
gallery. “It’s the third or fourth gallery on the right as you head up the hill. Native American
Historic pottery, and several paintings.” “I don’t know it.” Madison said. “What are you doing
in Santa Fe?” I inquired. “I’m an artist.” “You’re in a good place for it…this is a neat little art
community.” “I also work at Ecco.” “I don’t know it…” I said. “It’s a coffeehouse, across the
street from the library. North of the plaza.” “I’ll check it out tomorrow.” I said. “Yeah, you
should.” “Do you work tomorrow?” I asked. Madison thought about it a moment and then
nodded, “Yes! I do.” “Great, I’ll come say hello.” Madison finished her cigarette, as we sat
outside covering the basics of getting to know someone new. It’s strange, if you really
think about the way friendships develop: two people could go on talking pleasantries
forever, it is entirely possible for that accord never to change; you might see someone
consistently, and the two of you will talk, sometimes with a relatively meaningful
connection, but the conversation will always be defined by a single subject, whatever
subject it was that excited the connection in the first place. Or without intention or an
explanation, while you’re talking with someone there is a point during the conversation
when something clicks, and it’s not necessarily your connection with one another; and it
noticeable, it’s obvious, you can feel it; you might suddenly recognize that your
conversation has defused—in a manner of speaking—the exchange flows more
smoothly, and you might be talking so openly and so comfortably that the relationship
you shared with that very person just a few moments before has changed so
dramatically that the relationship that has developed is now resolute. My conversation
with Madison didn’t end that way, not tonight. There were impressions made,
however. In the morning I rode my bike up San Francisco, past the plaza, then I took a
right on Cathedral Place, a left on Alameda, another right on Paseo De Peralta, and finally a
left on Canyon Road, before parking my bike in the small Santa Fe style courtyard
behind the gallery; I have come to make this my routine as of these past weeks, the
whole trip takes no more than ten minutes. I walked in and sat at my desk, prepared a
few emails, a press release, and checked-in with the gallery owner regarding new
pottery or painting arrivals, and specials that I would need to photograph and upload
to the website and other social media outlets. A considerable measure of my day is
spent on Photoshop. I am designing and redesigning, I knew the job would be creative,
however I did expect to be writing more than I have been. And Tim, the Advertising
Manager—whom is also Adam’s (the gallery owner(s)) lover—is a real pain-in-the-ass,
he releases the stress of his home life—with Adam—out, at work, and often on me. It
has become a very hostile working environment, and he over-justifies his behavior with
daily manipulated negations: Tim is very talented at fabricating and designating
bullshit. The truth of the matter is that he is threatened by me, and he should be,
because I’m better than he is at his job, and I’m a much more sympathetic human being.
I closed down the gallery after finishing my work for the day, and following nearly the
same route I would take to head home I, instead, took Cathedral Place all the way to
Palace Avenue, took a left, and then a right on Washington Avenue; Ecco is, more-or-less,
on the next intersection. Madison was standing at the espresso machine. The
coffeehouse has that 1920’s Parisian feel, complete with black&white tile, the only
difference—I’m assuming—are the alloy tables and chairs. I first stopped and browsed
the gelato case near the entrance before I stood by the register to examine the menu.
Madison turned around. “Hey! You came.” “I came! Of course, I said I would.” “What would
you like?” “I don’t know, what do you think I should get?” “What’s your day been like?” “I’ve
been at the gallery all day. I don’t know. I enjoy the work, but I really can’t stand one of the guys
I work with.” “A reputed peaceful environment that shouldn’t be stressful, kind of thing.”
“Fuck. Yes, very much so.” “Haha. Yeah.” “I’m thinking an Affogato.” “Alright, an Affogato.”
“What kind of Gelato do you want?” she asked. “Oh, chocolate, yeah, let’s just do chocolate.” I
responded. “Chocolate.” She repeated. Madison handed me the coffee and I sat at the
table closest the register so we could talk. “What is it about this guy at work…” she asked.
I explained the situation to her. “When do you have time to paint?” I inquired. “I feel like
I’m painting all the time, I don’t sleep that much, paint at night, I paint all night…” she
responded. “And, then you come to work.” She nodded as she cleaned the steam wand on
the espresso machine. “What were you doing in New York?” Madison asked after the
squealing died down. “I was writing. I did work for a bit at a Barnes&Noble on the Upper
East Side, but just writing for the most part.” “What part of the city did you live in?” “When I
first moved there I was living in Brooklyn, of course. But I moved to The Upper West Side, just
across the park from the store, for a while; and ultimately I discovered the Bronx, and spent half
of my time in the city living in Parkchester, in the Bronx.” “How long did you live in New
York?” “Four years.” I said. “How long have you been in Santa Fe?” I inquired. “A Year, or
so…” Madison responded. I nodded.

“Do you like it?” I asked her “Yeah, I do.” She responded. “What brought you here?”
I asked her. “My brother came out here with his girlfriend, she’s from here, and he told me that
I would love it, so I came out to visit him, and ended up staying. The cousin of a really good
friend of mine, in Maine, came out here a few years back also, so my friend came with me. I
should introduce you to them actually, I think you all would really get along.” Madison said.
“Yeah, bring them by the apartment.” I said. “Why did you leave New York?” she inquired.
“Actually, I didn’t so much leave New York as much as I came to Santa Fe, if that makes sense. I
didn’t really want to leave. I guess, I just, kept hearing about this magical little art community
in the mountains and I thought I needed to check it out. So, here I am…” I responded. “And,
you don’t like it?” she asked. “I haven’t really decided, yet.” I replied. “Well, it’s cold-as-
fuck…” Madison grinned. “I’ve heard that this winter is colder than most.” Madison
continued. “I’m happy to hear that…and, everything closes at, like, 6:00PM, there’s nobody,
anywhere, ever, and I don’t really know anybody, yet. I think that knowing people, like, having a
core-group-of-friends helps things.” I said. “You didn’t know anyone at all when you moved
here?” she asked. “Nope, I’m kind of used to that, though. I’ve made similar moves in the past.”
I responded. “You move around a lot?” asked Madison. “Considerably, yeah.” I replied.
“Where to?” she asked me. “Um, California, Arkansas, North Carolina, Texas, Idaho, Utah,
New York, Japan, and…” I started “Japan!? Really?” Madison interrupted, and I nodded.
“…and now, New Mexico; not in that order, though.” I finished. “You moved because of
writing?” She inquired. “For the latter half of my life, my moves were because of writing, yeah.
California, Arkansas, North Carolina, Japan, and Texas were all because my dad was
military…” I responded. “Oh, I see, OK, yeah, that makes sense.” She said. “I pretty much
grew up in Texas, and during university I packed up and left, and just, kind of, ended up in
Idaho.” I started. “Just kind of ended up in Idaho?” she said. “Yeah, I started driving west
down I-10, eventually heading north-ish, and stopped in Pocatello, Idaho, stayed a few days, and
then I didn’t leave.” I said. “Did you like Idaho?” Madison inquired. “Sure, there were parts
of it that I really liked, other parts, no, not so much. I did meet a girl and within a few months we
got married.” I shared. “You were married?” she asked, and again I nodded. “For how
long?” she continued. “Around two years…not long.” I responded. “How old were you?
How old are you?” Madison inquired. “I was 22 when I got married. I’m 27, now.” I shared.
“I’m 25…You’ve lived a full life.” She said, and yet again I nodded. Madison was sitting
with me at the table now, eating Gelato. “Do you like to hike and camp and all that?”
Madison inquired. “Very much.” I said, nodding, and biting at the last of the espresso
mentioned chocolate gelato remaining on my spoon. “Is it always this quiet?” I asked.
Madison nodded. “At night, in the winter, yes.” “Still you stay open?” I asked. “We’re open
later than most coffeehouses downtown…” she responded. “Besides Starbucks.” I
interrupted. “Yeah, but we do get some late night stragglers, tourists mostly, or a handful of
people getting off work. The Reporter is across the street…” Madison pointed “…over there.”
“The Reporter? Oh the Santa Fe Reporter, the local alternative rag?” I confirmed. Madison
chuckled. “Rag…haha. Yeah. Have you read it?” Madison asked me. “I flip through it ever
week, yeah. I haven’t been too impressed with the articles. It feels, almost, like they are trying to
be controversial…and about issues that are, or should be, position-less.” “What do you mean
position-less?” Madison asked. “Um, well, I mean, like, taking either side on the issues they
print is meaningless, they create arguments only for the sake of arguing, there is no real merit or
point in having the discussion. It’s like getting upset about the color of the coffee cups at
Starbucks for political or religious reasons.” I said. “Haha, right. I see what you mean.” “I
mean, sure, it’s entertaining, which I guess, more than anything, is the point, but when the lines
get blurred between entertainment and policy, and it affects the way we interact with one
another…it’s kind of dangerous, you know?” I suggested. “Yeah, absolutely.” Madison
agreed. “Are you, like, one of those really political New York types?” Madison asked me.
“No, I hate politics, actually. But I’m not apathetic either. It’s just something I read and write
about a great deal.” I responded. “If you don’t like it why do you write about it?” she asked.
“I’m ashamed to say: it’s entertaining.” I said, and Madison nodded. “People don’t mind
paying to read some political essay; they’ve been very popular since Bush reigned.” I shared.
“One of our neighbors works for The Reporter.” Madison told me. “Really? They write for
them?” I asked. “Yeah, Andrew, he writes the music column.” She said. “Oh, no, really?
That’s actually one of my least favorite columns…” I responded. “Haha, really, why?” she
said. “Because he hates everything! The only music he likes is punk, and Santa Fe doesn’t have a
punk scene, at all. It’s all country, and folk, and Indie, and Reggae, there is no punk music
scene…it seem incredibly stupid for a local newspaper to employ a music columnist that hates all
the music in town…I think I’m more frustrated because I love music, and I love the type of
music that’s popular here, and I know I could write a better column, but Andrew writes it…” I
finished. Madison laughed. I growled, she laughed harder. A handful of people walked
in to Ecco just then looking for a Gelato fix and Madison stood to help them, I told her
that I was going to head back to the apartment, I needed to polish a story I was working
on before tomorrow. She smiled. Thanks for stopping by…” she said, “…it’s been nice
getting to know you!” she finished, as she gave me a hug. “You too!” I said as I opened the
swinging door and headed out into the cold. I would bike through the Plaza to head
home. The crisp and cold mountain air burned at my nose while my knuckles also
turned white and numb, I welcomed the sensation. I rode briskly back, thoughtfully
enjoying, for the first time, my time in Santa Fe. For much of the ride I stared up into the
night sky and recognized fully the clarity and crowded heavens above. As I opened the
door to my casita I thought about the happenstance, and all the little things that direct
us in life, how it is that we can be challenged with opportunity that will change our
lives so dramatically. I am in Santa Fe, New Mexico right now. I live here. I work in an
art gallery, in marketing. Not that long ago I was riding the number 6 train north
through the Upper East Side, through the Bronx, and walking a few blocks through the
heart of Parkchester to my 5th floor apartment. As often as I make dramatic changes in
my life, it’s never something you get used to, how different one day can be compared to
the preceding. I like my little New Mexican casita. I sat on my newly acquired World
Market love seat and read over my most recent story. It needed only minor editing, as
most of my work does, I finished it and would leave it open on my desktop for the next
couple of days until I knew that I could not feel any better about it. I then called across
the street at the Thai restaurant and ordered Pad Thai, browsed Netflix for the perfect
movie, and fated on opening a bottle of wine that I found at World Market on the same
excursion that produced my love seat. Madison knocked on my door almost
immediately following my Pad Thai. “Hey, what’s up?” she said. “Howdy, I finished my
story pretty quick, ordered dinner from across the street and started this movie…would you like
to come in?” I asked. “Yeah, I’ve never seen this place, and I’ve always wanted to.” Madison
came in and poked around a bit. “This is so much bigger than I thought, and a lot bigger
than it looks from the outside.” She said. “Is your place smaller?” I inquired. “Oh, yeah, a
great deal smaller. It’s just one long room…What are you watching?” Madison asked. “Good
Will Hunting, I’ve seen it hundreds of times, I’m sure; I was just in the mood, you know?” I
responded. “I’ve never seen it.” Madison said. “You’re kidding?” I said, Madison shook
her head. “Nope, never seen it.” “I’m halfway through it, but you’re welcome to sit with me
and finish it. I would recommend you start it from the beginning, I’ll bring it by your place
tomorrow, if you want, you can barrow it.” I offered. “Isn’t this Netflix?” she asked.
“Actually, yeah, it is, if you have Netflix you can do that, of course, but I do also own it.” I said.
Madison grinned. She sat down and we talked for a while. We connected pretty
quickly. Madison reminded me a great deal of someone I knew in school, one of my
best friends. We talked for longer than either of us imagined we would. Her phone
dinged, she ignored it for a few minutes, but checking eventually, and looking at the
time, threw her back. “Oh, shit, it’s 3:00AM!” she said. “Wow, really?” I replied. “Yeah. I
need to get some sleep. I work in the morning.” Madison offered. “Me too.” I responded.
“Right! Sorry.” She said. “No, don’t be, it’s not your fault, at least, not entirely.” Madison
left, and hugged me on her way out. “Goodnight!” Madison said, I responded, in kind,
and waited at the door until she closed hers. I turned off the Teevee and started getting
ready for bed. I lay there with the automated sounds of an ocean somewhere filling the
bedroom of my casita, and before too long my alarm clock started yelling in my ear.
Regardless I woke up feeling good, and ready to walk-out of my marketing position if
the circumstances called for it.

Chapter IV

It was something beautiful; it snowed late last night and had collected on the
ground. I was obliged to sweep it off of a bench before I sat. I did consider leaving
it, for a moment, to create the impression of a body on the bench, in the snow, that
would stay after I have left. The imprint might catch the eye of someone walking
by, someone who might sit, and retrace the effect, as we would often do when we
were children with foot or hand prints. They would laugh to themselves while
picturing a person sitting here just moments before, and they would invent a fiction
of me: who I am, where I came from, where I am going. Every so often a gathered
snow fell from the branches of the trees above, as if it were following people
walking through the park, they would pick up their pace, walking faster, so to stay
ahead of it. The tree above me is coaxing me. I can hear the wind bending the
branch, it is creating a mist only, whispers of a snow falling. I breathe in the frozen
air and am mystified, lightly until a crisp breeze grazes my cheek, and with it
imbedded memories gathered, and then reveal themselves as a wind, this very
wind—it began in the warmth of a spring day somewhere, under a tree lightly
feathered with lime green leaves, a young woman wrapped in a blanket, and
reading a book. The pages pirouette as the story reinvents our reality in recognition
of her fingers gingerly cradling the spine, the wind is inhumed between the pages,
and it is subtle, at first. The reader then becomes a part of the story, and as she
bends the pages more fervently a gale is released from the margin, developing its
fervor as it explores this fiction, eventually joining me here. The air in Paris is more
contented than any place I remember being, or perhaps it’s the measure of the
Parisian resolve. I feel less disquieted and I am inspired by this place. It feels as
though I am in Paris because Paris has fated it.

I spent a few weeks in New York City finalizing the sale of my novel, and
afterwards, instead of returning to Texas, I bought a plane ticket to Iceland. I came
to Paris by way of England, and a handful of tiny French villages. Before I left the
states I commissioned a sailboat to be built, in Hamburg, Germany, it was an idea
that was first imposed while I was living in New York City, flipping through a
book one New York morning. Sitting in the snow, now, in Paris the extent of my
efforts almost feels surreal. How did I get here? What am I doing here!? My musings
nearabout punctuate the resolution of a woman drifting in pleasance of the fallen
snow. Her hair, though, veiled is revealed by a single black strand, which she
neglects to brush abaft her ear, her eyes, also opaque, are powerful, profound, and
yet, comforting; her skin is fair, pearly even. She strolls, light-hearted, and satisfied;
her hands are buried in her coat pockets. « Bonne soirée . » She says, smiling. I nod
and repeat, « Bonne soirée . Comment allez-vous ? » « Charmant . » She acknowledges.
A marvelous rejoin: how are you? Lovely, she says. « Étourdissant. » I say. She follows
with an expression of grace. She sits next to me, pausing, also in consideration of
brushing the snow from the bench, though she resolves to bear the powder beneath
her. She looks so very much like a woman I knew, indistinctly, many years ago. My
cue, the subject of my remembrance, I knew her only as a character, a woman
playing a role. I thought for a moment off Cassia, I knew her also in the same
capacity, but I quickly brushed the memory off. « Pourquoi vos assis dans la neige ? »
the French woman inquires. « C’est beau , et se sent belle ! » I respond. « Oui ça l’est .
Mon nom est Amy . » Amy offered. « Mon nom est Jonah . » I shared. « Jonah . Oui ? »
«Oui . » « Voilá un nom inhabituel . » Amy commented. « Vous êtes Américain ? » Amy
inquired « Oui . » She shrugged. « Vous ne semblez pas comme un Américain . » Amy
continued. « Merci . » I responded, Amy giggled. She and I persist in dialogue for
several minutes switching betwixt French and fractured English—Amy cherished
the exercise—the snow gossiped in whisper when opportune, because the snow is
pleased with our extended presence, and I cannot say with certainty, though my
words may hint of woe, that either she or I were perceptive to the flurries. As guide
Amy lead me to her appartement where she firmly offered me a glass of
Champagne, while the Camembert is merely suggested. Seductive and enchanting
Amy is intentional in a rather avant-garde fashion—she neither illuminated candles
nor rendered song—we sit composed on her settee, the bedimmed city lights ebb in
the impression of every manufactured skin, surrounding. Amy postures with her
knees at her chest; she is barefoot, now. Her grey wool sweater slips from her
shoulder. A chalice at her lips, she sips slowly, as if in secret, and savors the wine,
and then she nibbles at the glass edge, with a simper. Staring deeply, within me,
and through my eyes. Amy speaks, and she does so childishly, elegantly—
somehow different than before. She is light-hearted, and whimsical. With a tender
percuss, as if displacing a tear caressing the cheek, I graze the smooth and pearly
skin of her shoulder with the wake of my touch. She allows her eyes to drift, as if
drawn, and she breathes, contented. As her smile effects the moment I hinder it in
the interest of a kiss, and yet I am taken aback. Slipping away from Amy both
physically and emotionally I lay to rest on the base of the settee and continue
drinking my wine. I imagine, only, the two of us in ecstasy, and before relocating
toward her chambers, I picture us making love, here, on the settee. Almost as
vividly as if it were real I feature myself exploring the compass of her shape, in
literature of the contours sketched exclusively for me. I know that in this moment
all I have to do is kiss her, and take her in my arms, and yet I cannot. I’m fastened
by the enfeebling of my past. In the wake of my angst it takes everything I have to
keep myself from paralysis. Amy searches me with her eyes. « Qu’est-ce qui ne va
pas? » Amy askes. I shake my head. « Je suis blessé récemment, je suis désolé . Elle était
abusif . Je ne sais pas quoi dire . » I said. « Jonah , cela n’a rien , il est seulement du sexe . »
Amy responds. « Je voudrais qu’il soit aussi simple que cela . » I responded. Amy only
nods. « Si vous ne serez pas me faire l’amour . Embrasse-moi , et ne laissez pas . » Amy
said, and I looked up at her, took her chin in my palm and kissed her, all night. In
the morning, waking, Amy’s warmth, inherent is withdrawn, she isn’t in bed, but I
can feel her close-by. I stand, inclined, in the doorway, watching Amy move-about
in the kitchen for many minutes before she feels my presence and trends. « Bonjour
! » Amy says, with a smile. « Bonjour. » I repeat. I am standing, shirtless in the
kitchen, Amy grips the upmost of my arm and kisses me just as a kettle whistles
with intent, and with purpose. We sat in relative silence on the terrace sipping a
petit-déjeuner de thé and peeling at a chocolate croissant.

In the afternoon, walking through Paris, a harmony begins to allure from

beyond the topmost of the hill. I step inside a café for a bottle of Boudreaux, a
chalice, and pâtisserie de before tracing the melody. On the meadow thereafter an
opened bottle and a sample I bury myself in Murakami’s Blind Willow, Sleeping
Woman: a collection of twenty-four short stories, of which I have always enjoyed
discovering, and rediscovering; the compilation is as much a manifesto, an
introduction to writing short-stories for me, as it is an open lesson in the human
condition. The softness of the shamisen—a stringed instrument from Japan—
peaked my interest and averts my attention amid a feeling of overwhelming
preservation as if I eclipse neither failure nor success, and remain, in exigent
validity, simply, me. The shamisen solo, between acoustic guitar, and Baglama
(Turkish) riffs, three instruments as contrastive as they are coequal, embraced my
soul, and I drifted. When the instruments are played simultaneously their
winsomeness is overcoming. It is a crisp afternoon, in the late winter; the pale blue
sky acquiesces the radiance of the sun. The song ends and another takes its place. I
am lost in story, and in thought, so much so even that I almost do not recognize the
oblique movements of a cat next to me. I humor her while I read, oblivious to my
actions while she purrs and paces in quick elliptical phases. I stop petting her to
bend a page, and when I reach-out again she is gone. In her a place though, sitting,
there is a young woman: she has short, messy, burnt sienna hair; she keeps a width,
which is combed down and to the side, a royal blue with purple roots, and tips. She
wears black thick-rimmed glasses that adorn her reflective oceanic eyes. Her
features are defined, stark even. Suspending my read, I rest the book on the
meadow, lift the wine glass and poise it beneath my nostrils, taking in the
stimulating aroma, then sip it, before positioning it again, though slightly offset, in
the grass. « Bonjour . » I said, she faced me, smiled and responded. « Bonjour ! » «
Comment allez-vous ? » I inquired. « Je vais bien . Comment allez-vous ?» « Je suis
également bien . Avez-vous arrive de voir un chat ici ? » I inquired further. « Oui ! » she
responds. « Avez-vous vu où il est allé ? » « Mon nom est Nekoma . » « Mon nom est
Jonah . » We sat there, together, for a bit in silence, while entertained by the music.
There was something familiar about Nekoma—something neither physical nor
explicable, even—she simply felt familiar. Nekoma was comfortable not speaking,
it seemed as though she was here, near me with intention, as if to bask. « Il est
intéressant qu’ils joueraient ici un jour croquant comme ça , en cette fin d’hiver , n’est-ce
pas ? » I said, after several minutes. « Ils le font toujours . Ils ne le font . Je ne l’ai jamais
vu jouer á l’intérieur ou á l’extérieur durante le printemps , l’été ou l’automne ; Je me
trouve sur eux par hasard , en hiver seulement dans les parcs tout autour de la ville . »
Nekoma watches me, she still does not speak, but does so warmly, and with
kindness in her eyes, looking pleased. I smile back at her. Neither of us feels
romance, or a sexual attraction, there is only a feeling of contentment. A feeling of
familiarity, of which I still cannot place. « Qu’est-ce que Nekoma signifie ? » I inquire.
« Nekomata sont lutins félins dans le folklore Japonais . » Nekoma explained « Ětes-vous
un pixie ? » I inquire. « Oui bien sûr ! » She responded. Nekoma has a small tattoo of
a cat on her left shoulder: it is pawing at birds, playfully, as they fly in circles
overhead. The brand shares the same shades and hues of her hair, I imagine that
the coloration of the tattoo changes even, with the colorant of her hair. At one point
Nekoma exposed a twig laying lifeless on the grass, picking it up she drew in the
dirt—pictures of circles and curved lines—designs that appeared to have meaning
to her but otherwise fustian to anyone else. She seemed so far away, probably not
even aware of what she was drawing, but it supplemented, in some way, the
thoughts spiraling in her head. It almost sounded as if she were purring, softly, to
herself. She stood and looked at me, expectantly: a request for me to follow her. We
walked together and commented on random insights the city inspired, laughing at
the stories we invented in effort to appeal to the others wit. We walked also,
without intention or discussion, in collective interest simply of walking together.
She sat on a bench in Square du Vert-Galant looking out over the Seine towards the
Louvre. « Quelle est votre histoire ? » I interrupt our silence with an inquiry. « Je suis
un peu un embléme . Et je l’aime regarder les gens . » She responds. « Un embléme ? » «
Comme un totem ; un reflet de soi d’une personne . Facile . » «Je ne comprends pas ,
vraiment ; vous êtes donc fait á ce sujet . Comme si elle était en noir et blanc . Se référant á
ce que l’on pourrait se référer á un profession : un enseignant , un pompier , un danseur et
un écrivain … un totem ? » In inquire. « Non, ce ne sont pas ce que je fais est ce que je
suis . » Several moments of silence are interrupted by a small greyish cat kneading
at my waist briefly before climbing off of the bench—Nekoma appears to have
vanished—the cat was strutting now in the direction of Pont Neuf, her tail upright
like a spyglass searching for something ethereal, I imagine. I sat a few moments
more and took the 11 Châtelet to Goncourt, then walked to Ten Belles. I ordered a
coffee and sat at a table, my notebook and pencil abiding; working on the likeness
of people passing by. There was a couple sitting at the table next to me, the steam
rising and circling from their coffee in manipulation of the likeness of a cat. I sit
back and reread the composition of my experiences in Paris, and as I reflect on
them I am intrigued by the styles that I have adopted as a writer. My writing has
always shadowed me, it has helped me to better understand and explain false
impressions or misjudgments that I have created in reflection of myself, and in
recent years it has been, more-or-less, my only companion. I extract my first
impressions of Amy and of Nekoma, and I find it fascinating reflecting on how I’ve
chosen to regard the encounters. I don’t think first impressions are as essential as
they used to be, it seems to me that the way we interact with one another has
changed so dramatically over the last ten years that people are running around
clueless, and actually it seems that the only generation that appears to have any
kind of grasp on anything, even though I think they’re just better ventriloquists
than most, are the millennials. The fact is that because our educational curriculum
is in contradiction of itself, which is to say that while we waste twelve years of our
life learning useless shit that serves little to no purpose whatsoever, we are
expected to entertain the next eighty years of our lives teaching ourselves, usually
fruitlessly, info that we should have been taught during those twelve years. I mean,
contrary to what we are taught in school there really is no one wrong way of doing
things and there is no one right way, life is not structured like a high school history
exam or a game of Jeopardy! Yet many of us limit our thought processes, our
decision-making and problem-solving skills to that particular methodology, why, I
wonder? Is it because we are conditioned or expected to, or perhaps it’s as simple as
the fact that we are never actually taught not to. We are subconsciously oriented to
act and to react in certain and very specific ways, and it’s all something we just do
as part of a coordinated system of consent. I’ve recognized the parallels between
how we interact with people and our formal education, and that lack of cultivation
as well as our growing inability to connect with one another has become something
of a personal interest lately: the fact that people allow the stricture of their
experience to direct their perspective, to direct their worldview…people shelter
themselves in ignorance like it’s a security blanket, and then openly criticize others,
as if they are omniscient, it’s ludicrous. Judging people based on your own
perspective, and your own experience is absurd; being conscious enough to
recognize your ignorance is not weakness, it is acceptance, it is the only way to
truly see another person, as well as yourself. It is inherently stupid to perceive and
conventionalize people based on conditioned ideology, based on the experiences of
your own life. It is not necessary to know a person’s affiliations or history as a
precursor—inasmuch as not knowing does not absolve you of reprove—it is
necessary, only, to acknowledge that a person has their own understanding.
Nekoma and Amy made me feel comfortable, I recognized, in them, what we are
capable of creating, and how we are capable of interacting with one another, as
human beings. Unfortunately it’s rare—few, and far between—it has been a long
time coming for me, meeting people such as them and, yet, here I connect with two
in as many days. Ten Belles is a comfortable little coffee bar near the banks of the St.
Martin Canal, near the heart of Paris. It attracts a younger audience most of which
are not as flagrantly engaging, though every one of them would be eager to carry a
conversation if one were offered. Somebody could write a series of books on the
mutation of personal interaction, and I’m sure, actually, that people have, or rather,
they’ve tried but very few people are either willing, or capable of recognizing both
the scientific and the emotional aspects of the way our interactions have changed,
they have ventured only to resolve one or the other. « Excusez-moi ! Excusez-moi ! »
A gentlemen sitting in a table just behind me shouting. « Oui ? » I respond,
stopping, and trending. « Vous êtes Jonah , l’auteur ? » « Oui . » « Vous êtes mon auteur
préféré ! Je vous aime êtes histoires nouvelles et courtes ! » « Oh . Merci , merci !» «
Voulez-vous signer mon exemplaire de votre roman ? » The young man askes as he pulls
a copy of my book out of his bag. « Bien sûr . » I respond, removing a pen from my
pocket and opening my novel to the title page. I left the States before the bazaar: the
circus of repute and acclamation. I left just after my book was released and in
riposte I did not go on tour, as a result I am a featureless forthcoming celebrity, so
walking down the street is, for all intents and purposes, uncommonly
commonplace especially for someone whose work has achieved this level of
recognition. Fame changes people, as I am told, and in part, I think, that it is
because fame has the potential to influence and restructure our routines. People
who would have otherwise kept walking will go out of their way to engage with
me, and the nature of the appeal is exclusive and intimate. I am the article of their
affections. So, my standards will obliquely change. The only possible means for me
to avoid changing, in a negative way, is to remain as conscious about the
presentiment as I can, my constant fear, however, is that that may not be enough.
And then, of course, it’s possible that the direction of the spotlight may shift, and I
may no longer be the object of admiration, and then once again my routines will
change, and because now my barometer has changed reversion is almost
impossible, in which case I will likely no longer recognize myself as anything less
than recognizable. Then again, I honestly don’t care about being recognized, right
now, I want only the opportunity to write, to support myself financially and
emotionally as an author. On the rare occasion I would Google myself. Searching, I
don’t know, for redemption of some kind. Of course, though, I never find it. I find
only the affirmation of my own assent. But because I have the means now to both
separate myself from the system of control, and to develop the type of relationships
subject to my own standards—I have high expectations and standards for people,
just short of demanding that the people around me are conscious and mindful of
their experience, but some people are just assholes—It’s important to me that I am
conscious, and understanding, and accepting of everyone. In view of my own
experience, being surrounded by people constantly, is reason enough to be good to
one another—but, I mean, what do I know—I am only one of the 7 billion people
alive today that are constantly bumping in to one another. It became clear to me
fairly early in the publication process of my book that I needed to be as far from the
circus as I could, which lead me here, to Paris. There are few places in the world
that aide in the intrinsic or spiritual development of a person, Paris is one of them.
Hemingway once—and forever—described Paris as a moveable feast, to me that is as
honest a way to speak of the constant and compelling dynamism that is Paris: at
feast, in collaboration, and engaged in a conversation that is as shifting, and as
fleetly, organically, as our affections—as much the same as a compliment can
become a critique, an insight an insult, and without intent or competence in
revolution replete we all (at the table) are once again, inexplicably, content. Paris is
the creation of our own respective experience: the day dream made corporeal
simply because it exists. On my sailboat I could disappear into remote and
concealed hereafters, where few people have met, favored to present, withdraw,
and again manifest wherever I please, but Paris…Paris is the conception of
sensibility. It is the Invisible City. Existing, inherently, as each express tenet will
allow, Paris is the manifestation of our own deepest confessions. Incidentally it’s
easy to get stuck here. Santa Fe, New Mexico was similar, in that sense, that people
called it a vortex. The city would draw people to it, people who were in need of
some personal refinement, the problem, however, was that many people who were
seduced by the promise of the cities enlightening disposition, once settled, then
believed that the move, or their presence there, alone, within the city, was enough
to acknowledge such a ripening, they never actually did anything to support, or to
improve their situation. People come to Paris with the same illusions. There is only
so much someone can do, too, but the purpose of places like Santa Fe, New Mexico
and Paris, France is to help commence and to encourage such a refinement, once
you have it’s up to you to pursue the development, and in a lot of ways, it’s better
to continue your progress somewhere else. So, it was time to leave. The clipper is
nearly complete, and Germany is contracting in foolish restlessness. Paris both
attracts and discards you with a seemingly calculated intent, regardless of how it
might seem, it truly is neutral, no matter how you may be inclined to accept it.
Fortunately I’m able to recognize the disregard for what it really is, and I make
plans for Brussels. So, now, in my final hours I stand atop the highest point of the
world’s most radiant city and demand recognition of the Parisian distinctions,
those articles otherwise commonplace only here, in Paris, those understatements
that are absent in all other places: such as the uniquely Parisian pâtisseries, the scent
of fresh French breads and pastries; roasted chickens; and the papetéries—newly
printed newspapers and magazines; while walking around and knowing that much
of the Parisian architecture is both versed and exceptionally unique; recognizing
that though I both understand and speak French being immersed completely is,
still, so completely foreign; and the city lights of Paris: draped over trees, street
lamps, architecture, and hanging loosely from pole-to-pole—there are considerably
more light bulbs encircling Paris than I could have imagined, while being mindful,
even, that she is referred to as The City of Lights. I will have to effort a great deal to
allow myself to escape this wonderful city. If Paris continues to speak to me
through Germany I’ll course from Hamburg in the North Sea through the English
Channel back to Trouville-Sur-Mer, off the coast of France northwest of Paris. I’ll
spend some time in Trouville because the commune is gorgeous, and then un-step
the mast in Le Havre before cruising back to Paris!

Tomorrow I will be in Brussels, the following few days in Cologne, then

Leipzig for—I don’t know, a while—I can’t very well be in Germany without
visiting Berlin, especially at my age, and eventually I’ll wander into Hamburg, and
retrieve my cruiser. This morning, withal, I am standing at Gare du Nord, and it is
phenomenal. Walking around the Paris Nord—the train station—I am
overwhelmed, it is beyond description. I bought a ticket for an early morning
commute, and yet I felt compelled to stay through the afternoon—after the alluvion
of light pours through the arched windows and the skylights basking me and
thousands of others, with warmth and recognition—as the sun first permeates the
massive translucent pavilion every single person freezes, as if they have been
renewed by the moment, the conductors, even, recess in recognition of the artistry
and the resplendence. My train skates up to the platform before the terminal is too
affected by the sunlit setting, and we composedly step onboard. It’s almost two
hours between here and Brussels, and I’m seated next to a window. A handful of
French farming villages marked the first half hour, and aside from nearing Arras
about halfway through, the rest was the French countryside, which is green and
viable, awake in a way that the American seams are not.

Chapter V

On the weekends I ride my bike to Aztec Coffee, a few blocks from my casita.
Since Aztec has reopened, under new ownership, it is without-a-doubt the best
coffeehouse in town, and one of the best I’ve been to—not only do they serve the best
coffee, but they have amazing teas, smoothies, and menu. I’m sitting here writing after
chatting with Krista and Kiara behind the counter. Krista and her best friend, Wyn,
stayed with me for a few days when they moved to Santa Fe, they found me via
Couchsurfing.com. I mentioned Aztec to them and within a week Krista was working
there. Kiara works here to supplement her life as a musician, a violinist/fiddler. As
soon as I met Kiara I was attracted to her: she’s tall, blonde, she has a great smile, and is
an amazing musician, but the most significant thing about her—as far as I am
concerned—is that Kiara gives hugs that are unequalled, the type that you remember all
day, that really make you feel cherished, that make you want to stop by just to say hi
before having to endure a day with Tim at the art gallery. I was sitting against the wall,
in the inner room, facing the forward room, and the bar. My phone rang while I was
writing, I didn’t even look at the screen before answering; it was all so very automatic.
Um, Alicia? Wow, Alicia, I’m good, I’m writing, it’s…I mean, it’s been a while, I’ve tried to get
in touch with you a lot over the last few months, I said. I know, wait, London, you were also in
London, really? Did you see…? I started. I didn’t say anything after she responded, I
didn’t know what to say. That’s a lot of information for me to process…And you’re in Santa
Fe, how long have you been in Santa Fe? You’re downtown, not far from me, actually. Well, OK,
I’m at Aztec right now, you’re welcome to join me, they have a great lunch menu, I finished.
Alicia hung up as I set the phone on the table, only. Stuck, again, somewhere between
thought and feeling, and trying to balance the two. I opened a new document and wrote
stream of conscious to relieve whatever stress, pressure, and anxiety that might be
developing. I was lost, almost completely, when I recognized the bedimmed figure of
Alicia in my peripherals. I took a deep breath and looked up to meet Alicia’s gaze. “Hi”
I said, standing to give her a hug. “It’s good to see you! I’ve missed you.” Alicia responded.
“Let’s go look at the menu.” I said. At the counter I introduced Krista and Kiara to Alicia.
“We were friends in New York.” I started to say, Alicia responded too “…we knew each
other in New York.” Alicia said. “We were a little closer than that, Jonah.” Alicia continued,
nudging my arm and smiling. Krista and Kiara glanced over at one another. “Really...”
Kiara started. “…and you’re here visiting?” Kiara continued. “No, I’m living here now. I’m
interning at Extraneous.” Alicia responded. “So, you two were like a couple…in New York?”
Krista inquired. I nodded. “And then she moved back home, to California, and then
disappeared entirely when she went on sabbatical in Europe, and this, today, is the first time I’ve
heard from Alicia in…months.” I said. “I’m sorry!” Alicia responded. “I’m sure you are.” I
replied. “You’re upset with me.” Alicia said. I turned to look at her. “I’m upset with you?
Of course I’m upset with you, geezus, wouldn’t you be? As close as we were…the way you
handled everything, and then you just bloody show up here out of nowhere and act like, what,
nothings’ changed…” I started. “…yes, I am upset with you, Alicia.” I finished. We sat down
after ordering. “Jonah, I’m really sorry. I do understand. I realized, over the last few months,
not having you around, how much I miss you, and love you.” Alicia said. I didn’t respond.
“How has Santa Fe been?” Alicia inquired. “At first I really didn’t like it, but it has grown on
me, considerably.” I said. “Why didn’t you like it?” she asked. “Everything closes down at,
like, 6:00PM, that was difficult to get used to, especially coming from, you know, New York
City, and I didn’t know anyone, it was cold, and lonely, and not what I had expected.” I
responded. “But, it’s grown on you…” Alicia inquired, “Yeah, I’m making good money,
working a lot, I’m accustom to the pace, and I’ve made some good friends.” I replied. “Like,
Krista, and…what’s the other ones name?” Alicia said. “Kiara.” I offered. “Yeah, I mean,
Kiara” Alicia interrupted. ”I only really know Kiara from here, I mean, like, the Aztec. While,
Krista and a friend of hers stayed with me when the moved here from Utah a few weeks ago, until
they found a place.” I shared. “They stayed with you? Did you know them before they moved
here?” Alicia inquired. “No. You’ve heard of Coushsurfing.com, right? You’re familiar with
the website?” I asked. “Oh, yeah, of course, you met them from Couchsurfing.com?” Alicia
confirmed. “Yup.” I said, taking a sip of my smoothie. “I’m having to get used to it, too. It’s
not really what I expected, either. It’s really beautiful, though.” Alicia offered. “It is beautiful,
yes, and more so now that it’s spring. The city kind of…woke up.” I said. “Lind’s and I, in
Europe…” Alicia started, “You know what Alicia I, actually, really don’t want to hear about
that, right now, at all.” I interrupted. “I’ll ask you about it, when I’m a little less…frustrated.”
I continued. “OK.” She responded. “Are you still running?” Alicia inquired. “Just about
every night…” I told her, “…and I’m biking, and bouldering.” I said “Bouldering! Really?
Where?” she responded. “There’s a gym, not far from here. The Santa Fe Climbing Center. I
have a membership.” I responded. “That’s awesome, I suppose I should get one too.” Alicia
said, and I didn’t respond. Krista laid Alicia’s plate in front of her and then handed
mine to me and smiled, “Enjoy!” “Thanks, Krista.” I responded. “Thank you.” Alicia
responded. “This looks great.” Alicia said. “It’s fantastic.” For the next few minutes
neither of us said much aside from repeating how delicious the food was. “Do you
remember that night we met?” Alicia inquired. “At Pat’s…” I started, “Haha, yeah, Pat’s. I
forgot that you all called it that. Carlow East.” Alicia said. “…Yeah, you remember Pat,
though, right? He’s one of the bartenders…” I asked, Alicia was nodding. “Anyway, you and
Lindsay were playing pool with a pair of guys, we thought you were with them, at first…” I
said. “Really?” Alicia asked. “Yeah, you didn’t know that?” I responded. “No, they just
asked us to play.” Alicia said. “Right, that became apparent pretty quick…when you asked me if
you had a shot, and poking my head up to look out over the table, and after asking whether you
were stripes or solids I said…” I said, and Alicia interrupted. “You said, “Nope, you’re
fucked.” Alicia reminisced, while laughing. “That is what I said.” I confirmed “After the
game we asked if you and Eustacio wanted to play, and you didn’t, but we joined you two at
your table, and spent the rest of the night drinking your pitchers of Stella.” Alicia said. “That’s
right.” I responded. “I have never connected so quickly, and so well with anyone in my life.”
Alicia said. “And the first time we made love, do you remember?” she asked, I nodded. “Tell
me about it?” She continued “We were at your place, Alicia, on 85th street, making out on the
couch, and you asked me if I wanted to make love, and I smiled; you said, “Ask me.”” I said.
“And do you remember how you responded?” she inquired, “Yes.” I said. Alicia grinned,
“Me too.” “Alicia I had just gotten over you, here. And you just come back in my life…like…” I
said, Alicia interrupted me to say “I missed you, and I love you.” “I loved you too, I really,
really did but you disappeared, I mean, you didn’t exist anymore. Gone.” I responded. “Let’s
go for a walk.” Alicia suggested. It was nice outside. There’s a heavy crisp breeze that
interrupted the warmth of the early spring sun. Alicia took my arm, she entangled hers
within mine, and we walked a few blocks without speaking. “The moment I fell in love
with you, Jonah, we were in your apartment, in the Bronx, I was sitting in the living room with
Eugenio and Lauren watching something on Teevee, and you went back to your bedroom for
something, I can’t remember what, I didn’t want to be away from you so I stood and started to
head back to the room to find you. You had just left the room and were standing at the other end
of the hall, we both smiled and walked towards each other; when we were close enough to touch
you took my neck at the base of my head and kissed me, it was so perfect, like, a moment in
between, everything came together in exactly the way that it was supposed to, everything. When
you stopped and looked at me, I knew that I loved you, and that we were supposed to be together.
Do you remember that?” Alicia asked. I nodded. "Your eyes are grey’ing.” I said, Alicia
smiled. Alicia’s eyes change colors with her moods, until I met her I had never heard of
that, I understand now that it’s not exceptionally rare, but being there with her and
recognizing her emotions in so many different ways made me feel like I knew her better
than I have ever known anyone. We ended up at her apartment. “Where are we going?” I
asked as we turned into a large open gravel driveway. “This is my place.” She said. “You
walked me to your place?” I said, a little annoyed. “Come in…” she said, “…I’ll pour you
some wine.” I sat on a small chair in front of her Teevee that also overlooked her front
window. I could feel her walk up behind me so I stood, and she kissed me before I
could even take the glass. Alicia slipped her shirt off over her shoulders and let her
jeans slide to the floor, stepping out of them her eyes were as grey, or greyer than I had
ever seen them. Alicia wrestled me to the bed as she nearly ripped my shirt pulling it
over my head. “Geezus.” I responded.

I was staring up at her ceiling while she lay with her arm and head on my chest.
“What are you thinking?” Alicia asked me. “Oh, I was just wondering if I finished my
sandwich earlier.” I responded. “Jonah!” she said, pinching me. “I’m concerned about your
intentions, Alicia. I know you really well, and I know that you know that; and, something
just…somethings off.” I said. “With us?” she asked. “Yeah, there is something that’s not
right, and I don’t know what it is just yet. So if we are going to continue, this, with us, we’re
going to take it kind of slowly.” I said. “Really? Even after that, one of the most passionate
sexual experiences of my life?” she confirmed. “Yup.” I said. “Tell me you love me.” Alicia
said. “I have loved you, and right now that’s just the best you’re gonna get.” I responded. “I’ll
take it. So, we’re going to do this again? Together, us, I mean.” She said. I lifted myself out of
her bed and shuffled around looking for my clothes then heading into the bathroom. I
opened the door with my jeans on, my belt unfastened, and shirtless, “Probationary.” I
said. “Probationary? What does that mean?” she asked. “I don’t know, yet. We’ll make it up as
we go.” I responded.

A couple of days later Alicia and I were watching Across the Universe at her place,
and her energy, her mood, I don’t know, something was off. It occurred to me, in that
moment, that it had to do with her ex-boyfriend, who she would have seen when she
went back to California and then again in London, when she was there—he goes to
school at Oxford. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “How do you always know?” she said. “You can
read me better than anyone.” Alicia continued. “I don’t know, it’s always just been really easy
for me…” I responded. “So, what’s wrong? Is it about KC?” I inquired. She looked up at
me, with surprise, and with worry behind her eyes. Alicia nodded. “Yes.” “You two got
back together when you saw him in California, didn’t you?” I said. “Yes.” She responded.
“And, he thinks you two are still together…” I said. Alicia nodded, again. “Yes. Jonah, I’m
sorry. I love you, and this is what I want, I just…” Alicia started. “I’m gonna go.” I
interrupted, as I gathered my things. And I left. Walking home I felt strained, tight,
and…something else, that I couldn’t yet place. In the morning I woke up to Alicia at my
door, she had brought me a Chai—my favorite—and she wanted to talk. I didn’t invite
her in, instead we stood outside and I expressed disappointed and concern, but I didn’t
feel angry. Alicia apologized profusely and told me how much she loved, and wanted
to be with me. She seemed genuinely shamed and open about her behavior and her
feelings. I hugged her, and I forgave her, and we started over again, again.
Jonah, would you like to join myself and a couple of the other interns for dinner at
Cowgirl, tonight? Call me. Alicia had left a message on my phone while I was at work,
this afternoon. I called her back and told her I’d meet her there. I walked up the stairs to
find Alicia and three other interns sitting at table on the patio outside. “Hey, Jonah.”
Alicia said, “This is Meredith, Jake, and Matt.” “Good to meet you all, I’m Jonah.” I said.
They mostly talked work. Alicia was distant, and, something else, that I couldn’t place.
Afterwards the three of them left to work on some projects. Alicia thanked me for
coming and suggested we see a movie tomorrow night. I went home and sat outside
sipping on a glass of wine when Madison came outside for a cigarette. “Hey, Jonah.” She
said. “Hi, how are you?” I responded. “I’m good. A bit tired. Alicia’s not around tonight?”
she said. “Nah, she’s working on something with the outsiders…” That’s what I have come
to call the Extraneous interns. “I’m headed over to The Ranch, you’re welcome to join me.”
Madison offered. “That’s sounds great, actually. I’d love to join.” Madison drove. I sat in
the passenger seat and shared with Madison this feeling I have about Alicia, about her
ex-boyfriend, and about something being off, “…and I cannot figure out what it is, but
whatever it is I’m sure it’s just, I mean, she wouldn’t do anything to...you know. Anyway, I
haven’t been out here in a couple weeks. Krista and Wyn moved out near here, right?” I asked.
“They found a house almost right across the street. They’ll probably be there tonight.” Madison
responded. We pulled into the indiscernible muddy road that is the driveway up to the
Ranch, and parked wherever we could. At any given time there are at least five people
living here, including the air-stream, so parking is generally a challenge. Almost
everyone was sitting outside, around the keva, that Callie just finished building. There
are always a handful of people playing the guitar and/or the mandolin and/or the
violin and/or the Djembe, tonight it was no different, Krista handed me her ‘other’
Djembe as I sat down and I jumped into whatever they were playing. Madison went
inside for a few minutes and came back with two glasses of wine, she set the second
down next to my foot, “Thank you.” I whispered. We drank and made improvisational
music around an open Keva fireplace for hours. The Ranch rests on a hill west of the city
that makes up the western most enclave of the valley that is Santa Fe, so at night, from
the front yard of the Ranch you can see nearly the whole of Santa Fe illuminated by
street light. Madison plays the Cello; none of us knew but she had put the instrument in
the trunk earlier that day, so when she disappeared for a moment and returned with a
Cello in her arms we were ecstatic. Only one of us had ever heard her play. As she sat
we quit playing, waiting for her to impress us. “I brought this out to play with you, not for
you all.” Madison said. “Play something really quick, solo. And then we’ll all jump in.” One
of the Ranchees’ said. So Madison played. She started off slowly, each low lingering
chord echoed resonate in our ears, Madison closed her eyes just before bursts of
shattered and yet consistent harmony renewed the lingered drone, she switched from a
‘G’ to a ‘D’, and the mood immediately changed, Krista and Wyn and a couple of others
were on their feet, dancing. I picked up the Djembe and our duet brought tears to
people’s eyes; within a few minutes everyone who can play, and had something to play
was collaborating. I passed the Djembe to Wyn and picked up a banjo that was sitting
restless against a log behind me. This moment is unrivaled; I have played music for
most of my life, and no experience even hints of anything as profound. All of us felt
connected in a way that only music can compose. A couple of people who were
engaged only by association either filmed or audio recorded the lengthy and
heartrending practice. Eventually, one-by-one we each laid our instruments down, until
only Madison was left, once again concentrated on the low and lingering ‘G’ chord
before she lifted her bow, laid the Cello on against the same log I found the banjo
behind us, and took a sip of her wine. We didn’t speak, for a while. I guess we had all,
kind of, said what we needed to say, we had exhausted our conversation in the only
meaningful way, and now were content in enjoying the company of one another, and
recognizing the ceding temperatures and cloudless starry New Mexican night skies.
Later in the evening we went inside, sat in the living room and talked, I was introduced
in a more cerebral way to Adrian: Madison’s good friend from Maine; Callie: Adrian’s
girlfriend; Ari: Adrian’s cousin; and, Logan and Jeena: both tenants of the Ranch. All of
whom are great people, they are easy to talk to, they are understanding, and they are
compassionate. It’s refreshing to find so many good people in one house. By the time
Madison and I had geared up to leave I felt like I could call any one, and all of the
Ranchees’ good friends. Madison was tired, I could tell. Our casitas are not far from the
Ranch, a couple of miles at the most. “Thanks Madison, have a good night” I said, as we
reached in to hug one another. “You too, I’m glad you came.” Madison responded,
smiling. I stood outside my door until Madison had closed hers then went inside and
dropped on my little couch, I was staring up into the darkness above as if I was staring
into the night sky, and thinking about the course of the night, and then I remembered
Alicia. I woke up casually the next morning, I wasn’t in a hurry to do anything, it was
Saturday, and I had decided to take a break from writing today. I took a walk through
downtown and sat in the Plaza and read, for a while. In the casita I worked on a song I
had stuck in my head, strumming and picking the right chords on my guitar. Later in
the afternoon I was surprised that I had not yet heard from Alicia. So I called her. Hey,
you suggested movie night tonight, what time were you thinking? I asked her. Oh, Jonah, I
can’t tonight, something’s come up at work. She said. OK, breakfast tomorrow, at The Pantry? I
suggested. Sure. Alicia agreed. 9:00AM. I told her. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jonah. In the
morning Alicia seemed flustered and out-of-sorts. “What’s been going on with you lately?”
I asked, as we ate. “Nothing.” She responded, coldly. “Movie night, the other night, with
the Outsiders…” I said. Alicia looked at me. “How was it?” “Why are you asking about
that?” she responded. “Alicia, I’m just asking.” I said. “It was fine.” Alicia opened up and
we talked a little, but not about her mood, her behavior, or about Extraneous Magazine.
We went for a drive and she turned on the radio, How Do You Like Me Now? By Toby
Keith was on. I immediately turned it up and started belting the song out the open
window, Alicia laughed and sang along with me. It was fun. She dropped me off and
told me she would call me that night. I didn’t see or hear from Alicia for over a week. I
called her one night and she didn’t answer. So I walked over to her apartment to
confirm a suspicion that I had, though I was upset at myself for doubting her, and
questioning whether my behavior was appropriate. Don’t go over there. I told myself as I
walked, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other to her one bedroom casita on Galisteo Street. The
lights were off. It was past 11:00PM. I knocked on her door and there was no answer. So
I went home, and I went to bed. In the morning I came back. I knocked on her door,
again there was no answer. At this point I was certain something was going on, but still
I doubted and questioned myself, and my actions, convinced that I was the one that was
doing something wrong. I looked through her front window. I have never been in a
position like this. No one has ever consistently wanted to prove themselves, and their
love to me while simultaneously behaving so bizarre. I don’t like being the jealous type,
I don’t like being put in a position where I feel stupid, or inquisitive, or uncertain about
something within a relationship; that is a form of manipulation and it is wrong. I saw
Matt, one of her intern friends laying on her bed, and Alicia was standing against the
wall wearing a shirt and her underwear, only. I pointed to her and then outside, and I
sat down on a stump a few yards from her door. Alicia came outside. “What are you
doing?” I inquired. “Jonah…” she started. “How long has this been going on?” I asked. “A
few weeks.” I confirmed. Alicia nodded, and she sat down. “Jonah, I still love you…”
Alicia said. I looked at her and started laughing, and then stopped abruptly. “You still
love me…you have got to be kidding me…” I said. She shook her head, “I love you…and I…”
she started. “Alicia…you are a bitch.” I said, and I walked away. The walk home felt
amazing, I felt free, I felt weightless; there was a burden that has consumed me these
past few weeks that had been lifted, and I wasn’t mad. I felt renewed. The only thing
that upset me was that I doubted myself. I refused to believe that Alicia would behave
this way, and as a result any questions or doubts or frustrations I had regarding her I,
instead, made it my problem, my issue, and that irritated me. Right then I decided that I
would never doubt myself, again. Halfway back home I found KC’s Facebook page and
sent him a message. I explained to him that Alicia and I were seeing each other in New York
City, and we have been seeing each other again, here, in Santa Fe. I had learned only recently
that the two of you got back together when she went home to California after leaving New York,
and KC, also, I’m walking back from her place right now, where I caught her in bed with, Matt,
one of the Outsiders, I mean, one of the interns she works with. Where she also told me that she
loves me, while Matt lay in her bed staring up at her ceiling. So she’s clearly delusional. I
practically danced home. A few days later, after an argument with Tim at the gallery, I
walked out. I was lying awake in bed, and staring at my ceiling, I was feeling perfect,
like the universe was finally working for me.

At Aztec Coffee I was staring at my computer, I had just finished writing a story
that felt like every other story that I had written in recent months. I’ve been reading
Murakami quite a bit recently, and I started thinking about my lack of surrealism or
magic realism in my scribble. It’s a direction, a style, that I have never considered
practicing. I wondered what I could do to help me to develop that form as I panned the
coffeehouse, and everyone in it. There were a couple of familiar faces—familiar only
because I have seen them here as often as I am. I noticed a painting that I’ve seen now
probably a hundred times, someone local painted it, and is showing their work here, at
Aztec. It was dark and yet comforting, in a way that I couldn’t place. I heard myself say,
out loud, while trying to make sense of the soothed feeling that enveloped me when I
examined it, closely: It’s. Very. Surrealistic. And that triggered something for me,
surrealist paintings either have a very direct softening feeling or a hindering, almost
repelled feeling that shadows them. I Googled Salvador Dali, and specifically his
painting that first depicted melting clocks on an ocean desert, The Persistence of Memory.
I looked at the painting for a long time. I found the elements fascinating: the three
melting clocks draped, all, over something different—organically, and methodically
so—a large seemingly wooden brick, and the tree limb of a small leafless tree which is
apparently growing out of the wooden brick, and a creature of some sort that
resembles, in slight, the eye and eyelashes of a human face. There’s an overturned
stopwatch riddled with red ants also resting on the wooden block. What looks like a
granite slab out-of-place somehow alarmingly more so than anything else Dali
constituted within the painting. Two stones oddly placed. And, finally, the landscape of
desert, ocean, and mountain in the distant, but not too distant purview. I couldn’t stop
staring at it. It was overpowering and enveloping, I was in reach of, within this
painting, in a way that is both unmistakable and inexplicable, simultaneously. I was a
part of the painting; so I wrote it. At first it was an exercise in a new understanding and
style that would, hopefully, expand my inventive horizons. I finished the story within
the hour, and revised and rewrote in less than a quarter of an hour. I titled it, The
Persistence of Memory. And then I researched, promptly, Swans Reflecting Elephants, also
painted by Salvador Dali. Again I sat there staring uninterrupted into this painting,
developing my own understanding of the contents, and intentions of Dali; almost more
so with Swans because Dali subsumed much more symbolism in this painting then in
Persistence. I also had a more personal connection with Swans Reflecting Elephants
because I’ve struggled, for much of my life, with the idea that I am not who I appear to
be, and the effort that I have put into peeling away those reflective layers has been
great. I’ve wondered, often, how people actively expose and remedy parts of
themselves that are unwelcome; so I wrote it. This story had the nerve to veer in
multiple directions, and I had a difficult time keeping up. I finished my coffee, which
has typically been my que to pack up and leave, and today would not be different, it
was nice out and I wanted to get up near the ski basin for a hike before it got too cold,
or dark. Madison was driving Krista, Adrian, and Callie up the mountain, and she
invited me to tag along. She’s been trying to keep me motivated and doing things since
she heard about Alicia. I’ve explained to her that I’ve felt pretty damn good since that
ended, but she seems to think that I’m not being honest with myself. Jeena was at the
casita, also, when I got back, it would be a full car this evening. Adrian is bigger than
me so he rode shotgun while I scrunched in the back with Krista, Callie, and Jeena—it
was tight, but Jeena and I talked the whole way up, and recognized we have a
connection of some-sorts, we didn’t yet understand what that was, or would be.
Nevertheless her and I talked a lot over the next few days and even decided to
accompany one another on a camping double date trip with Adrian and Callie. The four
of us were also going to climb the Pedernal in Abiquiu, New Mexico. Georgia O’Keefe
often painted the mountain, along with her signature series of flowers. O’Keefe had
lived for many years in Abiquiu, on her property at Ghost Ranch. The Pedernal was
gorgeous, it’s not a difficult climb, but I struggled with vertigo, for some reason, while
making the climb. I have never had an issue with that before now. I was overly
concerned too about everybody else falling to their immediate death. Once we reached
the plateau, though, everything was fine, and it was amazing. The Abiquiu Lake sits
almost directly beneath the mountain, and you can see for miles-upon-miles almost
anywhere in northern New Mexico but being on top of that rock the earth stretched on,
unremitting. The climb down was fun, less stressful, and we drove to the Chama River
afterwards, and set up camp. That night Jeena and I discovered that our connection was
pretty sexual, and over the course of the next few weeks we realized that our
relationship was almost only, and strictly sexual, but neither of us complained, until we
decided that beyond the physical we didn’t share much and we should probably end
things before emotions got too directly involved. I finished writing Swans Reflecting
Elephants the night Jeena and I broke up—or rather, and more fittingly, I guess—
stopped sleeping with each other. In the meantime I had started working, again. I
accepted a job as the floor manager for a local consignment shop. It was directly across
the street from Aztec Coffee, which was a plus, and it was, overall, a really fun job. I was
beginning to recognize that my divorce several years ago, my relationship with Alicia,
and my relationship with Jeena had all, of course, affected me in ways that I couldn’t
yet understand, what was clear was that though I wanted to be in a relationship I had,
at some point over the last few years, or perhaps just since Alicia, developed a shyness
and when coupled with my inability to express, honestly, my feelings through my
mannerisms, kinetically. The work is fine, I don’t know that I really do all that much,
I’m, in many respects, a baby-sitter, but only for those that need babysitting. The owner
of the consignment shop never actually came out and said anything along the lines of,
you can manage *these* people, but not those people, over there but it was implied. I kind of
learned that the hard way. I really only walked around the store—and it was pretty big,
two stories, and several different rooms, we sold everything from apparel to furniture,
and anything you could imagine in-between, a slew of things you probably couldn’t
imagine, as well. I made quick friends with everyone, especially the women. Jasmine
worked the front counter and was the first to accept an invitation to come hang out with
Madison and I. Jasmine knew Madison from somewhere, neither of them could
remember. Jackie worked in the high end women’s clothing and jewelry department of
the store. She was stunning, Jackie, just an amazing young woman. “Ah! I got it!” I said,
I’d had a revelation. Jackie looked at me, I have been trying to figure out, since I started
working here, who Jackie reminded me of. She resembled an actress or singer or
someone, but it was imperceptibly, really, this mystery woman, because it is her
mannerisms and the way she speaks that strike me as similar, nevertheless it’s almost
uncanny, and yet because they weren’t physically identical it’s been difficult to place.
“What?” Jackie said. “Zoey Deschanel!” I responded. Jackie grinned. “You’ve gotten that
before?” I said. “Yeah, a few times” she responded. “Because it’s true. You two do look kind of
similar, now that I think about it, but it’s your mannerisms that are really similar, you know,
you’re energy screams Zoey Deschanel.” I said. Jackie didn’t seem too pleased. “You don’t
like that?” “I’d rather be my own person…” Jackie responded. “Of course, you are your own
person. But, I mean, everyone has doppelgangers, everyone shares mannerisms, and has
similarities with others; you, just happen to share them with a celebrity. You’d only be frustrated
by that if you cannot accept that we’re all connected in many different ways, including the
visceral. Speaking of, you look really nice today.” I said. “Thank you.” Jackie responded. She
did look really nice. I walked through the back of the boutique, upstairs, and around
the furniture, the pottery, the art, and back down the stairs in the rear where they
handle the processing for the majority of the store. Holly is the processing manager.
She’s great. Kind of a badass, tattooed from head-to-toe, she really doesn’t care what
anybody thinks of her, and her and I get along really well. We make each other laugh.

This has become my life, my routine: I spend my days pretending to be a

manager at this consignment shop, my early evenings writing, and my late evenings
hanging out with the Ranchees’; and, on occasion, actually probably too often, after work
a handful of people from the consignment shop would walk across the street to Cowgirl
and sit at the bar, and drink. One evening after a late afternoon of drinking, everyone
left except Jasmine and I. We wandered back to my casita, which was only a couple of
blocks away, and poured ourselves a glass of wine, we put on a movie, and we sat
there, feeling an awkward uneasiness, until, that is, I leaned over my couch and kissed
her. Jasmine and I spent the next several minutes making out with the movie still
playing. “We should move to the bed.” I suggested. “Yeah, we should.” Jasmine agreed,
nodding. We had sex, and then lay sprawled on the bed staring at the walls of my
casita. Jasmine caressed the side of my chest, and looked over at me, I brushed her hair
back behind her ear, and we had sex again, and then, again, laid sprawled on my bed.
Jasmines’ phone rang, it was one of her roommates, checking in on her. Shortly after she
dressed, and she headed to the door, we hugged—an awkward hug—and I reminded
her that I would see her tomorrow at work. She laughed. In the morning I realized that
she had left her car at the consignment shop the night before, and that I left her to walk
those couple of blocks on her own. Shit. That was inconsiderate, I’ll apologize when I
see her, though I really wish I had thought about it last night. The first opportunity I
had with her alone in the shop that morning I pulled her aside. “Jasmine, hey, I forgot that
your car was here, you should have reminded me, I would have walked you back.” I said to her.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot, too. But, it’s OK.” She responded. “No, at the very least I would have
made you a sandwich or something to eat on the walk back.” Jasmine smiled, and hit me.
“Dick.” She laughed. “Hey, I actually happen to think that-that would have been very
thoughtful.” I responded. “I was kind of hungry, actually.” She admitted. I grinned.
Jasmine hit me, again. Neither Jasmine nor I told anybody about that night.

In the summer a couple of girls rejoined the staff after being away for school.
They were young, and cute, and after my one-night-stand with Jasmine I was a little
over eager to continue with that little pattern. Only, I’m supposed to be “managing”
this store, and they were both employees of mine, and were both barely twenty years
old. When I was younger, just out of high school, and starting at university, I didn’t
leave home. I stayed in the same small Texas Hill Country town that I grew up in, while
almost everyone that I knew did leave. At the time I didn’t really consider how that
would affect me. I also didn’t realize how unwilling I was to take on the kind of
responsibility I would be expected to as a young adult, because mostly I was scared.
After high school I wasn’t ready to grow up. I wasn’t ready for anything, especially for
my life to change. So I did almost everything I could do in order to avoid it. I refused to
go to class at university, I developed friendships with people still in high school, and I
even continued to date high school girls. I had, in almost every capacity, expunged who
I was and I never actually revived myself. Instead I remained, for all intents and
purposes, concealed. And it worked for me, for a time, but only because I ignored my
behavior, my actions, and my reactions. I had convinced myself that if I remained a
revenant I would never actually have to be accountable or to be responsible, I would
never have to grow up. I believed this, unconsciously, for a very long time, because I
never really had to face it. For the last decade, almost, any time that I was in the
position to ‘work through things’ I reverted—as an alternative—back to being some
version of my concealed self, still always in conation for identity. I found myself
chasing these two young women, as a fly might chase, with annoying resolve and
apprehension, and they would react, exactly as they should have reacted to such
deportment, with prudent reluctance and pause. It made for a very uncomfortable and
irresponsible working environment.

While I was sitting in front of my laptop at Aztec one afternoon, on my day off, I
noticed, beyond-the-side-of-my-eye a woman walk in and claim a table across the room
from me, against the wall. I looked up and at her while she was organizing and
powering-up her laptop, she felt my gaze and made eye contact with me, smiling. While
writing I often approach topics that require me to research or browse the internet for
material, that wasn’t the case this afternoon, so when the woman across the room asked
if I was having an issue with the internet I couldn’t respond to her directly, and
honestly I was so enveloped in my writing that I hardly heard her the second, and
possibly even third time she asked. “Hold on a moment, let me check.” I said. I tried to log
in, but I was unable. “Yeah, the internet seems to be down.” I responded. “Maybe it’s the
weather?” Wireless internet in Santa Fe, regardless of where you are in the city, tends to
be fairly sketchy so when it’s overcast with an aroma of rain there is a good chance you
won’t be logging on. “OK, thank you for checking. My name is Saaiqa, by the way.” She
responded. “Jonah.” I said. Afterward I continued to write while she continued to sit
across the room from me, doing whatever it was that she was doing, for several minutes
more, however once the trace of rain developed into a spice that filled the café
thoroughly I could no longer justify sitting inside, not when Aztec had the perfect little
patio to rest, and to watch, and savor the rain just beyond the front door. I organized
my things to leave, and said to her, as I passed her table, “I’m going to sit outside to watch
and smell the rain, you welcome to join me, if you’d like.”

Chapter VI

At Bruxelles- Midi I gathered my bearings, stared up into the late afternoon

Belgium sky, and oriented myself. If I don’t play tourist on my first few days here I
never will, I do think it’s important to enjoy the attractive differentness of every city—
which is to say that, if you live in New York City you occasionally go to Time Square,
the Statue of Liberty, and The Empire State Building; in San Antonio, visit the Alamo
and the River Walk, in St. Louis, the Gateway Arch. Be the tourist, on occasion, and
don’t treat what’s unfamiliar like it’s an amusement park, people do live there. I walked
northeast to Manneken Pis, the metaphor is remarkable for the politically understanding
and accepting nature of Belgium. I didn’t think to take any pictures. I often regret, when
looking back on experiences, and realizing that I didn’t think to photograph it, having
not photographed it. It’s amazing to me that regardless how often this happens I never
learn. I think, in large, this is because some idiot decided to integrate cameras with a
phone, and I really don’t like phones, so I neglect my camera. You would think I would,
therefore, buy a bloody camera, but I don’t often buy things, and especially things as
expensive as cameras. Nevertheless the fact that I’m thinking about it might pose now
as that classic opportunity to buy a camera. So I amble into an Elak Electronique, scout a
few cameras and eventually buy a Canon EOS 60D. I walked back towards to Grand
Place down Rue des Peirres. The architecture is beyond astonishing; the lights. I was
lucky enough, too, to be in Brussels after they completed the flower carpet! I was now
taking pictures as if I would somehow find the time to blend each photograph and
reconstruct my experience as a still film; everything in moderation is considerably more
than just a ‘phrase.’ I trekked aimlessly until I happened upon Rue Neuve, the walking
street of Brussels, but, by now, I had already placated my overindulgence on pictorially
capturing every conceivable moment. I would look at, and dispose of more than two-
thirds of these photographs, I’m sure. This city is predominately French speaking, it’s
fairly interesting to recognize the familiarity of France within a more Germanic/Nordic
environment. In some ways it was pretty trippy, having spent as much time in France
as I have. After making a few rounds through the Media Markt, I walked up to the Metro
at Rogier and exited at Gare Centrale, walking past a Starbucks on Cantersteen I sat down
to people watch, and to write at Aksum Coffeehouse. The adventitious forest green facade
which accentuates the café, makes it stand out from the rest of the shops in the area, or
the rest of the city for that matter; once an old bookstore—The Twink Brothers Bookstore—
it is one of the most unique coffeehouses I’ve been to anywhere in the world. I was
inspired, and fell into a literary trance, writing until my fingers went numb and bled,
moments such as these are the reason I wanted to write. To lose oneself completely in
insight and creation, so much so that time, even, is as illusive, if not more so, than the
fiction that I write. These moments do not occur as often as any artist would prefer, they
are very few and very far between but these moments are well worth the wait. The trick
for a writer is learning to write well between these moments, and that comes only with
experience. As I finished writing I took a deep breath, a sip of my coffee, and started to
read:

I had been entranced with the rustic appearance of hard-

wooden floors and the berthed hues of an altruistic surface—
this is a staring contest, and I am comatose. An ember snaps
in the corner of the room. Looking back, and then down at the
leaf I continue to compose lines that had been caught bending
the page—words, a chronicle that now had little time for
structure or linearity; my imagination is over exposed, I was
drafting an account that was rebelling against the margins of
the page and becoming a channel of a portrait. First I was
forging a path, then bushes, a boulder, and a lake, the sun
was shining brilliantly with rays of gratitude filling the
sky, while reflecting, beautifully, the myriad of light. I
stare into the manuscript lost in some far-away opus without
faces or names: there are people—many people—walking single-
file, they are hand in hand, in bunches, without intention.
They wonder back and forth between the pages and in droves,
ogling the narrative with a playful lather and a timid
indifference, as if they were sitting somewhere far away
visualizing a prose with an impartial panoramic camera.

The portrait painted in my journal is a manifestation of the

world around me. The symbolized anatomic composition of stick
figures sketched simply as a word—the first word that came to
mind as they both entered and left my life summarily:
thoughtful, careless, arrogant, dogmatic, and helpful, et
cetera—words that have sprouted shadows of extremities: arms
and legs, with an intended direction and fervor. For many
minutes I sat staring down into my composition—a light
displayed on my design exactly as sponsored by some conscious
intent—it was like I had stepped into the composition;
although to try to describe this, something would be similar
to detailing the juxtaposition of water and of light and a
stick, refracted. The world outside of me and the worlds
within me converged, on paper.

The occasional crack of the fire and the flutter of lithe

wings lulled me further into verse. I looked up and out
through a window just in time to see A. Ginsberg—beaten and
naked—howl, before crashing on his Negro Street. Trying to
get his attention I left the composition on the table for the
next poet and I stepped out into the neon blinking traffic
lit streets, I dove into a passage of the masses, bodies
wandering hapless and with them I wandered until I was no
longer concerned with the dead poets’ blues. Around me I
could see only the colloquy that made up the description of
my surroundings. My world had become the literal
interpretation of my composition. People were—or rather, they
had become—as I had imagined them on paper. I wondered
through the city in a daze. I felt a paralleled space
existing within, or above, or perhaps slightly off-centered
from that space comfortable and familiar, as words took the
shape of their mutually conventional design, I stopped to
acquaint myself with my immediate milieu and, while leaning
on a precarious tree, the links—the letters—fell loosely into
an olio around me this was beautiful and terrifying to
witness; the choate and the connection, the imperfection and
the distinction the part, in a moment of abhorrent
brilliance! I was aghast, I was flustered and scattered,
while grasping at the mass in turbulent and scrambled
attempts to remedy the shattered tree that had been strewn
beneath me in the park. Passersby amused by my performance
stopped to express reprieve. “This colloquy no longer
fascinates in the expression of a tree; give it new meaning,
new intention, allow it the abstraction and the adoption, the
euphony and the juxtaposition…” They offered nothing else and
continued on their walk. “Wait! Is the contract mine to
rebuild? Or will the words discover the means to do so on
their own?” There was no answer, no whispers in response. I
noticed then several letters had escaped from the pastiche;
they settled each, to ascend and then, of course, to evanesce
into the cerulean sky a prism of acceptance framed the city
and then eventually absolved upon the onlookers below.

An alphabet, in the reflection of art of course will be

fashioned exactly as the letters intend whether designed or
left to fulfill their own purpose. I watched in flabbergast
and in awe at an outline created exactly as the expressed
letters saw fit. Returning my gaze to the fallen tree I found
the letters of juxtaposition gone, and what remained were the
letters only that made up the word euphony. I stood a moment
watching as the letters lay perfectly still beneath a tree
that had been cut, pasted, and repasted. I walked towards
and, while standing above them, the letters became a part of
me, dissolving a proxy that only such harmony could replace.
During the walk home I felt accomplished and fulfilled;
though not without regard to the untrained archetype that was
my new reality. In the evening the fading sunlight reflected
the rose tinted high-rise outside my window, creating a
crystallized kaleidoscope verve and as if by design or simply
by happenstance the cooperation of abstraction, of adoption,
 of acceptance and of juxtaposition revealed itself in the
composition before me.

I looked up, and out the window as a pack of child-sized Smurfs run past the
coffeehouse, the pother lasted only as long as it took me to remember that the
Smurfs were actually created here in Belgium, and therefore the performance no
longer seemed out-of-place, I suppose. A man with a comfortable presence,
someone who seems to flow ethereally through life, sat down at the table with me
and asked me what I do. I explained to him that I’m an author to which he
immediately inquired, of course, on what I write? Fiction, I said, and he continued
on to inquire about the type of fiction I write, though, he must have felt my
energy—as I have mentioned I greatly dislike the question—because he interrupted
himself to ask whether I write in an American style, Middle Eastern, Asian, etc.,
and the distinction surprised me. The question relayed an understanding and an
appreciation for literature that many people cannot relate to. I was taken aback, and
therefore excited to continue talking with him about writing, and literature, now
that I have actually come across a human being who could recognize the
distinctions of style. Of course, though, this guy had to ruin this moment by
switching from one topic to another with only minor bridges between; before too
long we were talking about the first guy who built a battery—I was completely
lost—instead of redirecting the conversation I recognized that, for whatever reason,
he needed to talk about something intrinsic, and that he directed the conversation
this way for personal reasons. I did a lot of smiling and a lot of head nodding, he
seemed pleased. And then he left. I suddenly felt like meditating, actively. The
energy surrounding me felt stagnant and bordering on negative. I’ve been walking
all day, and had little interest in continuing to walk, besides unless I walked in
circles I would find myself in a part of the city that I wasn’t prepared to be in. At
some point this afternoon I walked by a climbing wall, and I don’t think it’s all that
far from here; Terres Neuves. It’s been a few months since I’ve climbed or bouldered,
and it sounded extremely appealing. I found it and was pleased to discover that
they charge less than $11 for a day, plus rentals. So I took them up on their offer.
My first real experience climbing came about while living in Santa Fe, New Mexico,
the gym there is small but challenging, and routes are constantly evolving. One
summer a pair of friends: Wyn and Krista and I drove down to Las Cruces to
boulder near White Sands. We stayed with a young couple we met through
couchsurfing.com and spent the better part of three days bouldering. I did climb a
little while at a summer camp in Wimberley, Texas when I was young; we made a
trip to Enchanted Rock near Fredericksburg, Texas to boulder one afternoon; while
we were there my climbing partner brushed a tiny tree growing from a crack in the
surface of the rock with his foot, bending it much like you would if you were
considering launching something, or someone from the tip towards an undisclosed
distance, only he wasn’t launching anything, and the only object anywhere near the
tiny tree growing from a crack in the surface of the rock was my face, so when my
climbing partner moved his leg the tiny tree catapulted towards my face at an
alarming speed, tearing the skin of my cheek from bone. That was a long time ago,
and the remnants, of which, is an inch long scar that could be mistaken for a
dimple, it’s almost altogether unnoticeable when I have a beard. Hanging upside-
down this afternoon while clinching the metolius grips with my toes and fingertips
at Terres Neuves triggered the memories of Las Cruces, Fredericksburg, and the
Santa Fe Climbing Center. Terres Neuves is very similar to the gym in Santa Fe. I
challenged myself, and probably pushed too hard, climbing until I was unable to
hold my own body weight, climbing until I fell 12 feet on the flat of my back, on to
a crash pad, and lay there for a while looking up at the deserted wall above.
Someone at the front desk saw me laying there and yelled out, « Ça va ? » « Oui ,
merci . » I said, raising my hand. I was at the gym for hours. That evening when
walking back to my hotel for the next couple of nights, I passed a large cigarette
hanging in a window with the heading: LE TROTTOIR C’EST PAS UN CENDAR
(The Sidewalk is not an Ashtray), only Cendar must be slang because it doesn’t
actually mean anything. It made me think of a girl—more of an acquaintance,
really; I worked with her—when living in New York City, that had severe social
issues, she just couldn’t get along with anyone, and she was unable to recognize
that her behavior was mean, snobbish, or even abusive—I don’t know that
interjection has anything to do with anything, really, but regardless: one evening I
was standing outside of someplace with a group of friends and the girl was there,
smoking. As the slag waned and suffocated she threw the cigarette on the ground
and stepped on it, I looked at her like why the fuck would you do that? She stared at
me a moment and said, “What!? It’s biodegradable!” I looked at her, only, for what
felt like several minutes, and inquired, finally, “Is it good for you?” She didn’t expect
my question. “No!” she responded. “Then it’s not good for the earth.” I finished. She
didn’t say anything, shortly after she turned, and went back inside. I was just being
an asshole, I know, but I often feel obligated to reform people who are so fucking
rude, and equally as clueless, and unconscious. Nevertheless it is funny the
memories that are triggered in different situations. Earlier this afternoon I caught
the scent of something that transferred me back to another moment at that summer
camp in Wimberley, my actions, too, in that moment this afternoon felt familiar,
almost like déja vu. Those moments are almost surreal, as if I am not only in two
places simultaneously but two different times as well. In bed at the hotel I lay my
head on the pillow and allowed the nothingness to overtake me, where time would
be insignificant.
 Ixelles, Brussels is a mid-twenty-something’s to-hip-forty-something’s
paradise, and is somewhat off the beaten path in Brussels. I ate brunch at God Save
the Cream, as I came into the commune. Eavesdropping other tourists while they
create implausible comparisons between the food, the service, the people, and the
restaurants in Brussels vs. the United States. These people behave as if they are in a
simulation, and that nothing around them is real. Americans tend to perceive a
foreign lifestyle with the pretext that America is not only naturally and
unquestionably better, but more veritable. Geezus, this pastry is amazing, but, still…
the metaphorical beginnings of every conversation that I have witnessed started by
an American tourist. Americans have a calculated idea of how people should be
living their lives—which can be as automated as the belief that speaking English is
right, and any other language is inherently wrong—and if they don’t, then their
lifestyle is somehow misguided, or false. I love the United States and I always have:
the foundations of the country’s infrastructure both politically and intellectually
were stimulated with the understanding and the acceptance of all people, all
cultures, and all ideas. Unfortunately, though, at some point, somehow, someone
was able to manipulate and temper that process, and dramatically influence our
culture of acceptance, and therefore creating, as a result, something resembling
quite the opposite. America is like the popular kids in school: delusional to the
point of illusion, believing that everyone in the school is overwhelmingly
prepossessed by their existence when, in actuality, they are the laughing stock of
the entire school, at least which of-which was indicative of my high school
experience. While walking through Ixelles I discovered a place called Chess Café and
though I am not much of a chess player I thought it might be fun to get involved
with something that is out of my element. I decisively lost my first game, and my
second, my third was interesting, and it appeared challenging, though I do think
my opponent took it easy on me, and possibly even let me win, because I won. He
did seem to be genuinely shocked as his king fell though, as if he wanted to give
the illusion that the game was difficult, and then, without warning, I somehow
managed to overtake him. We played each game for coffee. The coffeehouse served
us our coffee, and allowed the opportunity to postpone payment until after each
game. Playing for stakes. If I had lost the last one I would have had to pay for my
own coffee! We sat and talked a bit after the game, my opponent and I. It occurred
to me how comfortable I feel talking about politics, and about religion, but if
anything personal comes up I’ll avoid it. I also recognized that I will direct almost
every personal conversation, regardless of whom I’m talking to, to reveal another
person’s triggers, and once I do, and that person begins to engage emotionally and
become heated, I inadvertently reengage to help them recognize the specific trigger.
I realized tonight that I’ve been doing this for years, and is only now occurring to
me. I’m not particularly pleased by the pattern either. People don’t often appreciate
that type of behavior from another person, especially someone they don’t know.
I’m sure as a result I have been painted, in many people’s eyes, as bombastic, as if
I’m feeding some kind of self-righteous agenda to cleanse the human race of
unconscious behavior one individual at a time. I apologized to him, and explained
that I’m not sure why I do that, or where I developed the pattern, but it wasn’t my
intention, I don’t think. It was unconscious anyway, which I suppose is incredibly
ironic. He said he understood and left shortly after. I remained sitting at the table in
front of the chess board. I reset the pieces and began playing myself. I overheard a
woman behind me talking about her Dom personality and how she stumbled into
the practice, it was a character that she had created, like cosplay, and she starred in
a video series that unintentionally became known as Sex Toys 101. After which
it, also unintentionally, became an “educational” video for young twenty-
something girls. Delila B, she called herself. I was losing to myself, I didn’t realize it
was possible to play a turn-based game in which both players could lose, but
perhaps it’s only me. I left after I lost. I owed myself a coffee. I walked around
Ixelles for a while. Tomorrow I’m headed for Cologne. I stayed in Brussels for
longer than planned. I don’t necessarily have a strict schedule to maintain so what
the hell, right? I’m excited to go to Cologne. I wrote a story several years ago about
Salvador Dali’s Anthropomorphic Chest of Drawers and the scene takes place in the
foreground of Kölner Dom, the Cologne cathedral, I wrote about it having never
actually been there, but the story was inspired by the painting more than the locale
anyway, so I guess it’s OK. Nevertheless I am excited to stand beneath the
cathedral, and to reference the painting. The story was published in an online
literary journal called Queen Mob’s Teahouse. I hadn’t thought about that in years,
the story, and the collection of stories. They existed as a collection I wrote inspired
by paintings composed by several well-known painters, half-a-dozen of the
paintings I chose were by Dali, and most of the stories in the collection had a fairly
large following. The last time I read Anthropomorphic Chest of Drawers I was doing a
reading, it was a fundraiser, at the bar, and there was a good bit of drinking. A man
walked in someone that I have engaged with in several great conversations at The
Evading Fowl—I had forgotten about him when I was asked to leave The Fowl in
fact, as a result, there were quite a few people that I had known who have since
disappeared from my life. He was a very unusual person and despite the great
conversations that we had his stories were incredibly farfetched, and collectively
made little to no sense whatsoever. For example, he prides himself on his education
and his intelligence, looking for any excuse available to footnote his association
with Mensa, however he works as a cashier at the nearest Walmart; granted this
alone is not enough to question or doubt the truth behind his intention, of all
people I understand that we work menial jobs in order to supplement our passion,
and our lives. I get it. However he has no passion, he does nothing outside of
cashiering, and engaging in conversation with people that he also subtly belittles in
small bars and restaurants throughout the Texas Hill Country. Intelligence goes
beyond our capacity for test taking and any truly intelligent human being would
understand that, just as an intelligent person would understand that we have a
responsibility to others, which he lacks. I have personally witnessed him talk down
to, manipulate, and judge people based entirely on hearsay and gossip, and then, in
the same sitting, even—that same afternoon recalled in the bar actually—I have
overheard him express his “…deep, and astounding distaste for anyone who predicates
belief on another, until I have heard it directly from them…” needless to say people like
his frustrate the hell-outta-me, and if he is in fact a Mensa member it’s this behavior
exactly that supports and furthers my belief regarding how we both measure and
perceive intelligence. Gathering myself to leave Chess Café, and seconds before
standing, someone sat across from me and began placing the chess pieces on the
table. It was Nekoma. Her hair was different: platinum blonde, her eyes more
turquoise, they were considerably more auroral than I remember, her skin even
seemed more fair. « Nekoma ? » « Oui ? » She said, not looking up, still placing
pieces on the board. « Tu es lá ? » I asked. « Oui ? » « En Belgique ? » « Oui ? » « OK,
alors . » I finished. Nekoma smirked slightly from the side of her mouth. « Je vais
d’abord . » she said, and moved her pawn. Shortly after I placed mine. For the first
five moves we didn’t speak. Nekoma looked very different, and yet she felt the
same, she had the essence of Nekoma, of the person that I knew, and so the
experience was both comfortable and familiar, yet somehow different. “Brussels is a
great city.” Nekoma said, in English. “Yeah, I’ve had a great time here, more so than I
expected, I even stayed for a couple of extra days. Wait, you speak English?” I said, and
inquired. “Yes.” Nekoma responded, and continued, “You assumed I only spoke
French, and you never actually asked if I spoke anything other than French. Actually I
speak any language you can speak.” She finished. “You’re able to speak any language I
speak? So, say, I were to pick up Arabic…do you speak Arabic?” I interrupted myself to
ask. “No.” Nekoma responded. “OK, so if I were to learn Arabic, you would then be able
to speak Arabic?” I asked. “Yeah, exactly.” She said. “I see. But, how do you know that I
don’t already speak Arabic?” I responded, and asked. “Because I can’t.” she responded.
I nodded, only. “Do you understand?” Nekoma inquired. “Understand? No, no, not at
all. But I do follow what you’re saying.” I responded. “OK, good. It’s your move.” She
said, nodding. Nekoma was beating me. This unusual cat-like creature has got the
jump on me. “So, you play chess.” I said. “No, this is my first time actually. It’s fun.”
She said. “Is it?” I said, sighing. “You arrived in Brussels today?” I asked. “Yeah, just a
few minutes ago.” She responded. “How did you know where to find me?” I inquired.
“You’re energy. It’s powerful. I followed it.” She responded. “Excellent. I am glad you
found me!” I said. “I was just leaving before you sat down.” I continued. “And, yet you
said nothing while I placed the pieces for another game.” Nekoma saucily said. “I wasn’t
sure that it was you, for certain, you know; it felt like you but you look very, very different,
unrecognizably different.” I responded. “That doesn’t really explain why we stayed.”
Nekoma spits out. “No, I guess it doesn’t. That doesn’t explain, either, why you have an
attitude.” I said. “Tough love, I guess, I would like to see you follow through with your
own intentions regardless of the actions or interference of someone else.” Nekoma said. “If
I either needed to leave or had a profound desire to be as far away from this place as possible,
nothing could keep me here; as it were I don’t care either way. You sitting down was as
intervening as coming to a stop sign, or checking the mail on the way home, which is to say,
it’s inconsequential.” I said. “Then why say anything?” she said. “Geezus, you’re in a bad
mood. I said something, honestly, to see how you would react. And now I know.” Nekoma
looked up at me, it was the first time we made eye contact since she sat down.
“People don’t like that. Testing people isn’t very kindhearted.” Nekoma said. “Yeah,
you’re probably right.” I responded. Nekoma looked up at me, again, with intention,
and I met her gaze. “I’m sorry.” I said. “Check mate.” Nekoma responded. “Do you
want to go to a movie?” Nekoma inquired as we walked down the block from Chess
Café. “Sure, grab dinner afterwards?” “Excellent.” She responded.

We were lucky enough to find a seat at Noordzee after the movie. I ordered
shrimp croquettes and Nekoma ordered the swordfish á la plancha. Nekoma and I
were able to maintain a surprisingly interesting conversation; surprising because
we don’t talk about politics or religion, we just talk, like we’ve known each other
our entire lives. We don’t talk about people: our ideas are fluent and organic
enough to flow and change and develop on their own, throughout conversation, it’s
like nothing that I have ever experienced before, so organically, and with someone I
have only just met at least. We do know each other extremely well. I don’t
necessarily mean that I could list her interests and disinterests from the top of my
head like names or dates, Nekoma and I are comfortable with one another, and
familiar with one another in a way that only develops through interest in, effort,
and time spent, only we never actually spent that time together. We have the type
of relationship that I dreamed of having with a lover, less the express
understanding and conversation unique to a romantic couple. Noordzee is relatively
small. Several people surrounding our table voluntarily engaged with us in
conversation, and before too long half the café was involved. We were talking
about the subtle differences between groups of people living in the states, in France,
and in Belgium—we are trying to understand, specifically, an event, or events, that
help fiat a person’s individual understanding and perspectives; and further, how
people recognize those understandings—whether they are conscious of certain
specifics; and further even, how they feel about them—whether they perceive them
as inherently positive or negative, and how that affects their moods. It was actually
a fairly intense conversation to have with strangers, in a restaurant, in the heart of
Brussels. One of the most fascinating things, for me, about this type of conversation
is discovering how many people share remarkably similar insights and
perspectives, and yet we all individually assume that people feel differently than
us, we believe that our own insights are inferior so we collectively attach ourselves
to a context antithetically different, contradictory even in order to protect ourselves
emotionally from feeling different. The most confounding thing to me is that
generally we have become so comfortable with this delusion that we are nearly
incapable of separating ourselves from the delusion, from our well-established
belief that, individually, our insights are second-rate; we collectively accede to
understandings that very few of us actually personally believe, because we all
simply accept some false actual truth as contrary to our inherent truth. Nekoma
vanished at some point in the conversation. “Where’d your girlfriend go?” Someone
at the table next to me asked, in French. I looked around. “I’m not sure, and she isn’t
my girlfriend.” I responded, also in French. “She does have a tendency to disappear.” We
continued talking for a while, several people both came and went, people who had
a considerable amount to offer, and to gain.

Chapter VII

We ate dinner at a restaurant in Union Square. An old friend of mine from Utah
texted me just as we took our seats.
Hey! I’m in New York! Just leaving Trader Joe’s. Are you free for dinner?
“Hey, a friend of mine from Salt Lake is in town, she’s asking about dinner. Would
anyone mind if she joined us?” I asked. “Who is she?” Jess asked. “Her name is Marissa. We
met at the SLC library shortly before I left, but our friendship developed pretty rapidly. She’s
great.” I responded. “Was there anything between you two?” Jess continued. “There might
have been, probably, yes. After Carissa and I separated, and if I had stayed in Salt Lake.” I said.
“I think she should come out, yeah!” Eustacio said. “I agree, tell her to come.” Dylan
seconded. “Fine.” Jess seceded. “She’s at Trader Joe’s, so she’s just around the corner.” I
said. I texted Marissa and told her that we were just on the opposite end of Union
Square, and that she is welcome to join us. Marissa and I had hugged and I was making
introductions within minutes of our text. Jess was slightly off-putting. Our conversation
was both interesting and awkward, simultaneously. Marissa drank way too much. She
was getting calls from the friend she was staying with in Brooklyn about coming back,
but she didn’t want to leave here, still she had way too much to drink and we all
thought it would be a good idea. I, of course, offered to escort her back. “I’ll be right
back.” I said to my friends while supporting Marissa as she walked out of the restaurant.
In the subway we stood, facing one another, she was looking at me. “I miss you.”
Marissa said. “I miss you, too.” I responded. “I didn’t want you to leave. It made me sad, I
thought we’d be…could, that we could be together.” Marissa was slurring a great deal of her
language. She looked at me. Wanting me to kiss her. I didn’t. Despite wanting very
much to kiss her. We did clearly have a connection, but making any kind of a move
now concerned me because, I mean, she didn’t live in the City, and she’s really drunk.
So, instead, I walked her to the apartment, only. A friend of the friend Marissa was
staying with was on the street waiting for her. As I walked away I noticed out-of-the-
corner-of-my-eye the guy took advantage of her being drunk, and he kissed her, she
pulled away, knowing that I had seen, and called after me. I pretended like I didn’t hear
her. I’m not sure why I did that. On the subway home I doubted myself, I even
considered going back. But, I didn’t. When I was above ground again at Union Square a
text that Jess had sent several minutes ago finally came through: they were all tired, and
had decided to leave. I don’t think they expected me back. Also, at some point between
my leaving with Marissa and now, Jess and Genius started dating. Strange. I decided to
walk. It was a warm and fairly damp night. I had been feeling a consistent fog
sheltering my brain, following, I’m sure, my qualified sleep patterns. The fogginess is
more notable when I’m alone, and walking now, knowing also that I have nowhere in-
particular to be, the fog feels heavier than usual. I wandered, killing time, and
observing the differences in the people that are out and about now and those whom
were marching with purpose earlier. People ambled more after dark. Purpose, it would
seem, and indifference, have disappeared with the sun. Just ahead of me was Grand
Central Station, it startled me how quickly I walked 25 blocks, especially without
intention. I pictured the station, the layout, and wondered where the most secluded
place to sleep would be. Opening the southeastern door to Grand Central a crisp, very
cold air rushed out into the street, I was overcome with rigor, it gave me the chills, and
it was almost too cold to imagine sleeping here but at least it was dry, and there would
be a roof over my head. After wandering through the station, peaking at the corners,
looking for a place to hide I took the escalator to the deepest most platform, and found a
corner next to a utility closet—it was locked, shame. That would have been perfect. On
the ground I curled into the fetal position and fell asleep, quicker than I imagined I
would, I know this only because a few hours later I woke to a pair of cops kicking me,
and yelling at me to leave. “You can’t stay here!” They shouted. I was groggy, and it took
me a few moments to orient myself, and to recognize that I was asleep on the floor in
Grand Central Station. “OK, OK. OK. I’m leaving. I’m leaving.” I said. It was 4:00AM. I
figured I could walk towards 86th street, to the bookstore, I would get there right about
the time that someone would be arriving to prepare for opening. So I walked, again. It
was surprising to me how many people were walking around Lexington Ave. at 4 in the
morning. The morning air was much cooler than before, and still damp. Uncomfortable.
The fog surrounding my brain was now heavier, and it felt restraining, like my focus,
and my understanding of absoluteness had been imprisoned. My consciousness was as
exempt of my bodily frame as possible while still interred. Distinguishing myself from
spirit had never been so apparent. I was happening along, unaffected, as an esoteric
being enveloped by, and immersed within a corporeal, a physical world. As a sliver of
light developed, grew, and began to reflect off the steel and glass buildings around me
my perspective, and my reality started to return to normal, or at the very least one more
familiar. When I got to the store the door was locked and there were no lights to suggest
that anyone was there, so I sat on ground, next to the door, and waited. “Geezus, Jonah,
what the hell are you doing here?” Laurel asked, as she walked up, and unlocked the door.
“I got kicked out of Grand Central Station, I didn’t really have anywhere else to go.” I said.
“How long have you been here?” Laurel asked. “I only just got here. I walked from Grand
Central.” “You walked here?” she asked. “How long did that take you?” She inquired. “I
started walking as soon as they woke me up, and kicked me out. It was around 4:00.” I said. “4
O’clock, this morning?” She asked. I nodded. “OK, well, come in.” Laurel offered. “Thank
you. Can I help with anything?” I asked. “Yeah, you can shelve any books that are on that cart,
over there.” Laurel said, pointing. “Excellent.” I said. She went into the backroom. I
categorized and alphabetized books on the cart before carrying them in handfuls to
their prospective sections. I sat staring through a sailing book that was in my hand. I
had zoned out, and I was day dreaming, I guess, because I couldn’t remember what I
was thinking before becoming aware of what book was in my hand. I had started
thinking about the prospect of living on a boat. I considered finding a way to ship my
dad’s Catalina 22 to New York City, and to moor it in a marina somewhere along
Manhattan Island. It would be amazing to live on a sailboat in New York City while also
having the freedom to escape to my boat, and sail out into The Atlantic. Imagine, even,
sitting on the deck with a bottle of wine, passing the hose of a hookah to friends, the
New York City skyline adjacent, and the stars above; could my time in New York City
be any more perfect? Then I started to imagine what it would be like to live on a boat in
the Mediterranean. I set the book aside, on hold, with my name taped to it, and flipped
through a few other fiction titles that seemed interesting, I also set one of those aside to
start reading after I finished shelving. I was sitting on a couch in the corner of the room
when Laurel came out from the back with a till in her hand. “You’re finished?” she
asked. “Yeah, there weren’t that many.” I replied. “Some people would use half their shift to
shelve as many books.” Laurel responded. “Maybe, they are interrupted by customers?” I
said. “Still, you did that quickly, thank you…wait, did you put them all in the right places and
sections?” she asked, sounding concerned. “Oh, no, is that a thing? They actually belong
somewhere? Shit. No I just randomly placed them on shelves, as I walked by the different
sections. You know, if I got a strong feeling about a book, like it wanted to be there, I put it there,
just where there was room. Is…is that not right?” I said. Laurel said nothing, and stared at
me only. As if she wouldn’t put it past me. “Yes, Laurel. I put the books in the right places.”
I said. “What are you reading?” she asked me. “The Body Artist. Don DeLillo.” I responded.
“How is it?” Laurel inquired. “So far, it’s amazing, his writing style is incredibly intriguing.”
I replied. “Oh yeah?” she said. “He writes the way people feel, it’s interesting. I was just
thinking that if David Foster Wallace and Don DeLillo had ever co-authored a book, it would
have been phenomenal.” I said. “David Foster Wallace?” Laurel asked. “You…you’re not
familiar with DFW?” I said. Laurel shook her head. “You’re kidding? How can you work in
a bookstore without being familiar with DFW?” I inquired, dramatically. “I’ve never known
you to be an elitist.” Laurel continued. “Well, geezus, perhaps everyone is abstractly elitist;
because it’s David fucking Foster Wallace for Christ‘s sake. He wrote Infinite Jest!” I
continued. “Oh, yeah, I do know that book.” She responded. “Of course you know that book.”
I continued. “Geezus, man, OK. So, is there anything else that I can help you with?” I asked.
“No, I don’t think so, you’ve actually done quite a bit. Thanks.” I sat in the couch and read
through The Body Artist; the story was interesting but DeLillo’s writing, in general, is so
captivating. Occasionally I would read and reread passages simply because they were
so very beautifully written. When I finished the book, I closed it, and inhaled deeply,
Wow. I was so immersed in my reading that I did not realize that the store was already
open, and crowded with people. I collected myself and stood long enough only to find,
and sit down with another book. I started, again, the 1,049 page masterpiece.
I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.

I’m seated at a coffee house that you could miss if not for the rustic
metallurgic sign hanging loosely above the door; MUD, is all it reads. MUD is all it
needs to read, this is, in my opinion, the best coffeehouse in New York City. The
entrance, and the foyer are always full of bodies but if you can maneuver yourself
along the wall to the back room, you are likely to find a chair. The far back room is
square in shape, with rustic orange bricks, hard wooden floors, and tables in a
haphazard line along the walls. I’ll always sit with my back to the wall. Here,
depending on the time of day, you are likely to find anybody from young twenty-
something hipsters to forty-something hipsters, Yuppies to New York Tree-
Huggers, College Students and Black Ties’ who are sitting alone with a thick cup of
coffee and a salad. The ceiling—if you were to ever look up—is a large translucent
skylight, almost the length of the entire room. Looking closely you might, vaguely,
make out the taller expanse of the buildings surrounding the room. The sun, now
radiant, began shining through the translucent ceiling just right to fill the empty
space on the rustic wall with shadows and silhouettes of the people playing
themselves on a crested illuminated stage show; an act that is only slightly
translucent from our substantive reality; because we all knew each other in only
this way, as monotonic shadows on a wall, and we would play in sequence
showing nothing but assent on our contoured faces. The shadow of an elderly man
with a full beard walked into the room and sat opposite a female college student
who reading passages out-loud from the Best American Essays 2007, edited by,
none other than, Mr. David Foster Wallace. It must be some kind of a sign.

“…to talk to you like you…were a person, an intelligent adult worthy of

respect…”” She was speaking quietly, though out-loud, as she read, almost as if she
wanted someone to latch on to something she was saying and interrupt for the sake
of debate, or conversation. “…to try to be informed and literate today is…to feel stupid
nearly all the time, and to need help.”” I had my back against the wall, my legs are
crossed, and my coffee is in my hand, and pressed gently to my lips. I was
watching the elderly man, who seemed eager to speak to the young college student
and yet he was hesitating for some reason. The young college student wasn’t
reading anymore, instead she had fixated on a single word and she was repeating it
to herself over and over again, while occasionally looking up, but only slightly,
from under her glasses still waiting, in relative silence, for someone to say
something to her, at this point, to say anything. “...no intelligent man will ever be so
bold as to put into language those things which his reason has contemplated.” The elderly
man said, quoting Plato, and he was proud of it. He had begun to explain now, to
the young college student, that as a middle aged man he decided to go back to
school, and he spent a few years at St. John’s University in Santa Fe, New Mexico—
“it’s a philosophy school that applies a book program in which you read western philosophy
and employ your knowledge through conversations with a panel of educators”—the two
chattered on a bit about the school; somewhere in between and/or during which
time the girl introduced herself as, “Erica.” I was sipping on my coffee with my
elbows resting on the table, my back is straight and stiff, in minor pain, and my left
hand is holding my right while my right holds the mug, as if I were weighing it,
and I had my head down, I was staring at the grains, and the stitching of the table.
“Intelligence is wasted on the scholarly.” The two of them looked at me. I didn’t intend
to, and yet it would appear that I had actually voiced that particular thought. And
now I’m committed. “Well, obviously there are multiple facets of intelligence: emotional,
social, physical. I would agree; however…” The old man started but I interrupted. “Do
you realize that you’re just listing the varieties of intelligence defined and explained by
Daniel Goleman?” That sounded rude as it came out of my mouth, I didn’t intend
that, I continued, “I’m sorry, what I mean, is that intelligence doesn’t have a limit; both as
it is defined and as we understand it. You have to understand that emotional, social,
intellectual intelligences, and so on are not really different functions of intelligence, they
are functions of understanding and relating to how we perceive intelligence.” I finished.
“What do you mean?” Erica whispered, her head tilted slightly. “Well, just that
intelligence is consistent, it doesn’t change depending on our moods, or our individuality,
or circumstance. There is a standard. We just got it wrong.” I said. “Got it wrong?” The
elderly man, whose name I now know to be “Geoff.” Said. “Yeah, our intelligence is
not simply just mental or just emotional or varying degrees of each, or others, it is a balance
of. Balance is required in order to be considered intelligent, as well as for us to measure
intelligence. Erica…it is Erica, yes?” I asked. “Yes.” She said. “…Erica read a quote
earlier that implied that you are not a person unless you were intelligent. Don’t you find
that interesting?” I suggested. “…Talk to you like you were a person, an intelligent adult
worthy of respect.” Erica read again. “That?” she confirmed. “Yes, that…I mean there
are two distinct ways to interpret that.” I continued. “Two?” questioned Geoff. “It
sounds to me as if the writer is suggesting we are not people unless we are intelligent.”
Geoff continued. “Yes. That’s exactly what the writer is saying.” I said. “Well, wait a
minute…I…” Geoff started. “You read that and think that what Wallace’s implication is-
is that if you are not intelligent you’re not worthy enough for respect or to be considered an
adult, right?” I interrupted, again. “Yes. But that’s bullsh…” Geoff started to say, and
I interrupted, yet again. “You’re right. It’s bullshit. But, that’s not what Wallace is
saying.” I said. “What? But you-yourself just said that.” Erica chimed in. “No, the
implication is not that you are not a person, that’s ridiculous, we are all obviously people,
and nobody can challenge that. The implication is that of course you are a person and as
such you are unquestionably intelligent, do you understand?” I asked. “Maybe…” Erica
replied. “The emphasis was not on the word intelligent, as much as the word person. The
point is that all people are intelligent, that is what Wallace is getting at, and he is
suggesting that the definition of intelligence isn’t complete.” I said. “What do you mean,
not complete?” Geoff inquired. “Well, it’s like that quote: “If you judge a fish by its ability
to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.” Creating or separating
different facets or degrees of intelligence doesn’t make it easier for a fish to climb a tree, all
we’re doing when we do that, when we create different types of intelligence, is creating the
illusion of acceptance.” Both Geoff and Erica stared, only. The two of them were close
but not quite there. “Maybe if you look at it this way, so, the way we think, the way that
we have been trained to think is that until something else replaces an outdated or
exceptionally stupid concept we hold on to it, even if we know it’s wrong, right…so try
considering this: throughout your lives everything you know will change: our jobs/careers,
our beliefs, opinions, places and the people in your life…the only thing that will not change
is the fact that there will be people in your life; regardless of effort or intention this is
something that you cannot escape. Wallace also said, “…talk to you like you’re a…” see,
our intelligence should be measured by how we talk to, or rather how we treat
people, and react to people…” I said. “Say that again.” Erica requested. “Our
intelligence should be measured, entirely, upon how we react to and treat people, because the
only thing throughout any, and all of our lives that will never change is people.” Erica and
Geoff were thinking about that, while I continued talking about DFW’s essay.
“When Wallace said talk to you like you are a person he was suggesting that some of us do
not speak to others like they are people—therefore, suggesting that if you don’t…there is a
disconnect, a lack of intelligence.” “See, to me, that sounds a lot like social intelligence.”
Geoff said. “Again, Geoff, it’s an aspect of how we relate to, or understand intelligence. So,
of course, that is an aspect of, but you’re still relating it to a perspective of intelligence, a
perspective that implies that intelligence is, or can in some way, be divided, um, classified,
or assigned. Goldman’s observations and writings are brilliant, yes, but just because you
have accepted Goldman’s perspective of Social Intelligence does not mean that-that is the
only perspective, in fact, it’s even a belittling way to understand intelligence.” I continued.
“I do see what he’s saying!” Erica shared, with excitement. “No, I do too.” Geoff
whispered, “But…I mean, I guess…it’s just that…I…I…” “Yeah, one of your precious
western philosophers didn’t come up with it.” I said, recognizing it as rude
immediately. Geoff just looked at me, while Erica chuckled a bit. “I’m sorry, Geoff.” I
said, he nodded. I don’t understand people who are more likely to voice the
thoughts of other people, they rarely ever employ their own thought, I find that
incredibly irritating, especially when you find yourself in a heated argument. “Can
I quote you on some of these thoughts?” Erica asked me. “Sure, I guess, but would I be
considered a credible source?” I asked. “You’re a source, that’s all I care about at this
point, and your opinions are valid, so as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t get more credible.”
She responded. “Well, thank you. And, of course, you would be giving credit to David
Foster Wallace, as well, yes?” I suggested. “Of course.” Erica agreed. “If you haven’t,
you should find a collection of his essays, they’re brilliant; and they’ll lead you nicely into
his fiction, which will take…time, to read.” I said. “What collection should I start with?”
Erica asked. “Whatever you can find really, I’ve always enjoyed both Consider the Lobster,
which was my first, and A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, the title essay being
a cruise that Vanity Fair sent him on in order to report about it; and was, probably, the
single greatest essay he, or anyone, has ever written.” “OK, great. Thanks.” She nods at
me. Geoff walked out during the ‘credible’ conversation. Erica continued her
reading and writing, and I sat with my back against the wall, my legs were crossed,
and my coffee was in my hand, and pressed gently to my lips. I watched people for
a little while longer, and eventually I stood to leave; I whispered my thanks and
regard to each person, one by one as they sat sipping on their MUD, while laughing
to themselves. I struggled through the small square waiting room and into the front
seating area, hugged the wall along the counter towards the entrance, then tipped
my hat to the barista as I stumbled out the front door nearly tripping over the
chalkboard propped against the bench in a way that leaves very little to question; I
stopped and turned, looking first at the chalk board which read: This is Water, This
is Water ~ DFW and then at Geoff who was sitting on the stoop, he had paused,
briefly after saying, “I could swear that you were singing a love song back there...and, that
you meant it.”
Chapter VIII

It’s a straight shot from here to Cologne, the city is almost directly east of
Brussels. Bahnhofplatz acts as a gateway to the city from Köln Hbf, Cologne’s central train
station. I’m not overly impressed: it’s too clean, and corporate. It might as well exhibit
the largest installation of McDonald’s golden arches in the world directly outside the
entrance. The Cathedral is just opposite the plaza. That, I am both impressed with and
excited about. I nearly run from the train station to this, the apotheosis of gothic
architecture, and I am standing beneath it, in front of the main entrance, staring up into
the spirals that are encroaching towards the heavens like sheet lighting labyrinthine
through the sky, though rooted and bronzed. It is awe inspiring. Spinning to my left I
orient myself to the perspective of Dali’s Freudian masterpiece. The woman, seated and
planted for eternity just beyond the cathedral, neither exposed nor concealed, she
remains only a chest full of drawers, which will point, and half-heartedly only in the
direction of the society that has neglected her, and of the Cathedral. I’ll stand where she
rests reaching towards the cathedral and a society that she has otherwise alienated
herself from. Though, being in Cologne I have quickly discovered that Dali has
manipulated her perspective, taking artistic license in order to best represent his
intention. There is no such location, or perhaps it just no longer exists. Today, along An
den Dominikanern, there is a café, as close to where she was positioned as I am able to
explore, STEHCAFE. I sit there, against the window, with a coffee, and I watch people
walking throughout the intersection, most are uninterrupted by the massive gothic
cathedral shadowing them—how can anyone become so familiar with a thing that they
behave as if it no longer exists? It’s like looking out your window, just beyond your
desk, at an ‘Eiffel Tower,’ a ‘Great Pyramid(s),’ hell, a ‘Grand Canyon’ and seeing
nothing. Indifference allows you to see through a thing, and not into a thing, we might
as well be blind, and that degree of complacency scares the hell-outta me. As the light
shines just right, at a certain time of day, the altar seems impossibly white. The shrine of
the Three Kings radiates. I’m not particular religious, at least not in the methodized sense
of the word, still I recognize beauty when I see it. I am, however, particularly spiritual.
It does take an extremely open mind these days to recognize the spiritual within the
religious; which is to say that religious stigmas inflict people today to a greater degree
than ever. It doesn’t matter who you are there are some words that hold religious
connotation that will affect you in negative ways (i.e. Muhammad, Muslim, Jesus,
Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, pray, church, God, etc.). Most of us don’t even
recognize that the mere mention of the word will create static and frustration within our
self, and yet we argue our perspectives, religiously. If only we could separate ourselves
from the stigmas we would soon recognize that there is little difference in the
understanding and the belief, the difference exists only in the word itself, at which point
understanding transcends intonation and our acceptance influences our spirituality.
Acceptance becomes the single greatest resolve of our lives. So, in short, I enjoy walking
through churches, both for the religious incantations and the aesthetic presence. If you
have never stood at the center of one of the world’s great cathedrals and looked up into
the ceiling as I take the time to do now you will always be indifferent to the sky, as it
eclipses the sky beyond its walls, as if heaven itself glimpses down at you through the
canopy, and you will be benighted to this new standard of beauty that is just waiting
for you to unearth. I took a taxi from the cathedral to Marcellino Pan E Vino, I was told to
eat here tonight. Apparently they have the best food in Cologne. Beef fillet medallions.
Wonderful. In the late evening I walked along the Rhein. As I passed GroBe Neugasse I
thought about my story: Anthropomorphic Chest of Drawers, and how one of my
characters happened upon another on a bench along this street near the water, near
here. I stopped and inhaled the cool night air and imagined the presence of people who
existed only in my imagination, right here. I found a bench and sat and listened to the
city; Cologne, Germany. I had planned to spend a few days here, but aside from the
cathedral and the Rhein I have not seen, or heard of much that would keep me
interested for longer than today. In the morning I bought a ticket that would take me
through Frankfurt briefly, before continuing on to Leipzig, this is the longest train
excursion since I have been in Europe. I love trains, to the point even that I have ridden
for the sake only of riding. I’ll be on the train today for almost 8 hours. The time, I’m
sure, I’ll balance between writing, and staring out the window at Germany as it casually
happens by. A few years ago AMTRAK developed a concept called Writers Residencies,
it’s a fantastic idea. Essentially, writers apply to ‘live’ on the train for a specific time,
and write. The trip would be funded completely by AMTRAK. I, of course, applied and
was not chosen. Nevertheless I could do it. I could absolutely live on a train and spend
my days writing while traveling across the United States. There is a woman seated near
me on the train towards Leipzig that looks familiar, I cannot place her though. She looks
over at me in recognition too. We’re only just leaving the station, I’m sure it’ll come to
me before too long. My most memorable experiences, so far, in Germany have been
skating into the station at Köln Hbf, the Cologne Cathedral, and riding out over the
Rhein through the southeast of the city. The countryside around Cologne is beautiful.
The tracks parallel the Rhein until Frankfurt, for some reason, the train does not actually
ride along the river. I still cannot place the woman seated near me. There is someone
playing music from his phone behind me. I can now speak to the fact that the pairing of
Jazz, which is playing overhead on the train, and Eminem is not only a contradiction it
has become overwhelmingly clear to me that, at the center, where the two painstakingly
converge, is the impetus of indignation. It is almost as if the guy behind me has
rehearsed, for the better part of his life, the discovery of every songs opposite—the
paradox existing only at the heart of any one particular harmony—then he sits, on a
train, and he not only plays, he blares the antithetic beat to whatever songs are playing
overhead. This frustration does not appeal to my annoyance or to an emotion of any
kind, no, that would be much too easy, the act destabilizes balance in and of itself, my
body is pulling away from itself in directions outright, until: poof!

Oh that’s right! The woman was sitting in Chess Café in Brussels just before
Nekoma showed up, she was talking about her experience in the Adult Entertainment
Industry. What are the odds? I thought, just after it had occurred to me. „Würden Sie bitte
, dass sich drehen , zumindest !” I pretty much demanded. His surprise, I’m sure, is the
only reason he complied—turning his music down. The woman leaned over at that
point and offered her thanks, in English, and then continued on to say: “Were you in that
Chess Café, in Brussels a few days ago?” I nodded, “Yes, I was. I knew you looked familiar,
and I just placed it before you asked.” I responded. “What are the chances that we would be on
the same train together in Germany?” She inquired. “Yeah, slim. It’s kind of crazy.” I said.
“I’m Delilah.” She presented. “I’m Jonah.” I responded. I didn’t know what else to say,
but I remembered her talking about role playing. “So you’re a Dominatrix?” I inquired.
She nodded. “Curt...” She said. “I’m sorry, I was just trying to make conversation, and I
remembered overhearing you talking about that.” I said. “No, not really but I play one. It’s a
modeling character I created, and play also in a video series.” She said. “How does someone get
into that?” I asked. “I just started by modelling my feet and hands, and a photographer asked
me out-of-the-blue if I would consider dressing up. So, I did.” She responded. “You don’t think
it’s degrading, or, I don’t know, crippling to women?” I inquired. “No. Allowing women to be
and to act however they want can never be crippling to women, what’s crippling is how we look
at women. Society looks at a woman dressed in almost any fashion and recognizes only a sex
object.” Delilah responded. “It begins with sex, yeah, but women have been belittled in other
ways, in almost every way; essentially we see women differently from men, well, no, not
differently, because women and men are, of course, different; I mean, lesser; we’ve created a
double standard for men and women.” I shared. “Oh, yeah, of course.” Delilah agreed. “One
that extends beyond appearances and sexuality.” I continued. “Absolutely.” Delilah offered.
“Are you married?” I asked. Delilah nodded. “You’re curious if my husband’s OK with the
roles I play?” She asked. “Not OK, necessarily. Only how he feels about it.” I offered. “He’s
very supportive.” She responded. “It helps when partners are individually strong-willed
people. In that respect I’m sure the best relationships are between people who continuously praise
and boost one another’s confidence, and individuality.” I said. “That’s a good point.” Delilah
suggested. “My husband and I definitely do that.” She continued. It is amazing to me the
institution of new, and existing relationships, in requisite only of the might to utter a
few simple words: I like you, I want to know you, I love you, and our lives will change,
immediately. The craziness and the anxiety that exhales as we struggle to find the right
opportunity—be it situationally, or emotionally—to express ourselves can be
consuming, until the opportunity presents itself, and the connection hereafter is
unparalleled, because all we want is to connect, as simple as children will connect:
without fear and without worry.

Chapter IX

A black silhouette is drifting, as if poaching, outlined in foreground by pale and

aimless clouds indifferent of the rain, he descends impassively, and then settles, in
recess, before once again ascending, and then again circling his way downward. This
must be my dream waning, I think to myself as I lay in bed staring hapless into the
speckled ceiling, my imagined sky both overcast and drift. The alarm beckons me and I
ignore it, or I cannot hear it, I don’t know which; until she slaps me across the chest as
she rolls over groggy with sleep but alert enough to demand that I get the kids up and
ready for school, before she is fast asleep again, on her stomach. I feel rage scan my
carcass as I slowly lift myself to be seated. Within moments I am prepping breakfast
and laying out school clothes for my girlfriend, Saaiqa’s, two youngest children. I wake
the eldest of the two. She grumbles a bit, shut up I think as I make way back to the
kitchen and begin cooking breakfast. When I come back into the room she has locked
herself in the bathroom with her own morning routine, and I dress an unconscious boy,
too young still to have developed his own routine, since he is much-much more
manageable sleeping than he is awake. I carry him to the table, set him down in a chair,
and put a spoon in his hand, he eats, still seemingly unconscious. I sift through school
work and bags, and I organize and pack. In the family room I notice that though the boy
has finished eating and is again sleeping still sitting upright and awaiting his next
automatic request, his sister is delayed in the bathroom. I knock. “Your food is getting
cold, and we’re beginning to run out of time. Is everything OK?” I ask. She grumbles, only.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “My Hair!” she cries. “You’re ten, too young to worry about your
hair, especially for school.” Her mother might have a better understanding, but when I
was ten my hair was the last of my concerns. “Can I help?” I suggest, and she opens the
door. She is a young African American and Spanish girl (among other nationalities)
with intense curly black hair. “What are you trying to do with it?” I ask, and after a few
minutes we figure it out and she eats breakfast on the way to school. We drive today to
balance leaving as late as we did. Otherwise we would walk through the park and
along the sidewalk. It is four blocks to their elementary school. There are not many
opportunities throughout the day that I am allowed to be truly alone. Driving around
the block long enough to listen and to sing along to the radio fills me with the joy that I
need to feel recharged, if only for a short time. I know that my girlfriend is monitoring
the time that it takes for me to climb back into bed with her after I leave, and especially
after she hears the garage door open and then close. In order to avoid both a scene and
a terrible start to my day I am in bed before the back door can even shut behind me. I
lay awake thinking about a dozen other things that I could, should, and would rather be
doing aside from lying in bed before having to get up, again, and get ready for work. I
also know, though, that my existence is manipulated and managed entirely by my
girlfriend, and that if I don’t want to spend the next week-and-a-half listening to her
vent about whatever she could either fathom or fabricate then I need to maintain a
degree of discretion and intention. Her alarm goes off. We are showering together,
because she feels that it is the most important way for us to begin our day together. If,
for whatever reason, I feel like I might want to be alone, and take a shower alone, she
will again create dozens of nonsensical impetus for my decision and she’ll be irritable
for the rest of the day, at least.

I am both eager and terrified to get to work. I manage an independent bookstore

and though I will spend the majority of my day alone with only the books and the
customers, the first hour is spent with an overlapping angst, while I regulate the anxiety
of my evening and morning with Saaiqa as well as the insanity of the shop’s owner,
Nina. The bookstore is a gem. New, used, remainder, rare, and collectible books. Aside
from being the single most knowledgeable person that I have ever met regarding
literature Nina lacks a consistency within her business and her sanity that makes every
moment spent near her an exercise in futility, fortunately she’ll be leaving soon and I’ll
be left to my own intents and purposes. For the next nine hours the only negativity
lingering manifests itself as a visit from Saaiqa. Regardless of the situation, which
without a sensible doubt will involve speaking with customers, she will perceive, or at
least present, the perversion as false-heartedness and a personal violation by me against
her, and not, in fact, what it is: a bookstore employee providing customer service to an
inquiring patron. I cannot do my job or live my life with either my boss or my girlfriend
immediately present, and on occasion even in relative proximity, or even existing
within my reality. Yet, I manage, somehow, by living in my head—I suppose—going
through the motions until an opportunity presents itself to leave, or discover the point
at which I can no longer justify supporting my illusions. Saaiqa comes by for lunch. The
store is empty so we sit on the stoop outside and make small-talk. She’ll run home for a
short time then pick the children up from school. They’ll go out for an after school
snack and then hang around the house until the sitter comes. Saaiqa is a waitress and
will leave for work before I get home. The rest of the afternoon is fairly quiet at the
store. I have the time to go through several trades and research a few interesting titles
before auditing the shelves and locking the door. Saaiqa has the car so I get to walk!
Even though she has timed the walk and allows me only a short cushion, it is still most
enjoyable. I focus intently on my breathing, and the resolve to be mindful. This is the
only time I’ll demand myself to be conscious. I use this time to draw positive energy
and to redesign my present with intention. It’s a beautiful evening. Saaiqa texts me, I
tell her that I am half-way home, and if she wants she can call Bobby and tell him that I
was able to close the store pretty quickly, and that I’ll feed the kids. Our sitter’s name is
Bobby because Saaiqa refuses to allow me to interact with women, we have a
therapist—actually we each have two, one to speak with individually and another we
see together—she demanded that we see someone else when we found ourselves sitting
in front of a female student counselor at the counseling center. She did the same when
she discovered that I was referred to a female psychologist. When I walked through the
door the kids were working on homework. I started dinner as they finished up their
work, and I checked it just before plating. The three of us ate as they talked about their
day. After dinner we went over their homework. In the evenings before bed we sit
down and do something creative as a completely dysfunctional family. Saaiqa has
consistently put her children in terrible situations resulting mostly from abusive men.
The two youngest especially; the two that I am parenting, and attempting to instill a
sense of imagination and creativity, have severe issues and terrible traumas. I don’t
have the emotional or mental strength to discuss their history or their issues presently,
regardless it should suffice at the moment to imply that it’s bad. At seven-forty-five I
am completely drained but it’s almost bedtime and the amount of effort it takes just to
get these children into bed is unfathomable, let alone the post-bedtime story/pre-sitting
on my couch silently crying to myself for several hours before Saaiqa gets home is going
to drain me further, so I somehow discover the energy—as I do every night—to face
them. It takes them half-an-hour just to change clothes. In the meantime I set aside
school clothes for the morning, organize their school work, do the dishes, clean the
rooms we used, and set two small glasses of water on the kitchen counter. I slip The
Phantom Tollbooth off the shelf and explain that I am about to start reading and if they
miss it, they miss it. In two minutes they are in bed and under the covers. We have been
reading The Phantom Tollbooth every night for the last week. This is another one of my
attempts to instill some positive habits. I finish reading the chapter and turn out the
lights. As I walk away the eldest of the two asks for a glass of water and, of course, her
younger brother wants one too, and neither of them think to ask until the exact moment
they should both finally be sleeping. I take the two small glasses of water I left on the
counter and bring them each a glass and stand there long enough only for them to take
three sips, I take the glasses and leave, saying goodnight on my way out. With my
computer I set an alarm, sit on the couch, and try work on a short story I’m writing for
the next half-hour. However, it’s never that simple as the kids are talking or
complaining for the next hour, and I am up and down doing everything in my power to
convince them to go to bed. The alarm goes off and I switch gears and continue working
on my bookstore/coffeehouse business plan until Saaiqa calls to let me know she is on
her way home. Saaiqa wants me to be awake when she gets home so that we have that
time together before going to sleep, she works nights and is usually home sometime
after eleven o’clock. If I do fall asleep before she gets home she will wake me up and
yell at me until her uncontrollable rage and fits of insanity settle and we’re both able to
finally lay down and sleep. In the morning I’m lying awake staring at the ceiling just
before the alarm reminds me that it’s time to get the kids up for school. Saaiqa has me
take care of the morning routines because she was up late the night before working, and
needs to sleep in; she conveniently disregards the fact that I too was up late: first
cleaning the house, then putting her children to sleep, then working on whatever short-
story I’m working on to sell, writing my business plan, and finally being forced to stay
up as late as Saaiqa decides is appropriate so that she might feel comfortable. The
weekends are different only in that I don’t work and therefore spend every waking
moment with Saaiqa and the children, until Saaiqa leaves for work. The slightest thing
will set the children off—like their mother—so I’m constantly needing to be overly-
attentive in order to keep them from losing it, or killing each other. The first time I met
the two kids together was at pizza joint with a patio that overlooks the plaza. The four
of us were enjoying ourselves—this, of course, was before I realized that Saaiqa had
some serious issues—her youngest son pointed to a cup of water sitting on the table and
asked his sister if it was hers, when she said yes, he slapped the cup off the table with
perfect form and grace, of course spilling water all over everyone and everything. At
the time it was hilarious and cute, notwithstanding things didn’t remain so hilarious or
so cute. In the early evening I put on a movie and make a cocktail of pomegranate juice,
melatonin, and lavender. Tonight I’m going to enjoy myself.

Years of social stagnancy paired with incremental and constant dispraising are
the prime weapon to dismantle a person’s joie de vivre, let alone their identity. Saaiqa
had the evening off. The kids were in bed. I lit a fire and dragged the chaise lounge in
front of the fireplace. We lay on the lounge, I stared into the fire. Saaiqa was browsing
Facebook on her cell phone. She was scrolling through my Writers Page and I thought it
was so that she might catch up on some of the writing that I have posted these past few
days. Instead she asks who Fatima is. “Fatima?” I say. “This girl, Fatima, has liked
everything that you’ve posted.” Saaiqa responds. “OK. I mean… I don’t know, it’s an open
page, designed to attract people all over the world to my writing.” “Well, this one girl likes
everything you’ve written.” “Isn’t that a good thing? Isn’t that the point of the page, for people
to like my writing?” “Who is she?” “Saaiqa, I don’t know who she is, did you go to her profile?”
“Yeah, I’m there now.” “OK, so…” “Some slut that lives in Saudi Arabia.” She says. “Saudi
Arabia? Geezus…” I say this—geezus—because I know that we are going to be “talking”
about this for a while, and it will likely explode into another incident of rage and
insanity the duration of which will continue as long as Saaiqa’s imbalance continues.
This is a delusive situation. The most practical choice for me to make right now would
be to not say a word and to essentially let Saaiqa work through her imbalance until it
subsides, at which point we might actually be able to discuss it. However, Saaiqa has
certain expectations of me and one of them is to both acknowledge and communicate
my misjudgments, or her rage will escalate and envelope every conceivable aspect of
our—my—entire existence until 1.) She is able to once again gain control of her rage and
insanity (the cause and effect of which are both apparently my doing), and 2.) She
finally hears the only thing that she can hear in order for her effect to subside: “I am so
sorry, you’re absolutely right, she [Fatima] and I have been talking, and I am totally in the
wrong, I’ll make it up to you.” Regardless of truth or grounds. Saying this will, of course,
also give her ammunition to use in the future—which she will most definitely,
consistently, and invariably do. On this particular evening though I, for whatever
reason, do not submit so quietly, I unabashedly stand-up for myself and my position,
something I have done in the past but have since retired, until tonight. Almost
immediately I remember why. Saaiqa no longer resembles herself: the petite, thirty-
eight year old, dark-haired, publicly soft-spoken, Muslim, mother of three—No, that
person has receded into the black unrequited underbelly of fallacy. She is a myth.
Standing before me there is only Djinn. I stumble and scan the room for something to
hold on to, Saaiqa comes at me with rage and force, I slap her across the cheek—having
watched Airplane one too many times I imagined perhaps the action might have shaken
her back into reality—this wasn’t the case. Saaiqa’s voice went from a yell to a scream.
The kids were now awake and running around the house like scattering ants,
screaming. I was no longer in a quiet neighborhood: a park just beyond our front yard
with an elderly couple gingerly walking their shiatsu, families next door: gardening,
children playing outside, a picnic in the back yard, a grocery store, bank, and gas
station just down the street, my reality has evaporated and I am immersed within the
underbelly. I feel as if I have been consumed by an Iron Maiden of my intellect,
emotion, and body. I cannot see, think, or feel. I am alone yet surrounded by the
damned. Running from room to room I try to remove myself: to eclipse. There is
nowhere I can go. Sneaking to the kitchen I remove a knife from the drawer and make
my way to the bedroom, to the bathroom, behind locked doors. Saaiqa catches up with
me in the family room. The kids are standing in the corner, they see the knife, Saaiqa
sees the knife, and they run out the front door. I am in the bathroom, behind locked
doors. Terrified and bawling, I hold the knife at my wrist and make a small incision an
inch below my palm, and then I stop. I take the knife away from my wrist, I am crying
uncontrollably, wondering how this could have happened, how could my life have
come to this, I don’t know who I am, no one knows who I am, I am lost. With a cell
phone I call the police, “The family is outside, I am in the bathroom, with a knife, I want to kill
myself…”

The police come and take statements. Saaiqa and the kids are in the living room.
She puts her public face on: manipulating every person she crosses paths with, every
person she is capable of manipulating, which is everyone. While one officer is taking
my statement another struts towards us and explains to me that I am under-arrest. As I
sit in the rear of a police car I overhear two officers discussing what they can charge me
with, clearly stretching the truth. I am taken first to the hospital where I sit in a guarded
room waiting for a counselor to discuss my state of mind. In the morning I am booked
and escorted to the medical ward of the county jail. They take my clothes and I am
given a “Turtle Suit,” a green cloth shell, basically, that will wrap loosely around my
body and Velcro at the shoulder, only the Velcro doesn’t stick. The cell is empty, of
course. I am not allowed a mattress, sheets, a blanket, or pillow because I might use any
one or a combination of to kill myself. My meals are given to me on a rubber tray. No
silverware. I cannot even see myself in the mirror it has been scratched so badly. So I sit,
alone, with my thoughts. After forty-eight hours of not knowing whether it was night
or day, unable to sleep, and completely stripped of my freedom the in-house
psychologist feels that I am capable of braving it with the normal convicts, so I sit in a
cell for three more days until all but one of the charges is dropped and the final one is
reduced, and I am released. Saaiqa, upon being explained my charges, and after having
time to settle, admitted to the court that none of the charges were actually based on fact.
Although that, of course, played no part in my release. Afterwards she implies secretly
to me that she has seen the error in her ways and she begs me to take her back. And I
do, because I’m an idiot.

Several months pass and very little has actually changed. It’s a weekend night
and Slumdog Millionaire arrives via Netflix, I’m excited because I have never seen it. I
have been told for years that I must watch this movie, still I never have. That night, after
putting the kids to sleep, Saaiqa and I lay down to watch the movie. It was great.
Except: fifteen minutes before the credits roll there is a scene as the final question is
being asked, a couple of girls are dancing in a living room wearing short jean skirts and
tight tank tops—their mid-drifts are showing—I pick up the remote and fast-forward
through the scene because I know that Saaiqa doesn’t like me watching this stuff and it
had no bearing to the storyline whatsoever, so what the hell. Regardless, immediately
after I feel a distinct change in Saaiqa’s mood. When the movie ends I start talking
about various interesting scenes and offer my input of the movie while Saaiqa only sits,
silent, unresponsive, visibly upset. Shit. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “That scene with the
girls dancing…” she says “You mean the one that I fast-forwarded through?” “Why did it take
you so long to fast-forward?” she asks. “Wait, what?” In that moment Saaiqa began losing
control. Rage was quickly taking over. I simply grabbed my pillow and walked into the
hall bathroom, locked the door, and curled up in the bathtub.

Waking, or rather coming to the sudden realization that I was no longer asleep, I
acknowledge, first, the synthetic feel of my ceramic crib. I notice then that it feels early,
much too early to be awake. Lifting myself, and yielding to the body aches and side
effects of sleeping in a bathtub I attempted to sleep in the living room for a while before
the house sprouts legs and enroots a child’s presence. Within the hour the children are
awake and snickering as I begin to feel them throwing stuff at me from across the living
room. I ignore them, at first. They moved on to their own devices, though talking
insultingly loud. Still I ignored them. When they climbed onto various pieces of
furniture and began jumping off and onto my back I decided imprudence was the
acceptable response, at which point I expressed disappointment and shock with a
fervor. I then decided to go sleep in their room and asked them simply to leave me
alone, but instead they made a massive scene about how I was invading their private
space and started throwing their stuff around the room and into the hall—an acceptable
reaction to my basic primal needs, I’m sure. I dragged the bed behind the door, there is
no lock, to keep them from opening it. It wasn’t long until Saaiqa’s voice could be heard
shouting obscenities in English, Spanish, Swedish, and Arabic. She and the kids started
banging on the door: the whole scene sounded barbaric. Eventually I left the room
collected my phone and my wallet and then called the police. When they arrived I
asked that they keep these crazy people on the opposite end of the house while I gather
my things and escape this bullpen of madness and insanity. “You’re all fucking crazy!” I
exclaimed before closing the door and hopefully leaving them and that life behind for
good.

• • •

Unfortunately I soon discovered that it wasn’t that simple. Though I never spoke
to or saw Saaiqa or her children again there was an imprint of the years of social
stagnancy that was paired also with that incremental and constant dispraising that
became prime in dismantling my joie de vivre, and my identity.

I sat in a coffeehouse today and watched people for the first time in years, before
meeting Saaiqa and putting myself in such an emotionally destructive situation, I made
a habit of people watching on a regular basis, and I enjoyed it immensely. I learned to
recognize consistencies and inconsistencies in a person’s behavior, I had developed the
means to take a single prolonged look at someone and gather a fairly accurate portrayal
of their persona. Sitting here today, however, watching people I see only a reflection of
my suffering, and feeling guilty and deceptive while my anxiety gradually reaches the
tipping point that I have evaded for years. On two separate occasions this afternoon I
recognized an opportunity to speak with someone, once the thought had occurred to
me however I became agitated and overwhelmed with anxiety. My core temperature
increased, progressively; I began shaking, from a place deeply rooted and prolonged;
my mind went numb, and completely hollow; I would have been as affluent had I been
curled and weeping, on the floor, in the corner. This happened to me every time I even
considered the possibility of communicating with someone, with anyone. Still, though, I
continued to put myself in social situations: coffeehouses, writing groups, and open
mics. I refused to allow Saaiqa to control and manipulate me now. For half-a-year I
experienced the same symptoms. Until, finally, the feeling of intense anxiety was
replaced with a complete lack of coherent thought, I had graduated from feeling
overwhelmingly aghast to feeling relatively comfortable while still having no clue
whatsoever what to say, my mind has discarded all useful information regarding the
initiation of conversation. It was often difficult even to make small-talk. In the
meantime I was living in a car. Honestly though, comparatively, I might as well have
been at The Pierre. Besides, I had slept in subway stations for the first few months living
in New York City—before moving out here—so I am no stranger to living the bullshit
life. Nevertheless I was looking for a place, like a real place, with a bed that I didn’t
share with a succubus, and an agent of the damned fixated on shattering my life. I ran
into a young woman on the street, we were both trying to seem as nonchalant as
possible while aimlessly wandering around in front of a house. I came across an ad on
craigslist, someone was looking for a roommate, and both she and I were scheduled to
look at the place at the same time. Only, the guy who placed the ad was late, and he
would even be later. Milla mentioned to me that there was an open mic at this oxygen
bar her family owns and that she had to leave in order to help get the place ready, she
invited me, instead I wandered around the block composing myself, and hoping that I
could get through the next hour or two without breaking out into cold sweat and
crying. The house was really nice, it was elongated: each space opening up to another in
the rear of the room. The front door opened up into a large square sitting room which
he treated like a foyer, the family room was next, and the kitchen just beyond that, a
small hallway off the side of the family room led to the bathroom and two bedrooms.
After the tour we sat down and talked for a while, I was able to seem well-adjusted
enough to maintain casual conversation. It felt great! Eventually Milla showed up and
took the tour, inquired about dogs, and other concerns that wouldn’t affect me, and she
left. The next week I moved in. Almost immediately I recognized that I would still have
trouble developing my friendship with Brenden, despite living with him—that
frustrated me: it frustrated me that I have such a difficult time developing a friendship
with someone that I lived with, it frustrated me that something so important to me, and
something that once came so easily was now the single most difficult aspect of my daily
life, it frustrated me that every time I saw a person that interested or intrigued me I
dreaded the feeling, knowing how I would react, and knowing that I had allowed
someone else enough influence over me to affect my ability to interact with people. I
had such little confidence in my abilities making and developing friends that I used
social media platforms as a crutch: pretending that requesting a person’s friendship via
social media was somehow a plausible alternative to the initial contact that we make
with people, and that through various posts, and comments, and messages we can
develop a real relationship. Sometimes I would plead, to the point almost of begging for
someone to acknowledge and to be understanding of what I had been through, and
what I was going through, and therefore they might put just enough effort in
themselves to help develop this friendship, because I knew, I knew, that if this one
person would only sympathize with my situation that it would be enough to guide me
away from this, I would have assembled enough confidence to reflect who I once was.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.

After so long it became apparent that I needed a break. There is a negative

energy still stuck to me, and it is influencing my perspective of myself and of this town.
Everywhere I went I felt as if I was confronting Saaiqa’s ghost, she had attached herself
to me, and was influencing every action and interaction that I make. I could not escape
the thought that she was judging me, and that I would turn around and she would be
there, standing in front of me, staring at me, belittling and crippling my senses, intent
on issuing one last demanding blow that would leave me broken, completely. For
weeks I hid behind locked doors, leaving only for groceries, binge watching Criminal
Minds: Behavioral Analyst Unit on Netflix. On Tuesdays and every other Thursday I
began walking downtown to spend time at the oxygen bar. I was friendly but seldom
engaging. Milla, her brother, her sister, and her mother owned the Oxygen Bar, they
were caring and they were welcoming, they opened their arms and their hearts to
anyone at all. And unknowingly, what the four of them offered me was most valuable:
their kindness, their understanding, and their time would develop into the catalyst I
would need to recognize, assuredly that I have always tempered my own self-worth
and charisma. In the interest, either, of self-preservation or proving myself to others—I
have suppressed parts of myself. Perhaps I have been so insecure that I created a
martyr, someone that I assumed, and that I believed would be more relatable and
significant, and in doing so I all but lost myself. When it came time for my delegate to
behave as I had designed, he failed. Neither I nor my delegate were capable of adjusting
to my own feelings of heightened empathy nor affection that I occasionally receive from
people. And because my feelings are so strong, I tend to come off strong, and in socially
underdeveloped ways, when trying to express myself—I almost always do the wrong
thing: I approach people in overbearing ways, or behave as if I know them and have
always known them, because I often do feel a rooted connection with these people. The
attraction I feel forges a fine line between relating to a person and knowing a person, at
least for me, and as a result that line gets blurred, and the people who I have felt such
strong feelings towards become misanthropic. Clearly I undervalued a significant part
of social understandings growing-up. I only wish I knew how to overcome or develop
that attribute that I lack. Milla and her family helped me to recognize that this was
reoccurring, and that through this experience with Saaiqa I was actually offered an
opportunity not to reform but to build completely anew. Every evening I spent at the
Oxygen Bar I left with another step, another piece of the developing design that would
outline my struggle. Late one Thursday evening, the pinkish hue of the sunset on the
adobe wall outside the window of the Oxygen Bar forced my focus; I am inhaling a
Lavender scented oxygen, and I am coiled on a Papasan chair. Closing my eyes I am
taken back to a place I found solace in years ago:
The various tinge of green’s surround the cottage, I can smell the summer rains, and I
can hear the heavy and consistent droplets on the wood roof. I feel completely at ease.

My mind wanders momentarily, and a lucent blackness pervades while my

vision is rendered in interpose. A spread of uncommitted chromaticity regulates and
soon imitates a whirlwind of conditioned saturation. I am guided, as if in trance,
through my psyche, by whichever means seems most appropriate, for me the spiraled
implication of reflective travel. I feel Milla and her brother glance over at me and I
opened my eyes. The adobe wall is still reflecting a pinkish hue, as if stained with
watermelon. As I leave that night I explain to them that I’m going to take a break. I’m
going to leave, for a while, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I just wanted to thank you for
welcoming me, I say, of course they inquire and the three of us chat briefly, and I offer
them whatever explanation I feel comfortable sharing, at the moment. Walking home
that night I committed myself to recognize the uniqueness and the idiosyncratic
particulars of Santa Fe. Those every-things that had become commonplace over the last
four years, those every-things that I would not regard for some time; such as: the
watermelon stained adobe brick wall at sunset, the sound of the train skating into the
station, the thick sometimes overwhelming scent of wildfires burning my senses, and
the hot-dry air scraping at my coarse and droughty knuckles.

Chapter X
For a while I stare out the window, only. I cannot get over how beautiful the
German countryside is. I watched several people on the train, most were sitting alone in
quiet contemplation: looking out the window, staring into the back of the seat in front
of them, or people watching; there were some who were engage, deeply, in
conversation, it’s always exceptionally fascinating to watch people engage in deep
conversation, though not necessarily listening to the conversation itself, or the
recreation of as if mocking them—unless, of course, I am with a friend, and we’re
playing with one another by adlibbing the exchange between others—otherwise I’ll try
to connect with them; which is to say that I will express upon the vibration or the
frequency that those involved in conversation are creating, the vibrations that bridge
both their feelings and their thoughts. It’s an interesting state to affix because you can
begin to recognize, consciously, the space that exists between the two (or more) people,
you can feel it, I mean. It’s a comfortable place. When we become aware of the
connection that people create between one another we, inadvertently, become a part of
that connection ourselves. I had been conditioned to watch people from a distance as a
result of a bad relationship, and to connect with them only in that way, and once I was,
again, avowed to communicate in any way that I chose, I was no longer able. It was
almost as if an insensible shroud inhibited that part of me, someone had simply
removed the characteristic, or the trait, or gene even that counseled my ability to cohere.
I’m watching a couple speak on the train—I don’t think they knew one another before
this morning—yet their connection was unbelievable. The two were undeniably cut
from the same cloth. My thoughts were delayed by a warm and natural air that filled
the cabin, something that occurs only when the door between two cars is opened. I
didn’t look to see if anyone was coming or going. I realized that I could no longer hear
Delilah’s voice, and that it was likely she and her friend are leaving the train at
Frankfurt. I asked a gentlemen resting in a seat in a row in front of and across from me
where he was headed, in German. He’s a psychologist. And very intuitive. After
responding to my question (he is spending a few days in Leipzig before traveling to
Berlin), he asked me if I had anything on my mind. I could have, of course, responded
with any number of things that I have been consciously contemplating, we could have
discussed my conversation with Delilah, or my experience with Nekoma, we could
have talked about the train ride, or the days I spent in Cologne or Brussels, we could
have talked about my book and the process of writing it, the issues arising from various
relationships, or my general worldview, however it occurred to me that that is not what
he meant. The gentlemen in the seat in a row in front of and across from me saw
something deeper, he saw something further within my, I don’t know, psyche, I guess,
that he was interested in exploring. It is interesting, too, the happenstance that I would
decide to speak to this man and not the couple deeply engaged in conversation in a pair
of seats several rows up, or the young couple: the father carrying a newborn in a sack
strapped to his shoulders, two college aged girls with travel packs, who were probably
American, sitting against the window behind me pointing at random things outside as
the train passes in opportunity to practice their atrocious German, or the business man
in a suit who has left his briefcase resting on the seat next to him whom, just moments
before, closed his computer with a heavy and defeated sigh, any one if not all of the
Chinese tourists huddled together whispering to one another in arrangement of plot
once they arrive in Leipzig, or the man and his son both dressed in wranglers, and
plaid, brown custom leather boots, and a genuine ten gallon straw cowboy hat speaking
to one in another in slurred and unrecognizable German, or even the blonde headed
French woman sitting alone hugging her purse and watching something on her
smartphone with the earplugs stuck to her ears. I chose, instead, to speak to the one
person on the train that would inquest and on extremely personal matters; and yet, in
those moments, something had occurred to me, a thought that I considered a year ago,
and that I have since put-out-of-my-mind, but never actually addressed. “Um, well, a
year or so ago, while watching the closing of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, are you familiar
with it?” I asked. He shook his head. “Is it affiliated with the story by James Thurber?” He
asked. I nodded. “Yeah, the movie is loosely based on that story.” I said, and he nodded.
“Anyway, I realized that there have been times in my life when I have been too focused on
something, and that something often changes: sometimes it’s an idea, sometimes it’s a
person…but, it occurred to me that that was the difference between who I was and who I am
now. I’ve wondered a great deal what it was about myself that I missed, I feel like I’m missing
something, a part of myself that, I feel, no longer exists. As the movie, The Secret Life of
Walter Mitty, was ending it dawned on me! I used to experience things for the sake of it, and
regardless there was something enjoyable that I could find and express and know in whatever I
did, essentially throwing caution into the wind, and allowing the what-the-fuck mentality to
guide me, at least in regards to meeting people, to developing new relationships. Somewhere over
the years I lost that. I lived in New York City for a few years and I used to let the walk signals
guide me through the city, and there may have been moments, while walking, when I did
actually offer myself over to the will of it all but, more often than not, even then, there was
something I was looking for, and at the time it was as specific as any one thing that intrigues me
presently, but it was something too corporeal, you know, too real. I tried to convince myself that
the action, in and of itself suggested that I am spontaneous, and that I continued to live that
way. But I don’t, and that is not actually who I am, and it’s not who I want to be…which isn’t to
say that I don’t want to be goal oriented, to have dreams and have objectives, it’s, only, that…I
want to be more open to impromptu opportunities that create organic and real ideas, situations,
and relationships. The German psychologist nodded only, for a few minutes while taking
in my story. He took a deep breath and, in German, said “Wow, that’s pretty fucked up.” I
nodded, “Yeah, it is pretty fucked up.” He chuckled in a heavy German accent. “Seriously,
though, you’re an American, yes?” Yeah, I am.” I responded. “You’re German is great, still,
all Americans have a distinct accent regardless of how long they’ve been speaking any language.
You’re on a train to Leipzig, which seems pretty spontaneous.” He suggested. “I have the
means to, financially. I’m curious though if not having the means to do a thing but doing it
anyway is more illustrative of that characteristic, you know? Doing a thing when it’s easy may
not depict a particular trait as honestly as doing that same thing when the means to do so aren’t
necessarily as available, it doesn’t reflect…who I am.” I said. “It sounds like you have a
tendency to overthink things. It would benefit you to learn how to compartmentalize your
different conclusions, to perceive them only as conclusions, and then to not get emotionally
involved with any one or all of those conclusions, so that you can choose between them before
involving any emotional understandings.” He said. “Well, I allow my emotions to intrude in
every aspect of the process.” I said. “Yeah, I perceived as much.” He responded, and
continued “I think, in the modern world, it’s important, if you want to survive, and especially
to thrive, to maintain two very distinct but also consciously distinguishable personalities, or, at
the very least, mindsets. It seems like you're struggling with the bullshit that surrounds us every
day, while also trying to create your role in it all. You are either going to get caught up in it, by
allowing all the banalities of our zombie society to consume you; or you'll remain above all that.
I think the irony is that our default setting is pessimism, at least, again, in today’s world.” He
said. “It is true that a large part of this trip is to change the way that I think; and I wouldn’t be
surprised if I am sabotaging my self-worth by creating unnecessary distinctions between the
choices I make when exhibiting the merit of my spontaneity.” I said. “You’re still overthinking. I
do think it would help you to think less and trust more in whim. Which might actually be what
you’ve been trying to say, and do all along.” He said. “Do you think confidence plays a role at
all?” I inquired. “In my experience, confidence is an illusion—a necessary one, maybe—but an
illusion all the same, and the benefit in that is understanding that you can choose how you want
to perceive confidence, which allows the inception of confidence to be a choice. If you want to
perceive confidence as an ability: apparent only in specific areas of your character—which are
likely to change over time anyway—your confidence, in yourself, will be shattered consistently.
However if you want to perceive confidence in yourself completely: where any one specific
‘ability’ is, essentially, impartial than your confidence will not be affected.” He responded. “It
seems to me then, that the only course, for anybody, is to let go, or to quote The Beatles, Let It
Be, while also, somehow, simultaneously guiding our desires in order to attract what we want. I
mean, is that…Am I missing something?” I asked. “Well, if you’re taking the law of attraction
into consideration in addition to, I don’t know, a more practical approach to the subject then I
suppose the best answer is…um, from what I understand, learn how to direct your desires with
your emotions while also finding a way to mentally let go of…um, attraction.” He responded.
“Right, but doesn’t that seem counterintuitive?” I rebutted. “Yeah, yeah it does.” He
continued. “OK, then.” I said. “I suppose your best option is to make different conclusions. To
readdress what you believe, and why, and just come to different conclusions.” He said. “In a lot
of ways, the situation that I’m in now is a new beginning. Though I have had several new
beginnings in my life and have often subverted the opportunity. My life long struggle with
anxiety in combination with various other issues that have presented themselves and then fizzled
away at different points in my life have more or less defined me, and I think back to who I was
when I was younger and I miss it.” I said. “It seems like you have a relatively clear idea of
what’s wrong, maybe your biggest struggle is with ‘seeing-it-through,’ making the leap into
redress.” He continued. “That’s probably more accurate than you know, but how do I follow
through?” I said. Neither of us said anything for some time. The German countryside
continued to pass outside the window, I watched it for a while, what felt like a while at
least. The German never offered me a response. I don’t know that he could have, even if
he wanted to—I’m sure he wanted to. We stopped at Frankfurt during our
conversation. We were given the opportunity to get off for a few minutes, though,
obviously neither of us took them up on it. Eventually I thanked him for our
conversation, and his help, and went for a walk on the train. As I opened the exterior
door the warm country air filled the cabin and I was taken back to the moment several
minutes before, and smiled out-of-the-side-of-my-mouth. There were considerably
more people in the car behind than the car I’m riding in, and the majority of them were
obviously tourists. Few people noticed me walking passed, and fewer recognized me, at
the very least posited my existence as someone that they had not yet noticed, some
went as far as to fore an expression of rejection as if to say you are not welcome on my car.
Or perhaps it was just me. I walked through and made eye contact with some people, as
well as mirroring smiles. The following car was another passenger car, this one too was
more crowded than the car I settled in, only the majority of these passengers appeared
to be local, or more local, whatever that really means. They were much friendlier than
the former car, which confirmed my intuition about their character; even though it is
somewhat surprising that the locals would be friendlier than tourists, or maybe not, I
don’t really know. The succeeding car was the dining/bar car (Finally, a drink!), I asked
for a glass of Silvaner, and sat in an armchair next to the window. I took the small
notebook that I’m constantly carrying out of my pocket and jotted down a few notes
about the ride, and the conversations that I have had on the train thus far. I didn’t really
think about how much had happened—had changed, even—since this morning, since
climbing aboard the train. I had a lot to take note of. The German psychologist came
into the dining/bar car nearly out-of-breath looking for me. He saw me and stood
above me a moment breathing in heavily then raising his hand to the bartender for a
drink. A drink that the bartender knew on que as if the doctor had been a regular here.
The German sat down across from me and said, simply “It’s because you’re doing the same
shit over-and-over again, you’re not following through with your issues because though you
have an emotional and mental grip on them you are still putting yourself in the exact same
situations over-and-over again. You don’t know how to act or to react in any other way because
you don’t allow yourself the practice outside of that element. You are, essentially, stuck in loop, a
pattern of destructive behavior. You could be the most enlightened human being on the planet, it
wouldn’t matter if you continue to do the same shit in the same situations over-and-over-and-
over again. You need to put yourself in a different situation.” The bartender handed him his
drink and he swallowed it in a gulp. “..And, in some respects, that’s the link between your
emotional and mental disconnect. It’s entirely possible even that if you pull yourself away from
your destructive behavior your attitude and your reactions in the situations that you are
continuously putting yourself in will change…so, yeah, that’s your follow through.” He said,
and then, without waiting for my response, he stood and walked back through the door
from which he came. I took to my notebook, again. The German is right. That is exactly
the reason I’m not getting anywhere with my issues, with all my ‘new beginnings’; I am
still caught in the same destructive spiral, the only thing that changes is the place that
I’m living; so, occasionally, when it feels like somethings different it’s a result only of
my surroundings. The solution, it seems, is to separate myself from certain routines,
whether they are or appear to be destructive, perhaps the best option is to change
entirely the conventional means in which I live. Granted with the publication of my
book and the upsurge in my bank account one would think that my standard couldn’t
help but to shift, still I don’t think my life has changed all that much. I spend the
majority of my days in coffeehouses, and my evenings in restaurants or bars, the only
thing that’s changed is my frequency and the expense. I have to be willing to actually
engage in something that interests me aside from writing and talking to people. OK.
Well, what interests me? The train made an unexpected stop on the tracks. We are
nowhere near a station or a town. In the near distance there’s a farm with several farm
animals going about their day, how similar to farm life in the states is the farm life here,
in Germany? I cannot imagine, and yet I have no real reason to believe that it wouldn’t
be exactly the same. Several people came into the dining/bar car a few minutes after the
train stopped and ordered drinks. I wondered if this ‘unscheduled stop’ was actually a
marketing stratagem to get people to buy alcohol. I wouldn’t be surprised. The longer
the train sat motionless the more people stopped by the bar. I ordered another glass of
wine and eavesdropped a number of conversations throughout the car. At one point I
chuckled concurrently to a small group sitting next to me and they glanced over,
irritated. Someone even said something under their breadth in response and the other
two laughed, so did I. They moved to the opposite end of the car. I wrote about it in my
notebook. I turned to look in the direction of the door just as a man, probably in his
mid-to-late sixties, opened the door and walked in. He was wearing a straw cowboy
hat, a University of Texas T-shirt, blue polyester shorts, and leather chaps cut from the
hide of an Ankole-Watusi bull, over his shorts. I was staring. He didn’t notice because
he was carrying something large, black, and machine-like in both hands and in front of
his face. At first I couldn’t make out what it was that he was carrying. I heard a story
that when the first ships sailing over the Atlantic drifted towards land the Natives did
not actually see them until they were close enough to make out people on the deck. The
natives had never seen anything like the boats that were encroaching upon them so they
were psychologically incapable of perceiving them. In hindsight I should have known
that the machinelike device that this unusual character was carrying was in fact an
Epson Workforce WF-2540 Color Ink Jet 3-in-1 printer however I’ve never actually seen
anyone hauling the device around as if it were a laptop. I wrote about it in my
notebook. The train started moving again. The action wasn’t very subtle. The man
almost fell. He did drop his Epson Workforce WF-2540 Color Ink Jet 3-in-1 printer
however, and he exhaled a shallow and surreal series of curses in broken and
excruciatingly bad German. I guess he’s been in the country long enough for the
German to be an impulsive reaction but not quite long enough for it to be coherent. A
few pieces fell off of the 3-in-1 but nothing essential, well, at least, I don’t think the
pieces were essential but, then again, what the hell do I know about an Epson
Workforce WF-2540 Color Ink Jet 3-in-1 printer? Within moments the dining/bar car
was nearly empty. I ordered a third glass of wine. The passing German countryside
beyond the window began to blend with the supposition of my influenced context, and
I could no longer distinguish between the contoured landscape and my introspection. It
was all correlative, and it was all beautiful. I could feel the bartender watching me and it
was the only connection between me and to the fleshy world. “You’re American?” The
bartender asked me, in English. The German countryside continued to pass by outside
the window, and my intoxicated fixation of the world without intrigued me too
thoroughly to notice anything aside from my own envision, initially. The bartenders’
words eventually permeate my sense and I turn around uncertain of the lapse between
when she first spoke and now. “American...” I said. “Yes. I’m American.” She smiled.
“What are you thinking about?” she inquired. More interested, I’m sure, of what I am not
actually thinking. “Nothing, really. I’m just staring at the window. And enjoying the moment,
it’s not often that I am able to feel the space between my thoughts and the world.” I responded.
The bartender grinned, again. “What’s your name?” She inquired. “Jonah.” I responded,
turning to meet her gaze, as I did. “And yours’?” I inquired. “Rebecca.” She responded.
“You’re not German?” I commented. “No. How can you tell?” Rebecca asked. “Placing
accents is not too difficult.” I said. “For most people; I’ve noticed that many Americans haven’t
got a clue what accent or language they’re hearing, if it’s not English, and sometimes even if it is
English.” Rebecca shared, chuckling also. “America is an incredibly diverse place. I don’t
doubt that much of the world perceives the majority of us by our more…unfavorable people.” I
said. “You’re Swedish.” I continued. She threw her head back in surprise. “I have never
known an American who was able to guess that!” “You’re accent fades considerably when you
speak English, but I heard you talking earlier to someone and your accent was unmistakable.” I
said. “How are you able to tell that?” Rebecca asked. “My ex, she’s half Swedish, she lived
there much of her life, and speaks Swedish fluently.” I responded. “Talar du Svenska?”
Rebecca inquired. “Mycket bra. De är en av mina favorit språk.” I responded. “Really? One
of your favorite.” Rebecca inquired. “Oh yeah, I think it’s beautiful.” I said. “If you had to
guess why my English was so good what would you say?” Rebecca inquired. “I’d guess that
you lived in the U.K. for a time.” I suggested. She smiled. “My mother is English, and I lived
with her in London in my early twenties.” “Do you like London?” I inquired. “Yeah, it’s
alright. There is no place like it.” She said. “You don’t like London do you?” She asked me.
“Not especially, no.” I responded. “And, I couldn’t really even tell you why. I felt the same
way about Boston, have you been to Boston?” she shook her head. “I could never learn to
appreciate it. I tried, for some reason, but it never grew on me. London was the same way.” I
said. “Do you want another?” Rebecca asked, concerning a glass of wine. “Oh. Nej. Tack!”
I responded, in Swedish. Rebecca smiled. “Are you getting off the train in Leipzig? Or do
you have to go back?” I asked, in Swedish. “No, we’re stopping in Leipzig. This train will stay
there through the night and leave again in the morning.” “Do you want to grab dinner
tonight?” I asked. Rebecca grinned. “Dinner would be nice.” “Great! Do you know any good
places?” “We can walk around until we come across a place that calls to us.” Rebecca said, in
Swedish. “That sounds great.” I responded. “I need to go to the hotel for a bit and call my
son.” Rebecca said. “You have a son?” I reiterated. “How old is he?” I asked. “He’s 9.” She
responded. I grinned. “Does my having a son make you nervous?” Rebecca inquired. “No,
not at all. I’ve actually parented two kids that were not my own.” I responded. “Allvarligt?”
Rebecca asked, amazed. “How old were they?” Rebecca continued. “The younger of the two,
which lived with us, was 6, and his sister, the eldest of the two, which also lived with us, was
10.” I said. “Did she have more children?” “Yeah, her eldest is 25 now.” “How old is your ex?”
“Saaiqa is 42 now.” “42, really? How old are you?” Rebecca inquired. “I’m 32” I responded.
“She’s 10 years older. I’m 33.” Rebecca shared. “Vad är ditt tecken?” I inquired. “Libra.” She
responded. A group walked into the dining/bar car and ambled towards the bar. They
were all speaking German with thick accents. „Sprichst du deutsch?” A woman, probably
in her late twenties, asked me after ordering her Radler “Ja.” I said. „Bist Du Duetscher?”
She inquired. “Nej. I mean, Nien.” I said, Rebecca laughed. „Amerikanisch?” «Oui . » I
responded, Rebecca laughed, again. „Ich bin ein Amerikaner, ja.” I responded. „Was ist
ihre Karriere?” She asked. “I’m an author…” she shook her head, unable to understand.
“Really?” Rebecca reiterated. I nodded and grinned. The German woman sat, waiting.
„Ich bin ein Autor.” I said, again, this time in German. “What do you write?” Rebecca
inquired, also\ in German. The German woman turned towards me. “Fiction…” I said.
“I’ve written mainly short stories for most of my career, but also some essays and book reviews;
recently I published my first novel.” “You have a published novel?” Rebecca reiterated. I
nodded. The German woman started to say something but decided against it. Rebecca
grinned. The German’s sat for a while ordering drinks on and off for a bit and talking
amongst themselves, while Rebecca and I chat betwixt ourselves in Swedish and in
English so that our conversation is ours and ours alone.

I walked back through the cars towards my seat. I excused myself from the
dining/bar car and Rebecca so that I might both retrieve and bring my things back with
me to the bar. The German’s were still there when I left. In the car preceding mine there
was a mid-to-late twenty something man sitting with his laptop on his knees and his
phone in his hands, two elderly women sitting in a seat next to him had been eyeing
him and, apparently, judging him for being on these devices. As I passed them I
overheard one of the elderly women say, very rudely, “Do you talk to people?” He
glanced over at them, in order to confirm that they were speaking to him, I imagine,
“Do I talk to people?” He verified. “Yeah, you’re on that computer.” She asked. “This is work;
yes, of course I speak to people.” He responded with equal sharpness, this time not making
eye contact. It’s interesting how many elderly people turn out so bitter, many disrespect
an entire generation of people based on their own interpretation of the growth of social
media and technological enterprise—in my experience, actually, it seems that every
generation questions the motives of generations following—I’m not overly fond of
excessive digital interaction, and especially if it replaces, completely, our personal
interactions with people, but geezus to allow yourself to believe that an entire
generation of people is misled or defective because of an interpretation is ridiculous. To
be fair though, to the two elderly women, the young man should not have responded in
kind to them. He should have been conscious about his reaction and expressed
compassion, at the very least. I believe our reactions to people are often more important
than our actions. As I opened the door to my car I couldn’t help but think about how
rude, unconscious, and short with people our society has become, it is dangerous. There
was an unfamiliar face sitting in the seat under my bags. „Entschuldigung.” I said before
reaching over him. „Natürlich.” He responded, despondently. He wasn’t German. The
way he carried himself I would suggest that he was American. I introduced myself, in
English. Looking up for the first time he responded, and then inquired about my
nationality. “Do you mind if I sit?” I said. Please.” He responded. I’m American.” I
responded. “Me too. Where are you from?” He continued. “I thought so. And, I’ve lived all
over the States.” I said. “Yourself.” I inquired. “Texas.” He responded. “In which part of
Texas did you live?” I asked him. “You’re familiar with Texas?” He asked. “I am. But I feel
like just about everyone is ‘familiar’ with Texas in one way or another.” I said. “Yeah, I guess
that’s true. You’ve spent time there, though, personally?” He asked. “I lived in the hill country
for a long time.” “Really?” He said, expressively, and animated. “…what part?” he
continued. “Boerne.” I responded. “You lived in Boerne?” he restated. “For much of my
youth, yeah. I graduated from Boerne High School.” I shared. “No shit! I teach at Boerne High
School!” He said. We both laughed. “Small world.” I said. “You don’t live there still?” He
asked. “No, I left permanently when I was in my early twenties. I did come back and spend time
with my family for a while, while I wrote a novel just before coming out here, to Europe.” I said.
“Did you ever spend time at coffeehouse?” He inquired. “I spent a great deal of time there, yes.
That’s actually where I wrote the bulk of my novel.” I responded. “It’s interesting, at first I
wasn’t sure but once you mentioned that you lived in Boerne suddenly you seemed familiar to
me.” He said. There was a few moments of silence before I asked him why, if he was a
teacher, was he on a train in Germany during the school year. He looked at his feet. “I
suppose I’m a bit defeated.” He said, and I nodded. “I was hoping that taking the year off
would provide some form of satisfied enlightenment that would follow me into the classroom and
guide me through the next forty years of my life.” He finished. I chuckled a bit. He echoed
my laughter. “Well, I mean, the education system is flawed, it’s…actually, give me a moment, I
was meeting someone in the dining/bar car, let me text her quickly and let her know that
something came up.” I responded to the nameless number on my recent texts, letting
Rebecca know that I fell into conversation with an American tourist sitting in my seat,
and that I would be back around shortly after. Rebecca responded with a smiley emoji,
and I responded to that, in kind. “OK, my train-of-thought…um, right, the education system
is definitely flawed, it’s archaic.” I said. “Yeah, the most frustrating thing for me, as a teacher, is
balancing parents and administrators, while the parents try to dictate both how and what their
children should be learning in public schools.” He said. “Yeah, I imagine that will leave you in
a position where…not only will you not want to teach them, but you’ll feel completely helpless in
doing so, as well.” I said. “That pretty much sums it up, yup.” He responded. “What do you
teach?” I inquired. “I almost feel like it doesn’t matter, well, actually, no, it really doesn’t
matter. But, History.” He said. “History matters.” I responded. “I’m sure it does, but not in
the capacity in which we “explore”…” he emphasized the word both by speaking it slowly
and boldly and by holding the pointer and middle fingers on each hand together and
bending them at the crux, “…it.” “I see.” I said. “The entire system needs to be
restructured.” I suggested. “That’s easier said than done.” He responded. “I believe, that’s
only because people have yet to agree on what that should look like.” I said. “What do you think
it should look like?” He asked. “The day-to-day routine, and the classroom environment, they
all make sense to me; there are better avenues, sure, but for the public education system it’s
perfectly acceptable. I think the first, and possibly most important change should be the
curriculum, and, most importantly, for the first three or four years of study.” I suggested. “Do
you mean, like, focusing less on colors and shapes and more on numbers kind-of-a-thing?” He
said. “No, not at all. I mean we should be focusing on helping children, at an early age,
recognize and understand their moods and their emotions. At that point I think it would be
easier for us to develop a more appropriate next step. I think if we found a way to develop a
curriculum that expands our knowledge of history, math, science, social sciences, & c, while also
developing others skills such as art---and facets of art—and various trades.” He was silent for a
few moments. “Do you have a background in education?” He inquired. “Well, I’m alive,
so…yes. Not formally though, no.” I responded. “That all sounds pretty good.” He
suggested. “Doesn’t it?” I responded. “I think another, very important change that needs to
be made is the idea that there are only right or wrong answers. The process of indirect learning
kills creativity and our ability to explore through trial-and-error.” I said. “Yeah, the idea that we
are not teaching how to think but what to think.” He said. “Yeah, exactly.” I agreed. “So where
do we start?” he inquired. “I think the right people need to agree that our emotional
intelligence is worthwhile, and important enough to spend time learning and understanding.” I
suggested. He nodded. Neither of us said anything for a time, to the point where it
started to become awkward. “I need to get back to my friend.” I said. We shook hands and,
totting my bags, I made my way back to the dining/bar car. In the next car the two
elderly women and the young man were deep in conversation, I didn’t stick around
long enough to eavesdrop, I’m not sure what they were talking about. In the dining/bar
car the Germans were still talking, slurring rather, probably several Radler’s in at this
point. Rebecca was now involved in conversation; she was speaking beautiful German.
She motioned me to lay my bags behind the bar. The young German woman noticed me
and smiled „Du bist zurück!” she said. “I am, I mean, Ich bin.” I responded. I returned to
the seat I was sitting in earlier. The bar is ‘L’ shaped and I sat in one of the two barstools
along the short end. The young German woman kept glancing over at me and smiling.
Rebecca made eye contact with me and grinned. “You’ve got an admirer.” She said, in
Swedish. The German woman asked Rebecca if she and I were “Together.” I didn’t hear
Rebecca’s response, and she wouldn’t tell me when I asked her later. Rebecca and I have
known each other for a matter of hours, and we haven’t talked seriously about anything
along those lines so she couldn’t possibly have acknowledged anything objective,
nevertheless it would have been interesting to hear what she had to say! She looked
over at me when responding to the German woman, whispering also, and with her
hand in front of her grinning face. I shook my head, only while holding her gaze.
Walking over to me she asked if I wanted another glass of wine. “No, but I’ll have a glass
of water.” I said. She made out as if she would throw the water in my face, a trace
amount escaped the cup and dripped haphazard onto the bar, a little got on my shirt. I
stood and over-exaggerated the moment pulling my arms up at my sides and
expressing a feeling of utter distaste and bewilderment. The Germans stopped what
they were doing and half-turned their bodies towards me, their right hands cradling
their Radler’s which were all aligned on the bar, their eyes wide with excitement.
Rebecca recognized my scene and stood there shaking her head. I sat back down,
smiling. “You knew I was bluffing?” I inquired, in Swedish. “Of course.” She said,
grinning, and still shaking her head. “Can you get me a new water?” I suggested, as
straight-faced as possible. “…this one spilled.” I continued, holding back my laughter.
Our conversation was maintained in multiple languages, none of which were German.
The German family was sitting there, motionless, dumfounded, and trying to make
sense of what was happening. „Er ist ein Idiot.” Rebecca explained. They laughed with a
heavy German accent. I shook my head. One of the Germans pointed at me „Idiot.” He
said, laughing. Another repeated. „Idiot!” I met Rebecca’s gaze, she was attempting to
conceal her laughter. „Idiot.” I said, agreeing. I sipped at my water. The door behind me
slide open, a rush of warm country air, again, filled the cabin. I heard two sets of feet
and two different voices whispering to one another as the door slide shut. They sat in
the seat between the Germans and me. Chatting amid themselves, not yet
acknowledging that anyone existed outside of their cooperative. I think they were
speaking Turkish. “Murhaba?” I said. They stopped speaking and looked over at me,
surprised. “Sen. Türkçe konuş?” One off the two of them inquired. “Biraz. Evet.” I
responded. Rebecca, the Germans, and the two Turks were looking at me, perplexed.
“Yeah, I don’t know.” I responded, in German. “You’re an interesting, and surprising guy.”
Rebecca said, in Swedish. “Thanks.” I responded. The two Turks asked Rebecca, in
German, if she had Raki. She didn’t. They asked her to make something called an Ayran:
a mixture of yogurt, water, and salt, and they asked her too to add a milk based alcohol
to it. She nodded. “I can do that.” Rebecca responded, in German. The pair seemed to
understand German very well, though their German was poor. She made extra because
everyone at the bar was interested in this Ayran drink. I savored it, which is to say that I
drank it slowly, to understand it. The consistency was strange, it was thick, I don’t
generally like that, but I enjoyed it, for the most part. The Germans didn’t. Every one of
them inhaled it, emptying the shot glass into their throats as if humans have yet to learn
how to sip. Two of them spit it out, savagely. Spraying the Ayran over the bar in a mist
of yogurt, water, Kumis, and salt. Rebecca’s expression was laughable. She was
exposed, though she escaped the forceful mist with a reactive precision. The Turkish
couple was hysterical. Though they didn’t surrender a drop of their precious Ayran.
Quite the opposite in fact. They flattered Rebecca to no ends for her translation of the
beloved drink, in broken and really, really terrible German. Rebecca quickly offered the
Germans another Radler. The first half of the bottle they downed to wash the Turkish
aftertaste out of their mouths, then sighed heavily as if they had come excruciatingly
close to death and had beat it back with their favorite German alcoholic beverages. I sat
at the bar grinning out of the corner of my mouth and shaking my head while watching
the Germans, I was making a mental note to write about this later. Rebecca filled my
water glass. I thanked her in a bizaar compilation of several different languages. She
walked away shaking with amusement. “You went to school in Sweden, yes?” I asked
Rebecca as she turned towards me while acknowledging the couple next to me, she
nodded, while mixing another Ayran for the Turkish couple. “Yes.” She responded.
“When I went to get my bags I was interrupted by someone who is…or was a teacher at the same
high school that I went to, in Texas…” I said. “On this train? Sitting in your seat?” She
inquired. “Yeah, I know, a crazy happenstance.” I responded. “Yeah, to say the least.” She
said. “We were talking about the education system, in the States. I’ve heard a little about
education in Scandinavia, but not a lot. What do you think of it?” I inquired. “From what I
understand about the American school system is that Sweden’s is not all that different; I think
more money goes to the schools in Sweden, and there are more avenues students can take to
succeed. Other than that I think it’s pretty similar. There are a lot more students in the States
than in Sweden.” She finished as she handed them their drinks. “I guess that makes sense, I
don’t necessary know what I imagine it would be like; I know what I think would be ideal…” I
said. Rebecca didn’t take the bait, part of me was glad because I wasn’t too eager to
continue talking about it, right now. It’s interesting. As often as politics comes up in
conversation I really, really do hate talking about it. I think that it’s a good reason for
leaving the States when I did. The political conversation in the United States since Bush
was President has exploded, people have become considerably more vocal and yet,
simultaneously, less reasonable. We hear only the arguments made by either affiliates
extremists, and intellection is a thing of the past, it no longer exists, a distant memory in
the hind-sights of the tribal elders. If you are even the slightest bit political the
campaign leading up to the end of Obama’s second term was the catalyst for our
implosive end. Jon Stewart was the only semblance of sanity and after he stepped down
people quickly became incapable of tactical moderateness. The Americas were literally
reduced to a state of Blackness & Whiteness. Everything that happened anywhere,
regardless of intention or understanding or judgment, was scrutinized, dissected,
examined, and was made stupefied. Everyone took every fathomable opportunity to
argue and no one cared even what they were arguing about; it was as if the stress of our
constructed society was so overwhelming that we used the excuse to let off steam and
our moods only dictated the position we would take on any particular issue. The
argument one person made for one issue would likely contradict entirely the argument
said person would make for another issue; gun control and abortion, for example, the
relation each have to life was suddenly irrelevant. “Tell me about your childhood.”
Rebecca asked, pulling me away from my dark and ceaseless downward spiraling
staircase of anxiety and insecurity. “My childhood?” I repeated. Rebecca nodded. “Well,
honestly, my childhood feels like, um…it’s foggy, kind of like drifting between different dreams
that are obscured further by brief spells of unreliable memory. It honestly feels like I’ve been
asleep for much of my life, and I am only now—the last couple of years or so—waking up.” I
said. “So you can’t tell me anything about your childhood?” she inquired further. “No, I
mean, sure I can, like…I moved around a great deal with my family, my dad was in the military.
We settled in a small town in Texas, and during university I started moving around again. I
lived in a few states on my own, had a few bad relationships, made a lot of mistakes, lost myself
almost entirely, and reorganized and remodeled myself. And, sure, I do have stories that are
tragic or funny or both, and then finally I…woke up, I guess. I have been asleep for a long time.”
I repeated. “Tell me a story.” Rebecca appealed. I looked into my water. “I don’t know…”
I said, “I used to be a really great story teller, but somewhere along the way, probably as a
result of being submissive and squelched throughout a couple of relationships, I just kind of
stopped, and now I’ll only really, occasionally, tell stories as they relate to something that
happens. It’s one of those things that tempered without my assent, one of those things that I miss
about myself in my youth.” I said, while Rebecca cleared and replaced empty glasses and
bottles and wiped down a few surfaces, she was listening to me while simultaneously
over-considering my words. She was silent. “I guess I’m just trying to understand how it is
that you tell stories for a living, but can’t tell me a story, here, now.” “Oh, right, yeah…”
Rebecca looked over at me. “I don’t really know what to tell you, it’s complicated, I guess…or
maybe it isn’t, I had to rely, for a long time, on the stories I tell myself, and the fantasies that I
have created for myself, internally, for survival. There was a time, while in a terrible relationship
situation, and writing, that I was forced to create pronounced distinctions between my writing
and my reality. If anything I wrote even seemingly approached anything that appeared even
slightly like my reality in this relationship I would get a lot of shit for it…” I said. “Oh, I see,
OK.” Rebecca responded. “Yeah…so I had to separate things, and in some bizarre way the
distinctions I made influenced me even greater than I could have imagined, in a very, very
unfortunate kind-of-a-way. It was like she had infiltrated and infected every layer of my life.” I
said. “That’s too bad.” Rebecca said. I nodded. “With the exception of some minor things,
such as telling stories, I’ve come past it considerably over the last few years. I’m waking up…” I
said, again. Rebecca smiled. “When I was living in New York City, I went to a little café on
the Upper East Side one afternoon called Serendipity 3, it’s usually crowded, and this afternoon
was no different. The two friends I was with sat outside while I left our name in wait for a table.
While I was standing there I overheard the manager and the host talking amongst themselves
about someone coming in. The manger asked when, etc., curious I asked who they were talking
about and the host pointed towards the center of the restaurant at a man and his grand-daughter
sitting at a table as if in spotlight by a window above, “Paul McCartney…”the host said. I ran
outside and standing above my friends said, “Guess who’s inside right now?” “Who?” they said,
unwilling to actually guess, I happened to be wearing a Beatles shirt underneath my button up,
revealing the shirt I said him…pointing, ”John Lennon!” one of the two of my friends said.
Shaking my head in disappointment I confessed, “Paul McCartney.” I said. And, the same week,
Rebecca, I was walking through Central Park, near Strawberry Fields with my parents. A
woman pushing a stroller and walking in front of me dropped a bottle, so I picked it up and
handed it to her. She thanked me and we chatted, very briefly. I turned around to see my dad
wide-eyed and smiling. “What?” I said. “Do you know who that was!?” He responded. “No,
why? What?” “That was Yoko Ono!” So within the course of a single week I was in the presence
of both Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono.” Rebecca smiled. “That’s a good story.” She said.
“It’s the first one that came to mind…” I responded. “One afternoon many, many years ago, I
was a baby and I was napping in my crib while we were living in North Carolina. My mother
needed to go to the store—for something, I don’t remember what—she dreaded waking me
because if woken up I was a terror…” I said, and Rebecca interjected. “Are you still a terror if
someone wakes you up?” “Most definitely.” I said, Rebecca ginned. “My mom decided to go to
the store and leave me asleep in the crib. While driving, nearly at the store, my mother was
overwhelmed by a strong feeling that forced her to turn the car around, drive back to the house,
and wake me up. Per usual getting me up was a terrific hassle and I screamed and punched and
kicked and cried and threw shit, it was bad. My mother and I drove back to the store and she
went about her errands. Later that afternoon as we pulled up to the house it was completely
engulfed in flames. Just gone. Done. On fire. While I lay sleeping in the back seat of the car.” I
told the story in German. Rebecca and the Germans were staring at me and shaking
their heads. “Is that a true story? That really happened?” The young German woman
asked. I nodded. Rebecca only stared still shaking her head. “That’s crazy.” She
whispered. “So, GOD intervened and saved your life.” One of the Germans said. “Well, um,
shit, I wouldn’t quiet put it that way…you know, the universe, maybe, got involved…” I
responded. “Do you not believe in GOD?” The same German inquired. “I believe in GOD,
sure, just a little differently than most people, or organized religions do, or I perceive, um, “him”
different.” I responded, putting quotations around “him”. “What do you believe?” “Let’s
just say that I believe GOD is like water and we are like fish…” I said. They nodded in
acceptance. “But not like…” One of the Germans continued. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I
would rather not talk about religion right now.” „Das ist OK.” They said. I smiled. “Is it a
sore topic?” The young German woman asked. “Not especially, no. I’ve been having a series
of somewhat ‘serious’ conversations lately, and I’m not really in the mood…but by all means,
talk theology amongst yourselves…I’ll remain uninvolved.” I responded. They did not
continue the conversation. “This is a long ride.” I commented, in Swedish, to Rebecca.
She nodded. “I am pretty familiar with it, and I don’t necessarily have a destination, like you.”
Rebecca continued. I’m more or less just riding, too. More than anything I’m trying to
convince myself not to get another glass of wine.” I said. “Oh, I see. Well, why not have another
glass? It’s on me.” Rebecca said. “Why are you going to Leipzig?” Rebecca inquired, while
pouring a fourth glass. I laughed. “It never occurred to me that you didn’t know…” I
started, “I’m eventually headed to Hamburg after playing tourist in Leipzig and Berlin.” I said.
“What’s in Hamburg?” Rebecca asked. “I designed and commissioned a sailboat before I left
for Europe, to be constructed in Hamburg. I’m going to pick it up.” I responded. “A sailboat?
Then what next?” she inquired. “I don’t really know. My plan, I guess, is just to sail around
for a while and live on my boat.” I said. “You’re serious?” she asked. “Yeah, of course.”
“Where are you going to first? Have you decided?” Rebecca asked. “I am going to sail around
Denmark and spend some time in Sweden, actually. And then I’ll sail back around Denmark,
and through the English Channel, around France and Portugal, through Gibraltar, and then I’ll
spend some time in Morocco, and after that, I don’t know, I’ll sail around The Mediterranean for
a while.” I said. “Wow!” “You’re just going to do this alone, just sail around, living on a boat,
for however long…alone.” Rebecca said. “Well, yeah. Unless you want to join me.” I said.
“How long have you been planning this?” she asked. “Oh, years.” I told her. “And you can
sail?” she asked. I laughed. “No, I hate the water…of course I can sail! I grew up sailing.” I
responded. “You grew up in Texas, right?” she confirmed. “My Father kept a boat, a
Catalina 22, in Port Aransas, The Gulf of Mexico, a few hours from our family home.” I said.
“Oh that’s right, Texas is not landlocked.” She said, I shook my head. “…unless I want to
go? Really.” She confirmed. “Um, yeah, I guess, why not?” I responded. “That sounds
amazing. What about my son, though.” She asked. “I don’t know. You could sell him…” I
said, Rebecca laughed. “Honestly, I guess if we’re seriously considering it, we can talk about
it.” I said. “We’d have to decide by, like, tomorrow, right?” she asked. “Not necessarily. I’ll be
in the area for a while. In Denmark, and Sweden, and back…I could probably pick you two up
somewhere.” I said. Rebecca nodded. “How big is the boat? How many rooms, and such?”
Rebecca asked. “It’s pretty big. There’s a large living area, a large bedroom for me, and two
smaller rooms, and a study.” I said. Rebecca didn’t respond. It’s becoming clear to me that
she will retreat inside herself to contemplate things, it’s interesting because she seems to
stay there only a short time. “I read once that if you ask someone 36 questions you will fall in
love with them.” I suggested, in German so that anyone might respond. Most of the
Germans seemed uninterested. The young German woman told me to ask her anything
I wanted. Rebecca smiled from the side of her mouth. “What’s your name?” I asked.
„Anja” she responded. “That’s beautiful.” I said. Anja smiled, as did Rebecca. The three
of us talked back-and-forth for several minutes without really saying anything. For the
longest time I have felt that having meaningful conversations was so much more
significant than engaging in any kind of lesser conversation, in small talk, that I would
actively disengage or steer clear of topics that might seem prosaic. Sitting here now
listening to the three of us talk it’s obvious to me that it is the seemingly meaningless
conversations that really allow people to connect. At the start of any relationship people
relate by exploring that something that supports that particular narrative; yet if the
narrative appeared banal I would shy away from it, which would ultimately sabotage
the entire relationship. How many friendships have dissolved because of my
unwillingness to allow them to develop organically? It’s unfortunate. I was
apprehensive too of the idea that our friendship was defined wholly by a single
narrative, but there’s really nothing wrong with that. It can be intriguing finding new
ways to talk about the same thing, challenging even. Exciting. Somewhere along the
line, without the wherewithal, the understanding, or the regard that narrative will
change, and the friendship will have unexpectedly developed into something greater
even than what you may have heretofore imagined. If you’re able to connect with
someone by any means do it, it will change your life dramatically. Don’t let the fear of
appearing boring get in the way of developing relationships. It’s not worth it. I have
watched friends come and go in my life, too many, and probably more than average, for
several reasons, but also due, in part, to self-doubt. It’s a dangerous thing. We talked
until the train skated, hissed, and then settled at Leipzig Hauptbahnhof. I savored the last
sip of wine while waiting on Rebecca to close down the bar. “There are several things I’ll
need to take care of before I can go, but there is a Dunkin Donuts in the station if you want to
wait for me there.” Rebecca said. I nodded, first. “Yeah, that sounds fine. You have my
number, too, yes?” I confirmed. “Yeah, I do.” Rebecca responded. She pushed my bags
towards the side of the bar, and after taking them I wandered through the station for a
while looking for Dunkin Donuts. Leipzig Hauptbahnhof is gorgeous, and it’s three stories
that you can look-out-and-down into the middlemost of the station. Rebecca called me
while I was wandering around, she was wondering where I was, I told her I was so
impressed with the station that I’ve been wandering and haven’t made it to the café yet.
She laughed. “I’ll be there soon.” I told her. “Do you want anything?” She offered. “No,
thank you. Let’s grab dinner somewhere other than Dunkin Donuts.” I suggested. She
laughed, again. “Let’s meet at the stations entrance then.” Rebecca suggested. “Sure.” I
said. “You don’t really like talking on the phone, do you?” she inquired. “Not really, especially
when you’re right around the corner.” I said. I could feel her smiling. “I’ll see you in a
minute.” She said. “I’m on my way.” I hung up the phone. I watched Rebecca out front
for a moment taking in the Leipzig air and enjoying the rush of people coming-and-
going around her. She is very beautiful. I walked out and she saw me immediately, she
took my hand in order to guide me away from the station. “Where do you want to go?”
she asked. “I don’t know, let’s wander until something intrigues us.” I said. So Rebecca and I
walked and we talked for a while until something jumped out at us.

Chapter XI

I pulled into the drive late in the evening, but earlier than I expected. The
humidity in the air was demanding as I opened the door. Still, I felt relaxed. I felt almost
giddy, even. It had been more than ten years since I set foot on this soil. I closed my
eyes and took a deep breath, and with it I inhaled the reserved or neglected memories
of a different time, and I exhaled the anamnesis connected to any adverse and
disallowing memory. The cottage was comfortable. I slept better that night than I had in
longer than I can recall. The following day I sat in the coffeehouse that intrigued my
love for coffeehouses. On the front porch I sipped at a tea and watched people wander
Old Town. Breathing deep I inhaled again a familiar but forgotten perception. I sat
there all afternoon, with a book that I have been intending to read for a while, I read
until the sun nearly set. I drove then to the top of Tower Road, as I often did at sunset,
and sat under the sky until the stars were as demanding as the lights in the near
distance. In the morning I unpacked the truck. In the late morning I played tourist and
walked up and down the streets of Old Town. While browsing an open vender ‘antique
shop’ I inquired about an empty room. It was explained to me that it was available for
rent, and that the manager was trying to increase diversity in the building, so it would
be beneficial if I wasn’t interested in selling antiques, only. I explained that I’m
interested in selling books. I agreed to move in the following week. In the evening I
walked the path along the river and welcomed flash backs of my life here more than a
decade earlier. I stopped next to a tree along the river, it had grown to imitate the
perfect natural hammock. I would lay there on afternoons that I didn’t work and read,
for hours. It was on this tree that I developed my love for reading, and literature. It was
also while I was reading on this tree that I heard about the death of another close friend.
The third close friend that passed in as many years. I refused to accept it. It seemed
impossible. I remember it was at that point that I really began to struggle with the
concept of death, and the perceptual definitiveness that followed it. We relate to our
realities expressly visual, it’s concrete. We impose our truth on an understanding that is
manipulated entirely on what and how we see our world, even our feelings are
interconnected visually. So we perceive death, in many ways, the same way that we do
with the loss of things that we have an emotional connection with, but not necessarily
based on the immediate emotional connect that we make with people, or rather the
basic fundamental connection that we share with all living things. We relate to it like
that feeling of their presence no longer exists and we just accept that because we longer
see them when, in actuality, that couldn’t be further from the truth. The struggle for me
was balancing the societal understanding and acceptance of death of loss and the
connection I continued to feel with people that had sense passed away. I refused to
believe that Ben, Marina, and Mary Beth had passed away because I could still feel
them. I guess it felt like Schrödinger’s Cat: the cat in box both existed and ceased to exist
simultaneously, based, again, entirely on our perspective. I lay in the tree with my eyes
closed watching, again, a whirlwind of conditioned saturation guiding me through my
cognition, this too I experienced visually. But I didn’t want to. So I focused my
attention, my actual cognitive method, sensually. I tried to feel my thoughts. As
opposed to either see them, or worse, receive them without understanding or
mindfulness. I could recognize very brief increments of sensual understanding but it
was clear that this was going to take practice. When I opened my eyes I felt like I
understood things different. Almost as if I saw things differently. Though I couldn’t
understand, or explain this change just yet. As I continued my walk I did recognize that
the energy was different. The people were different. Everywhere. I recognized that
unfamiliar faces aggressively outnumbered the familiar. In fact the energy of the town
in its entirety was different. When I first arrived I had stepped back into a place familiar
and, for a while, I was content in staying there, only I was not actually there. The move
did allow me to open up, intrinsically, and I am grateful for that. Over the next week I
noticed that I was spending all of my time alone, it hadn’t occurred to me before now. I
was not speaking with anyone, at all. It’s interesting that I was so intent on making this
sabbatical an inherent and emotional detox that I had not once considered, before now,
my lack of personal interaction. I was providing everything that I needed for myself
and, for the moment, that was enough, that is exactly what I needed, and what I
expected of myself. It reminded me of my time in Idaho. After living in Texas for the
better part of my life I began to feel stagnate, like my life had leveled-out, day-in and
day-out I lived exactly the same way, I seldom had anything to look forward to, and I
seldom broke away from my routines. So I packed-up my car and started driving west;
eventually I veered north; and stopped, for what turned out to be, several months in
Idaho Falls, Idaho. During that time I worked a graveyard shift; 8:00PM until 8:00AM
every single day, 7 days a week, for months. I realized probably a month into the
“sabbatical” that I hadn’t spoken, I hadn’t even opened my mouth to speak, the entire
time I worked there. I mean, I worked on my own, and wore heavy earmuffs to cancel
out the sound, and during the day I slept, and in the early evenings I wrote. I didn’t
own a Teevee to yell at—it is possible, actually, that I would sing along to the radio
driving to and from work—nevertheless I did not connect with anyone for those several
months. Not many people can imagine what that’s like, to be completely reliant on
yourself for emotional and intellectual stimulation, it’s challenging. And you are forced
to learn a great deal about yourself, and to confront aspects and characteristics that you
may not particular like about yourself; characteristics that you would otherwise
suppress with Teevee, Social Media, or even your interactions. Of course, as soon as I
realized that I was not connecting with people I began to crave attention, and I felt the
need to connect, or maybe until now I didn’t need it, and suddenly, my revelation, is an
expression of that need. Regardless I wanted to know, and to be close to people, again.
Once I desired a personal connection I began to push. Again. I came off strong, again. I
made mistakes, again. I was lacking, again. So, I began to rely, again, on social media.
Negative patterns have a way of repeating themselves. All patterns have a way of
repeating themselves, this is why they are patterns. And because I made a habit of
acting and reacting in a specific way, when the time came to reevaluate, my negative
patterns reemerged more easily. I have come all this way to restructure, to reevaluate, to
recognize who I am, and who I want to be. I am not OK with living my life this way, I
am not OK with these particular failings.

One afternoon while I was sitting in a bar, enjoying a nice glass of Cabernet
Sauvignon, and doing some light people watching, I started thinking about the
bartenders and how interesting and engaging they seemed, and then, of course, I
wanted desperately to connect with them. Eavesdropping offered enough to know that
one of the two bartenders, Nile, who is a little older than me, aspired to open his own
bar down the street. And the other, Jenn, was younger, she was cuter: she had long,
wavy dark hair, hazel eyes, a nice laugh, and she was flirty. However rather than
talking to them, and therefore allowing my bad little habits of overcomplicating the
situation dictate my relationship with them for the rest of my life, I decided instead—
consciously—to make this bar a platform for inspiring new, and better patterns. My first
attempts were emotional and mental, I began repeating an affirmation: I am engaging
and approachable, I am engaging and approachable, I am engaging and approachable. Almost
immediately both Jenn and Nile started up a conversation with me. I continued with
the aforementioned affirmation and included other affirmations, and I practiced in
various places—without fail, regardless of where I was, someone would strike up a
conversation. Eventually my confidence began to grow. I began going out every night.

“What is that? Does it smell like something’s burning?” Alfonse leaned over to ask
me. I over exaggerate a sniff, a couple of times. “Oh, no, that’s coffee.” I say. “Really?” He
asks. “Yeah, they don’t roast their cherries here so you’re probably not used to it, but I’ve spent
a lot of time in coffeehouses that roast their own cherries, also they’ve burnt the cherries here. So,
yes, I guess something is burning, or burnt. Usually I like the smell of coffee, but here it smells so
chemical.” I said. Alfonse and I, both, put our heads back in our books. A few minutes
later Brittany walked in. I noticed her immediately but affected otherwise. She first sat
at a table near the opposite end of the coffeehouse, but moved to the bar directly across
from me. She was playing with her phone. I was hesitant to engage, she’s interesting,
which made me nervous. Her chest and feet were both pointed towards me so I made
eye contact with her and she waved. “I like your cup.” She said, taking a sip of her drink.
“Thanks. Do you know what it is?” I asked walking over to her. Brittany shook her head.
“It’s Maté. A tea that grows almost exclusively in Uruguay. They hallow out a gourd and sip it
through a Bombilla.” I lifted and displayed the Bombilla. I was realizing now that I had
no idea what else to talk about. My mind had simply quit. Shit, I was thinking. “What
are you up to?” I asked. “I’m waiting for my friend. I was going to study Biology, but I’m not
going to anymore.” Brittany said, laying her phone down and pushing it across the bar.
“You’re going to study on your phone?” “Yeah.” Briefly I talked about how little I
understood our smart phones. And then, again, I began drawing a blank. “I have a test
tomorrow, it’s on the reproductive system.” Brittany said. “Do you know it?” I asked. Having
a conversation one-on-one with a person is much more complicated than talking to
multiple people. Especially if you’ve spent the last several years in an overly controlling
and manipulative relationship, but I guess that’s normal? Maybe not to the extent of my
inaptitude, but to some extent. I reengaged and realized now that we somehow started
talking about James Franco. What the hell? “It’s crazy for me to think about that when that
guy, the guy Franco played in…oh, what was that movie?” I said. “Um…” She was thinking.
“Something hours…right, 127 hours.” “…mmmya.” Brittany said, nodding her head.
“When he was cutting off his arm, you know, I tend to think about where I was…I was about to
graduate high school, while this guy was stuck in a cave in Utah cutting off his arm, that’s
crazy!” I said. “That is crazy to think about.” She responded, and started talking about
something related. I was growing more and more anxious, and worrying about what
happens when neither of us has anything to say, while simultaneously thinking about
the fact that the two of us were presently and actively engaged in conversation. How
ridiculous is it to be worrying about what would happen when we didn’t have anything
to talk about while we are talking? And, also consciously thinking about how ridiculous
it is to worry about it while we are talking, and knowing that because I was worrying
and thinking about it that I wasn’t, in fact, listening to her. “There’s my friend.” Brittany
said, as a white ford skidded slowly into a tight spot right next to Brittany’s car. “It’s
funny, she has that whole parking lot and she is pulling in right next to you.” I said. Brittany
nods slowly, her straw is in her mouth. “That’s your car right? The Beetle.” “Yeah.” “Well,
I’ll let the two of you chat.” I said. She seemed surprised that I stood up to leave, I’m
surprised that I stood up to leave. Why did I do that? I thought to myself, and began
thinking of reasons to talk to her again. I looked at my phone and had a strange
message from an old friend on Facebook that I couldn’t make sense of. That’s it! I
walked over to the two of them. “Does this message make sense to you either of you? I can’t
figure it out.” Brittany and her friend read the message and laughed lightly. They
couldn’t figure it out, but enjoyed making up their own understandings. I stepped back
to them once or twice to show them mine and the sender’s responses. Driving home I
felt great having made that connection with Brittany. It wasn’t nearly to the extent that I
really wanted, and it wasn’t a conversation as engaging and relating as I knew we were
capable of, but it was a start and that felt huge. It had been extremely difficult for me to
have successful human interaction with anyone in a long time, especially someone that
presented such a strong positive vibe. And then we didn’t speak for a bit. As a
graduation present I told her I had a gift certificate for my bookstore, she seemed
pleased, and possibly even excited. The following day I asked if she wanted to join me
at the coffeehouse. And that was it. Somewhere within the affixing chain link that
illustrated our friendship I had faltered. Brittany ended our friendship and withdrew
from my life, or so it had seemed. Considering my issues it’s entirely possible, plausible
even, that I overreacted to her overtones, and made more of her intents and purposes
than was necessary, ultimately causing more problems in our friendship. But I can’t
bloody help it. I’m struggling here. This is a challenge for me. Help me, please to get past
this initial chrysalis phase, and settle comfortably in development. I come off strong dammit,
and I would do anything, I would try anything, if I only knew how to fix it. I don’t over
engage because I don’t want to put her in a position, but what if I need to engage, what
if approaching her is exactly what I should do? But what if that makes her
uncomfortable? I sent her another message. One last effort to do everything I feel
comfortable doing to connect with her. She doesn’t respond. This afternoon I was sitting
in the coffeehouse writing, and she came in with a friend. I told myself that when I saw
her in here again I would approach her, I would tell her that I wanted to start over, I
would reintroduce myself, and I would hope that she understood and allowed me the
opportunity, but three of her coworkers are sitting at a table near me. Am I
overthinking it? What if I try to approach her and it creates fissures, awkwardness for
her and her coworkers. Everything I do, as terribly underdeveloped at is it, is still solely
with her and her feelings in mind. That night I sat in the dark on my couch and cursed
Saaiqa. I wept, even. My frustration and my anxiety, my depression and my traumas,
they were the deciding factor in the development of my friendships. I want to break free
from this, I want to project myself differently. More confidently. More intently. I want
to be able to approach a person and speak my mind freely, and for that person to react
however they feel they need to and for that to be it. I want something to finally happen
in my favor. I deserve it. I’ve earned it. I don’t ask for much; I understand that there is a
great deal that is a direct result of my efforts and I can, and I have accepted that fully.
But right now, tonight, in this moment, I need something to work for me. All I really
want, is: 1.) To support myself, and to be respected as an author, and 2.) To be in a
position with Brittany—with anyone—where I can be me, all I want is the two of us can
sit across from each other and engage in conversation as people do, and to allow my
own merits, and characteristics, and emotions to speak for themselves. In both cases all
that I am asking for is an opportunity, a chance to be that writer, that author that I know
I am capable of, and to be the best possible version of myself with Brittany—with
anybody—that I know that I am capable of! I am an awesome person: I’m kind, I’m
understanding, I’m open, I’m smart, and I’m funny, I am trustworthy, I am thoughtful,
and I am an excellent friend. People would be grateful to know me. Brittany would be
grateful to know me, if I could just bloody behave like me.

I woke up feeling anxious and creepy. I’ve been feeling anxious, a lot; and more
recently I have been feeling like a creep, like I am behaving in overbearing and deceitful
ways, and I am making people uncomfortable. I feel like nobody wants to be around
me, and that even though I feel like that and that I am trying to be a good,
approachable, and trustworthy person, people are actually seeing the exact opposite. It
scares me. I try so hard to radiate vibes of positivity and love, but based on the reactions
of the people around me I’m not that person, the person that I want so badly to be. Still
in bed, I checked my email, on my phone. Most of the mail I receive is mass produced,
but interesting, and hopefully helpful. I read my horoscopes every day, and try to
imitate those intentions. In the back-of-my-mind I have been expecting an email, one
that I didn’t actually want to receive. Brittany works at a restaurant that I frequent,
which is unfortunate because my intentions haven’t mirrored my behavior, apparently.
There have been several people throughout my life who have had a similar presence,
and I have pursued each friendship aggressively, in each case I am overwhelmed with a
desire to know that person. My attraction is neither romantic nor sexual, not
immediately, and only in one case has it developed along those lines, no my attraction
is strictly friendly. I resonate with them and just want to know them. My interaction
with Brittany was the first such engagement following my relationship with Saaiqa, and
apparently behaving normal, and like a decent human being, was out-of-the-question. I
came-off too strong, and I made her uncomfortable, and I, well…I think that’s the worst
of it? The way she reacted it would have seemed that I did something terrible. The
communication that I have had with a handful of people that work at this restaurant
over the last few days has been disturbing, as a result of my realization of rumors that
have influenced how people perceive me. Knowing that there are some who have been
talking about me in a negative and manipulated way every time I walked through the
doors of The Evading Fowl restaurant is humiliating, especially because it was all initially
based off of the interpretation and perspective of a childish and apprehensive young
women who is overly fearful of the opposite sex, and of growing-up. Though, granted,
I’m not completely innocent in all of this either. Despite my bold attraction for Brittany I
did make her uncomfortable, I did come-off strong, I did make mistakes, and because of
that I have to accept responsibility, and the consequences of my actions. Laying here in
bed, though, I just feel so hallow at my core, and when I’m not feeling hallow I’m
feeling anxious. The Evading Fowl makes up half-of-my-life right now, and a large
percentage of people that I know and enjoy engaging in conversation with are there.
And there it is, just below my horoscope, the email that I’ve been anticipating, the email
I’ve been dreading. Reading it my heart faded, there was very little pain, expressively.
Before finishing it I felt nothing, at all. There was only a hallow isolation. I was
abandoned.
…if you could refrain from returning to The Evading Fowl in the future…

I wonder, sometimes, if others are capable of feeling the sadness that I feel when
I think about the incredible divide that we have created between ourselves. A divide
that will severe people whom are sheltered in hate and in fear from those that are
willing to embrace and to accept others in love. It is so difficult for me because I can
recognize that, for some, their fear is so deeply-rooted they cannot even see it for what it
is, they cannot see the influence and the impact of their fear and their hate on
themselves, on others, and on our society. It is criminal, I know, but I am losing hope in
humanity—or, perhaps, more appropriately, only our manipulated and conditioned
cavity of humanity. How manipulation and control, prejudice and bigotry, exclusion
and alienation are preserved in the hollows of a person’s heart is something that I
simply cannot understand. Some are so incapable of recognizing the beckoning
demands of their emotions that they cannot aptly interact with other human beings at
all. For the rest of us, myself included, I often struggle with connecting with people
simply because I want so badly to connect with people. I believe that this is because our
priming is so extreme that many recognize the desire to connect as threatening, and will
instead accept aggression and suspicion as normal. I have never lived in a world that
has simulated anything other than that representation, and yet I still am capable of
recognizing the standard as absurd. I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and accepted
the consequences of my actions, almost. I did sent a reply. I apologized, I assured him
that I would respect his wishes, and I pointed out that my presence at The Evading Fowl
was never reactionary. I never caused problems within the restaurant, and any problem
was, in fact, created by, and was escalated by their employees. I knew he wouldn’t
respond, I knew that no one would. The pinnacle distraction of my life, I am left
questioning myself: my abilities as a human being, my abilities as a social creature, my
spiritual practices, there are so few people in my life, and yet I still have such a strong
desire to connect with people. I got out of bed. I took a shower. I dabbled around the
house a bit. As emotionless, as empty as I am, I still needed to be out there, there is a
world that I cannot hide from; regardless of how pointless it might seem. What I did
have, what I would always have is a notebook and a pen. I had faith in my writing. I
was connecting still with a part of me that observed the interconnectivity amongst
people. Through my writing, where I seemed so incapable of connecting with people
personally I could intra-personally, and that’s where I would go. I could sit where
people would surround me. I would look-up and sometimes see myself in people in the
coffeehouse, and in others I would see nothing, nevertheless—regardless of what I
saw—there were still people.

I looked up and saw Aspen sitting on a barstool, waiting for her coffee. She
recently returned from a mission trip to a city in Eastern Russia. I met her while helping
a long-time friend with his catering business. Aspen and I didn’t speak often but I
always enjoyed it when we did. Afterwards I would usually feel a little culpable, I
would recourse and start poking fun of her, wanting to make her laugh. More often
than not she would laugh, nevertheless I would always wish that I didn’t direct the
conversation that way, and yet I always did. “How was it?” I asked, sitting next to her.
“Oh, hey.” She said. “Oh, hey.” I responded. “How was it?” I asked, again. “It was…I
mean, like, I didn’t want to come back. I want to go back.” She said. “Yeah, I bet. When are you
trying to go?” I asked. “I’d like to go next summer, but, like, I don’t know. My parents are, like,
worried cause I’m, like, a girl, and I don’t have a lot of life experience, it would just, like, be hard
to make it work right now.” Aspen responded. “Have you thought about finding another
method to go back? Maybe, teaching English, or something.” I said. “I don’t know. I would, like,
still be alone, and if I somehow, like, went with the church, I would be with our interpreters, and,
like, they would be working during the day and couldn’t be with me, and, like, it would just be
hard.” She said. “So, tell me about it.” Aspen smiled, and took a deep breath. Listening to
her talk was refreshing. She was different. In the two weeks that she was gone her
entire perspective on life had changed, for the better. The way that people lived, and
interacted, and appreciated life there inspired her. She told me about the first time
seeing her friends since coming back stateside, she said that listening to them talk was
enlightening; what they talked about, what they complained about, what they worried
about, it was….it no longer felt like her world, or her problems. Aspen had experienced
something that allowed her to be more conscious and more open to the aesthetic side of
life. It made me feel better. Watching her and listening to her talk restored a great deal
of hope. She had spent almost her entire life in a small town in the Texas Hill Country,
her formidable years spent in a school system where she is surrounded by over-
privileged white kids; her entire world, and her conditioning were nearly resolved, her
character manipulated in the same way as every other Christian, Conservative teenager
inside a hundred miles of here; and yet the two weeks she spent within a culture that
actually values feeling in equal effect to thought has brought her here, sitting in front of
me, expressing herself in a way unique and undervalued. I am amazed by her insight. I
smiled while listening to her, occasionally finishing her sentences in order to help her
better understand, and perhaps to accept her new perspective, to encourage her to
develop it, and to acknowledge how easily it would be to slip back into the American
standard. “You’re aware of it now, you will undoubtedly be overwhelmed by this culture, but at
the very least, if you maintain your understanding, your appreciation, and your mindset,
nothing can take that away; and someday, soon, if you really want it, you can live that way,
again.” I said. I didn’t want the conversation to end. But I had a meeting. I kept telling
her how excited I was for her. Throughout the course of the day I could not stop
thinking about our conversation. Just before making our goodbyes, before the two of us
left she said to me that, “Entertainment is the lust that has driven our society mad.” It really
is incredible, most people with her upbringing and perspective would have talked
about how underdeveloped and dirty Russia was, they would have expressed immense
gratitude for being home, where it’s clean and refined. Very few people would even
recognize culture, community, or fellowship in the way that Aspen has. Entertainment is
the lust that has driven our society mad.
Chapter XII

How can we value life if we are taught, at every turn, to devalue something else
about our humanity, our differences? I cannot stand to advocate for any political
affiliate, for any dogma, for any ideal, because our belief system is centralized around
the disbelief of its converse. We are kidding ourselves if we believe, honestly, that our
social focus is on our values. We value politics and we squabble, we value religion and
we isolate, we value things and we lust, I have seen it, we have all of us seen it.
However, if we can accept one another, if we can be understanding, and if we are
capable of love, then our values cannot help but to become apparent, intentional, and
uniting. It’s interesting to think about, as long as we have been around it is still
challenging for us to be conscious about the absurdities our stigmas will create, and to
be conscious about the way we interact with one another. The little things that some
people will hold on to justify all but attacking the behaviors of others confounds me.
Because, I mean, it’s easy to be an asshole. It’s kind of our default setting, it requires no
effort or thought, you know, it’s easy. It’s not always so easy to be good to one another.
In fact, as I have mentioned, I believe that genuine intelligence is a result only of how
we treat people: how we act and how we react to the people surrounding us. It is
challenging because life, or our interpretation of life, can get in the way: our emotions,
fears, self-doubts, pessimisms, stressors, & c. it is a difficult thing, to remain conscious
enough to recognize how we behave when interacting with people, but it is also the
single most important thing that any of us can do. Rebecca told me a story about her
working a double shift on the train. She was heading for Leipzig for a short time before
immediately turning around and heading back towards Cologne. There was a man
riding the dining/bar car just to ride, and he had been drinking all day. He had several
shots between beers, and he was about to switch to wine when he started getting irate
with the other passengers in the car. So Rebecca cut him off, no more alcohol. He left the
car belligerent and cursing, but only to stop at the toilet before returning to his at the
table, where he continued to harass the people on the train. Rebecca approached him
but this time to ask him to leave. He began calling her names with a heavily drunk,
heavy German accent and threw the remaining contents of his whiskey in her face.
Shortly after he stormed out like a dummes kleines kind, and threatened to come back and
„Schießen Sie alle!” He was arrested immediately after the train stopped in Cologne.
Rebecca and I were telling horror stories of the service industry. I told her a story about
an afternoon while working as a supervisor at a Barnes&Noble on the Upper East Side
in New York several years ago. I was called to speak with a customer upset that the
cashier would not let him return a book, he did not have a receipt. I was feeling
especially generous this day so I said something along the lines of, you know what? I am
feeling especially generous today so, though the cashier is correct, and only doing her job, as is
expected of her, we will make an exception, today. I asked him how he paid for the book. At
which point he already had attitude, but I ignored it. He bought it online at the B&N
website. OK. Do you have the credit/debit card you used to pay for it? I asked. He didn’t use
a credit or a debit card he had explained to me, with increasing irritation. His behavior
took me aback. No? I said. You know I can’t just give you cash back for this book. I
continued. He wasn’t pleased, but he was understanding, in the meantime also
demanding of another option, and all the while he stood there staring at me. And, with
very few options available, I stared right back at him. We were silent for several
moments. Can you look it up? He demanded, almost yelling. Can I look up on this computer
to see the online sale of a book you bought on your personal computer, without a receipt? No. I’m
sorry, I cannot. Why? He grumbled. I explained to him that we don’t have access to
online sales at the terminals. Still he stood there staring at me. I’m trying to help you here,
but I don’t know what more I can do. How did you pay for the book, exactly? He said he used
his PayPal account. Your PayPal account? Yes, he explained. OK. Do you have, like, a card
or anything that I can use to refund the money? He explained that PayPal doesn’t have
cards like that. Oh, I see. OK. Again, we stood there for what felt like several moments,
in silence. As I looked at him and he stood there only staring right back at me frustrated
without cause or reason I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and said, as politely as
possible, “What do you want me to do, WILL the money on to your account?” He looked at
me a moment obviously confounded, and then whispered, “Fuck you!” to which I
replied, “Have a nice a day.” He left shortly after. Rebecca laughed, and laughed. “You
didn’t really say that. Not like that.” Rebecca said. “I did, actually. It happened that way
exactly.” I confirmed. “You’re crazy.” “Actually, after that, I became the ‘Go To’ guy with
customer complaints.” I said. She chuckled. “Do you have any more?” Rebecca inquired.
“I’ve got several, sure.” I responded. “Tell me another…” OK, hmm, well, this one doesn’t
involve customers, but it’s a great story…” “OK.” Rebecca said, nodding. “…I was working
the graveyard shift at a potato processing plant outside of Pocatello, Idaho….” “Graveyard, like
overnight?” Rebecca inquired. “Yeah, I worked from 8:00PM to 8:00AM every day, seven
days a week, there were not enough of us to have a day off…” I started. “How long did you do
that?” she asked. “Only three months, or so.” I responded. “Twelve hours a night, every
night, for three months is still a long time.” She continued. “It wasn’t so bad.” I said. “So,
what happened?” Rebecca inquired. “Why’d I leave, or…” “No, your story.” She confirmed.
“OK, well, I came in one evening and my supervisor called me into his office to make an issue of
my not shaving, of having the beginnings of a beard. Now, Rebecca, mind you, I was young,
when I worked there, and I was still developing a work ethic, also I don’t like it when people of
authority hide behind that authority to be lazy…” “OK, OK, Jonah, tell me your story!” “OK,
well, I told him that I didn’t have a razor. And he told me that-that wasn’t his problem, which
really, really, pissed me off. He then suggested that I go buy one. So, because of his response, of
‘that not being his problem’, I convinced myself that arguing with him was perfectly acceptable.
And, again, Rebecca, this was a point in my life when I would work hard, sure, but had issues
with authority over-extending or abusing their authority…” “Jonah!” she said. “OK, it’s just
that I’m kind of regretting bring this up…Anyway, I told him that I didn’t have the money to
buy a razor, which, of course, was crap. But, again, he said, ‘That’s not my problem…’ at this
point I was pretty livid. So I asked him what he expected me to do. And his response, again,
‘That’s not my problem.’ So I said…” What, Jonah? What did you say?” Rebecca shouted.
“OK, I said, OK, so, next time, I’ll go over to your house and use your razor”” I finished. “You
did not!?” Rebecca exclaimed. “I did, and I know…too far.” “Jonah. That’s…” she laughed,
“…unbelievable.” I nodded, and grinned. Rebecca and I had been sitting at Diego, eating,
after walking around for nearly half-an-hour. Apparently this is one of the best
restaurants in Leipzig. The food is great, and the place is kind quirky. “I worked in a
bookstore once.” Rebecca shared. “In London. I was in my early twenties.” “An independent
bookstore?” I inquired. “No, it was a chain. Foyles Books. Almost immediately after I had
finished training, my first few days working the floor; so, we were expected, near closing, to
approach every customer and explain that we would be closing in five minutes and that it would
be appreciated if they would take their purchases to the cash register. Well, one evening, just
before closing, I made my rounds, and found one woman sitting in the self-help isle surrounded
by piles of books on anger management. Nevertheless as instructed, and as mechanical as is
preferred, I explained to her that it was near closing and that she would need to bring her
purchases to the register. Shortly after I walked away and proceeded to other customers. A
moment later the woman ran up behind me screaming. “How dare you speak to ME that way? I
will get your boney ass fired! You don’t even know what I’m capable of…” I raised my
eyebrows. “…she then threw a handful of books towards the registers, screaming, again, “I’m
ready to buy these, are you fucking happy now?” Meanwhile one of my coworkers had called the
police, but she stormed out before they arrived…” “That’s intense!” I interjected. “She was
probably American, an ex-pat, or on an extended sabbatical, or something.” Rebecca said. “Of
course, us crazy Americans, running around yelling at people and throwing stuff.” “Sounds
about right…” Rebecca responded. “How long did you continue working there after that?” I
asked. “A few months, but I never closed again.” It’s always been difficult for me to
understand how we can be so awful to one another. I enjoy driving around while
listening to music; and also sometimes through neighborhoods, and seeing how people
live: their cars, their yards, their shelters, their lifestyles. Our homes are so vulnerable,
we accept them as sanctuaries, places where we are unerringly guarded. The feeling we
have when at home compared to the perception we create when driving aimless
through streets crowded with houses, it’s so different. Our defense, our security, our
refuge it is the illusion we accept only because we are all willing to offer it to one
another in kind. The suggestion transcends measure, it is unconscious. And still there
are some people who behave so abstractedly, it’s unbelievable to me how we
manipulate ourselves, tell ourselves fallacies, just to create added layers of distorted
security, and then use our own fictions to judge other people, I suppose that, in
hindsight, most of us are able to look back on the memoir with humor but only because
most people are inherently empathic. I think Rebecca and I found solace in sharing our
retail horror stories because that type of behavior is becoming more tolerable, our
society is becoming more desensitized to random acts of erratic and ludicrous behavior,
maybe if we learn to laugh about it-it won’t daunt us as much; personally, I think we
should feel daunted. I miss the days of waving at people walking on the streets or
passing you in their cars. Granted people only really waved at one another in small
southern communities but, still, I can dream. “Everyone waves at everyone in Simrishamn.”
Rebecca shared. “Simrishamn?” I asked. “Simrishamn, it’s a town on the southern coast of
Sweden. I lived there for several years.” She established. “I’m grateful for that, that people
wave, I mean. Not necessarily that you lived there.” I responded. I drank water all night
with my dinner. Rebecca was on her third glass of a Spanish wine. After dinner Rebecca
and I walked around downtown Leipzig and through Markt Square. There was a point,
while the two of us were walking, when we stopped and just looked around at the
Markt, at everyone walking through, or sitting, and interacting, and laughing, and just
enjoying themselves. There is an effect when we are overwhelmed by compassion or
love which fills us with slight, we are like air inasmuch as compassion itself is
weightless, when we feel this tears begin to develop in our eyes, this is the harmonic
impression of elation, and Rebecca and I were able to recognize it concurrently.
Everyone has experienced such moments: when a song envelops us in a significant way,
a movie scene, a sporting event, a speech, and in random acts of kindness or beauty. I
actively seek such moments, so that the ecstasy of life itself rings profound as often as
possible. Unfortunately, though, when I’m conscious about this I often hear the voices
of—many—people that I have known throughout my life expressing gratitude, or at the
very least acceptance for the bad so that they are capable of appreciating the good, and
the beautiful. Without the bad, without negativity or ‘darkness’, we cannot recognize or
appreciate the good. I, however, think that’s bullshit, I don’t agree obviously, I understand
where they come from of course but the inference exists only within the confines of the
belief that good or beauty is somehow bound by limit. Good and beauty are bound only
by the limits of our imagination. If one elevated measure of good becomes our new
standard that measure is not crippled by depreciation, it is only subjectively defined by
it. In actuality beauty is heightened, we intuitively reimagine good and beauty in ways
that we were previously unable, or unwilling. We sat in the Markt for a while, in relative
silence. “Can I ask you, what may seem like, a strange question?” I asked Rebecca. “Go
ahead.” She responded. “When you and I first met what was my energy was like?” “You’re
energy?” Rebecca inured. “Yeah, I mean, like, how did I…did you get a good vibe from me?” I
asked. “Oh, yeah. A really good vibe.” She responded. “A really good vibe. OK. Great.” I
said. “Why?” Rebecca inquired. “I was just thinking about something.” I said. “Do you mind
me asking what?” she continued. “Not really.” I wasn’t really sure how to continue,
though. “Well, after my last relationship, I didn’t know how to talk to people, I struggled a
great deal making friends, and I especially didn’t know what to say to a woman that I felt
attracted to, my mind would go almost completely blank, which is…whatever, that doesn’t
always bother me, but I would also recognize that I felt uncertain and kind of static-like, and I’m
sure that I would project that same energy, or vibe, when the women, or anyone really, would
pick up on it they’re reaction was to create distance, or back-off, you know, to get away. It was
really difficult for me to understand and accept for a long time and it, of course, made me feel
sad; and I wanted to isolate myself, I questioned myself; it was a really depressing period
fallowing immediately a really dark period.” I said. “You didn’t give off any kind of negative
vibe at all.” She said. “Good. I’ve never really felt comfortable enough with anyone to talk about
it.” I responded. “How did you get over that?” Rebecca inquired. “I wasn’t sure that I was
over it, necessarily. I could say that it was a result of my book being published, and the dramatic
changes in direction that my life took, however, to be completely honest, I think it started to
change before then.” I said. “Before your book was published.” She confirmed. “Yeah. I moved
back home a year or so after I left my ex; I stayed in Santa Fe for that year because I loved the
city, but I started to feel like nothing was changing and I was living in a bubble, it didn’t seem
healthy. The first thing I did after moving back to Texas was rent a small space within a multi-
vender antique shop and open a bookstore. This is only relevant because a couple days after
Christmas, the following year I was at the store. I remember that year being uniquely warm, I
mean, on Christmas day it was 70°F, the following day was as warm, if not warmer, and
overcast—very strange weather—the next day, however, it was rainy and cold, or maybe just in
comparison, but nevertheless I didn’t expect too many people to be coming into the store that
day.” I love how Rebecca listens, it’s active and intentional, and she is with me,
completely. “Fifteen minutes after the doors opened a beautiful young woman walks in. She had
long dirty-blonde hair, bangs, great smile, calming voice, captivating light blue blended eyes, I
mean she was…beautiful. She walked up and looked at me like she knew that the bookstore was
mine, and I could tell that she wasn’t interested in anything else in this building but my
bookstore. We had a moment. Still I worked on my novel for a couple more minutes before
making my way to the back of the building, towards the books. I asked her if she was looking for
anything in particular, and I let her know that if she has any questions to please ask; she tells me
she doesn’t know what she’s looking for, that she’s just looking, and she explains that this is her
favorite store in the building, and then she asks for suggestions, so she and I talked for several
seconds about books. That’s when I start to feel the static. I felt like I was wandering between
engaging and connecting and, I don’t know, not, I guess, like I was in some kind of emotionally
void…” I interrupted my story for a moment and warned Rebecca that I would be going
off on a minor tangent before veering back into the story again. “See, OK, so, my ex…she
wouldn’t let me talk to people, especially women, and if I did, OK, and by talk to people I
mean…I worked in a bookstore and if Saaiqa happened to…” “Saaiqa? Is that your ex?”
Rebecca interjected. “Oh, yeah, yes. So if she came by while I was helping a female customer,
even, she would be upset about it for days; I say upset, but that really doesn’t begin to
encapsulate the reality of the situation; she was constantly screaming, just noise, static, about
anything, at that point it didn’t even matter, she would be going on about how a guy she dated
ten years earlier told her he would do something and he didn’t do it, and then she would
transition to something I did that pissed her off months before that was completely, or seemingly,
rather, unrelated. This wasn’t the run-of-the-mill ‘Oh, that’s frustrating’ or ‘This makes me
mad’ kind-of-a-thing either, no, this was RAGE, she was harboring and venting every degree of
anger she had ever known from every inch of her being. And I couldn’t get away, there was
nowhere I could go, and this incident would only be stacked on the shelf next to the infinite
bookshelf of incidents that she held on to throughout the course of her life. Her behavior after
years of explicit conditioning begins to conquer you—me—whomever finds themselves in like
situations, it’s dangerous. It gets rampantly worse, too, what occurred in our relationship but,
for all intents and purposes, that interjection should offer some appropriate insight; so, you
know, it affected me…” I finished. “Wow, Jonah. I can’t even begin to imagine…” Rebecca
said. “So, anyway, where was I?” I said. “You’re talking to this girl and your energy shifted…”
Rebecca reminded me. “Right, OK, so she started to shift from being open and engaging to
somewhat stand-off ’ish, not rude, but timidity where there previously, I mean like seconds prior,
there was none, anyway she did take my suggestions, and bought two books but she left fairly
quickly. I could feel a change in the way she perceived me. I sat down at my desk and stared at
my computer. I began to allow myself to be enveloped by a depression, recycling, again, questions
of self-doubt and wandering what was wrong with me, why was my energy so far removed from
my feelings and my emotions, why is what I’m conveying so different from my conscious
thoughts and intentions? So, I started to write about what had just happened, I wanted to get it
all out onto paper, I was hoping that giving it to the world would help me to transition, to
somehow get past it but, I don’t know: how am I supposed to catch myself from expressing an
unintentional energy when energy’s change so drastically from one moment to the next? How
could I catch myself and remind myself to slow down and to not let that static take over? I
wanted something to change, and I think that was the beginning of that change…” I finished.
“Would you have been interested in dating her?” Rebecca asked. “Who?” I responded.
“Who? Jonah the girl from the bookstore.” Rebecca asked. “What? No, or I don’t know, really I
just wanted to be able to engage with people. I wanted to be able to communicate with someone
that I might be interested in in a manner more befitting to me, like, how I see myself, how, at that
point, I used to be able to communicate with people.” I responded. “Oh, I see. Wouldn’t this
give you the opportunity to recreate how you want to engage with people?” Rebecca inquired.
“I don’t know that I would call it an opportunity, exactly; I was more forced to recreate that, but
I was also forced to recreate myself while also, simultaneously probing for infected areas of my
psyche, areas that had been manipulated or, just, really fucked up.” I responded. “We were
feeling pretty good before you brought all that up.” Rebecca illustrated. “Yeah, yeah, I know.
Sorry. It just jumped into my head, unwelcome but apparently it needed to come out, and, I
guess, what better time than when you and I were both feeling blissful enough to really
acknowledge it, or, you know, see the whole thing in a different way.” I said. “That’s a positive
way to look at it.” She said. “You’re welcome.” I responded, grinning. “You’re kind of a pill.
You know that…” Rebecca said. “Oh, yeah, of course; I have always been, to a degree, you are
the first person to really get to know me during my somatic reconditioning.” I said, again,
grinning. “Somatic reconditioning…” Rebecca repeated, sarcastically. We walked in the
direction of Rebecca’s hotel. Rebecca asked me, in the lobby, just as I was about to leave
her, “Have you been with anyone since your relationship?” “Um, no, not…no.” Rebecca took
my hand and directed me to the elevators. Upstairs, as the hotel room door shut,
Rebecca pressed her body against mine pinning me between her and the door, I heard
the latch bolt fasten as she kissed me. We slept together, and in the morning I booked
the room for tonight while Rebecca left for the train for the trip back to Cologne. We
considered further, and over breakfast, the possibilities of her and her son joining me on
the boat, but she wanted to speak to him about it before making a decision.

After breakfast I went to the Leipzig Zoo: this place is one of the most impressive
Zoo’s I have ever seen. It has a beautiful and massive atrium right near the entrance, it
was unbelievable—granted though I really don’t visit a lot of Zoo’s. There’s a young
French couple with a newborn in the Zoo restaurant who were eager to speak with an
American. They couldn’t understand the concept of my not being an Ex-Pat; I’m on an
extended sabbatical, and living on a sailboat for a year, or two, or more. Translated to, or at
least the only way I could get them to understand, or simply to acknowledge, is ‘I’m
living the dream’. Whatever the dream might actually be. I spent the late afternoon and
evening at Symbiose restaurant. I both started and completed a short story while sitting
there. It was about an American business woman who flew to France on a business trip.
While she was wandering around Paris and engaged in various meetings she ran into a
vagrant on the street who whispered a vaguely recognizable and haunting comment
into her ear, after which the course of the trip and her life would change—but only for a
little while. I wrote it rhythmically following the harmony of American Pie by Don
Mclean, for whatever reason, because it was floating around in my head, as it often
does. As I finished I ordered a glass of wine and sat outside to people watch; Karl-
Liebknecht is a great walking street, though it also has a lite-rail running along it, which,
actually, really makes it prime for people watching. There is light tree coverage as well.
It’s a beautiful night. I made a conscious decision not to engage in conversation, I was
looking forward to sitting alone, eavesdropping, and watching people wander around.
A small handful of people at various times effort to converse with me, I was friendly
but ultimately unengaging. It’s contenting knowing that I don’t have to maintain
illusions of any kind. People develop expectations of one another whether they intend
to or not, and had I been sitting with, just about anybody, that I have known
throughout the course of my life my actions might be considered rude. I think that’s
unfortunate. It would be nice to be able to behave in any way that I choose, as long as I
am not harming anyone, if I choose to behave in a way that is somehow extrinsic of my
traditional self, then so be it. As important as it is to be good to people that does not
translate to being good for people. My behavior is my own, it is not the burden of
anyone else, and contrariwise. This is the easiest and most commonly blurred bounds
between people, and especially friends. The sun reappeared from behind a cloud. It
seemed brighter even than before, while the conditions simultaneously abate, and the
air crisps. I tilt my head back and breathe in, heavy. Then turn my head as far to the left
as possible; as far to the right; and repeat twice, this is a somatic technique that acts as a
sort of restart button for your limbic system. I listen to the city without intention,
allowing the sounds to commingle, and eventually to harmonize; every sound no
matter how slight became an act of cooperation, progressing the whole as if even those
that had been unintended were in design with the compilation. The sun drifted, nimbly.
Everyone neighboring me had been substituted many times since I have sat. Night had
replaced the day, and still I was fulfilled to sit, and to revel in the adjoining moment.
Nearing midnight there was only myself and a young couple, they were sitting on the
opposite end of the deck, from me, at Symbiose. At midnight the café locked the doors
and began pulling the chairs and tables inside. I thanked them and left. Not eager to go
back to the hotel I wandered around Leipzig. Rebecca called me expecting to leave a
message. The train was delayed in Frankfurt for a while, several people got belligerent,
and fuddled. Rebecca had a long day. “What are you still doing up?” she asked. “I
happened upon this restaurant, Symbiose, and felt inspired to write; I finished a story, and then
sat outside and people-watched for a long time, until the restaurant closed, at midnight. I didn’t
feel like going home so I’m walking around.” I responded. “Sounds nice, relaxing; I wish I was
there with you.” She said. “Me too…” I responded. “I am exhausted, and though I am glad
you answered; I need to get to sleep. Goodnight!” Rebecca said. “Goodnight, sleep well.” While
talking I had wandered in a direction completely foreign to me, and yet I felt both
excited and intrigued by my mislaying. In as many cities as I’ve lived I quickly learned
to appreciate the satisfaction of getting lost in a place that is unfamiliar. Though it is
difficult for me to be truly lost, I was both born with and have further developed an
aptitude for direction. Still, an interest in the unknown is exciting. I happened upon
Elsterbecken and fallowed it south; as soon as I reach Elstermühlgraben I’ll walk it
towards the city center. I wonder what the difference is between Rebecca and every
other women I’ve met throughout the course of the past three years was, it seems much
more likely that I’ve changed, however I don’t necessarily feel it. The effort that Rebecca
has been willing to put into me has been amazing—it’s been life changing—and people
do not do that kind of thing every day, unfortunately. It really is incredible to me how
simple it can be, or should be. Accepting one another, and our differences can create
unfathomable degrees of understanding, and compassion, and hope, and connection,
and beauty, and…still, people have managed to over-complicate everything. Except
empathy; empathy is universal because it appeals to our experiences. Empathy both
presents and explores challenges that we can all relate to. If we allow ourselves to feel
empathetic towards one another then acceptance will naturally fallow. Instead though,
we put all of our effort into creating differences, or, at the very least, broadening them. I
cannot understand why, and, I guess, I don’t really want to understand it, I just want to
see it change.

Sol y Mar in the morning. The rest of the day I spent sitting outside Zum
Arabischen Coffe Baum, writing. In the late morning I refined the story I completed
yesterday and sent it to a literary magazine back in the states. Immediately following I
started writing another short story about a man in his thirties who fell for a woman
almost ten years younger. On the outside, at first glance, the two appeared as unalike as
is imaginable, though the man recognized that they had a kinship, and he subtly
pursued her, and finally, given the opportunity, they soon discovered that the
connection between them was profound. The story didn’t end as much as it began again
anew somewhere else, leading, directly, to Happily Ever After. My story taught me a lot
about relationships, and how people interact, and it also reinforced—as if I needed it—
my love for writing. It is amazing how you can discover and create concepts through
writing that you may not have previously understood. I finished the story and started
working on a second novel, one that explored, further, the concept of our relationships
with people, whether romantic or utopian. I outlined the novel in the early afternoon.
This is my first attempt writing an outline, usually I’ll just wing it, however I am also
usually writing short stories, nevertheless, the outline wrote strangely smooth, as if I
have been writing outlines for years. I finished it and I immediately started working on
the novel. One of the things about relationships that is important to consider, something
that very few people do, in fact, appreciate is that sharing similar interests with
someone does very little in the way of cultivating a relationship, of course, sharing an
interest is significant in that two people have common ground but more often than not
that accord is incomplete, in part because it’s not necessarily so obvious what our
mutual interests are. When developing a relationship the most important facet to
mature is our shared impression of communicating, of communication: how you speak
to, listen, and recognize one another when influenced by your various changeful
moods. That can be incredibly difficult, in part, because that often requires us to
acknowledge, and to receive, in one another, our dissimilarities as well. When we’re
younger we are focused more directly on the development of our friendships, the
people we choose to surround ourselves with that will challenge us and support us, and
it is these relationships that are more demanding of our likenesses. We are never
actually taught or told how to transition from the development of our platonic
relationships to our romantic. Our sentimental relationships are actually developed by
sharing the dissimilarities that are as, if-not-more, befitting our similarities. Which is to
say that it is equally important for us to have the right dissimilarities as it is also the
right similarities. I had been in-the-zone, as they say, still sitting outside Coffe Baum, and I
had written a third of the book, several hours had past, a light overcast was settling,
and a wind had picked-up. There was an interesting and alluring natural light that
captivated me. Closing my laptop I eavesdropped the conferences surrounding me and
savored the changing conditions that drift just beyond my control. As inspiring as the
Leipzig setting appeared I don’t know that it was the city itself that influenced my
inspiration—as my muse—inasmuch as the desire to write overwhelmed my senses, as
if the accession became so great that the revelation began to spill over the rim in a
cascade of aspiration. I just happened to be here, in Leipzig, when the overflow befell.
The sky turned opaque, clouds sail in an inconsistent tour as if sailing in discontented
waters, the city both reflects and resonates what remaining light has deceived the
murky ceiling. There is no mist, no downpour, there is no rain of any kind, and yet
people on the street scatter still in anticipation of a storm, everyone except those that
share the patio with me outside Zum Arabischen Coffe Baum. We are content in either the
illusion of a storm or in being soused. Before too-long the streets are clear. The sky is
brimming. I ask for a coffee refill. An older gentlemen sitting alone and near me asks
what I have been writing, he speaks in German. I smile. I am an author, I explain to
him, I have just started writing my second novel this afternoon. He lit up. “You are
published?” he inquires. I nod. “I am.” I reveal that I recently sold my first novel, and
that it was released a few short months ago, and next summer a collection of my short
stories will follow. He nods. “Well done, and congratulations. I have dabbled with writing
after I retired, nothing much has come of it; it is available as an eBook, a series of short memoirs.
I imagine a great deal of people my age sit down and begin writing a memoir, afraid that they
will be forgotten once they have passed away.” He continues. He is a pleasant man, with a
calm and content voice and demeanor. “You will not be forgotten, you will be felt, in the
hearts of every waiting man and woman in the world, the feeling may be unexplained, but
nevertheless, it is certain.” I said to him, not too certain where this was coming from. He
smiled as tears developed and were to be reserved in his eyes, he nodded and he said,
“Thank you, young man.” I nodded in response as he turned to return to his coffee. I sent
myself a text message, wanting to remember the moment, what was said, and how it
was said. I felt a raindrop on my arm. And looked up at the sky, as we sometimes do in
search of something, a sign, perhaps, that the sky will open up, or of something more, I
don’t know. I looked out and over at the group of us on the patio, each one also looking
up into the source of the scattered showers that were laying themselves aimless on our
arms, necks, and foreheads. My attention was directed to the young woman in my
story, and of behaviors I have exhibited in the past, of the conversation that Rebecca
and I had, and of Rebecca. There was a time when I have been consumed by the
prospect of a relationship: if I exemplify a woman that I have known and I intern her
with my affections, I will always have eventually lost myself in her, ultimately losing
her. I overwhelm myself by putting myself in positions that would create the
opportunity only for the foundation of an opportunity for something else to develop,
but in doing so I was not actively living my life. I had spent so much time creating
opportunities only that I never actually applied myself to any of the opportunities that
may have presented themselves. I did recognize my pattern and eventually change it.
It’s interesting that, when considering my progress, I would be thinking about this now
because I have a tendency to re- or over-analyze things in certain situations, as the
German psychologist pointed out on the train, and that is, of course, incredibly
frustrating, and it has always been, though it does allow me the opportunity to process
aspects of the situation that I did not previously process, and I usually come to some
awesome epiphany that changes my life in sensational ways, or I overdramatizing the
whole thing, I don’t know, it kind of depends. Nevertheless it does always feel
profound. The several drops regress instead to an accomplished mist, engulfing
everyone entirely. A few people stood to leave, including the elderly man I spoke with
briefly a few moments ago. He nodded as he left. I sat until the mist nearly had me
sodden, and then walked back to the hotel for the evening. I ordered room service at the
desk, in the lobby, on the way up, and spent my last night in Leipzig watching the
obscured city lights outside my patio window.

Chapter XIII

Berlin’s Hbf train station is stunning; glass. I walked underneath the reflection of
the station for as long as I could warrant, and the suspicious looks from the BPOL
influenced, also, my decision to experience the rest of the German capitol. I have heard
as much recently about Berlin being the contemporary bohemian capitol of the world as
I had heard about New York City in my youth. I’d prepared myself to be here for a
week, at least. I saw a grey cat promenading a figure eight near the bike parking outside
the North entrance. I stood just beyond the glass doors a moment in order to gather my
bearings. The cat started walking off and I decided to follow. I found myself walking
East down Invalidenstraße, and the cat still lead the way. We took a left on
Chausseestraße, and an immediate right on Zinnowitzer; we were walking now through a
very modern part of the city, which could have passed for almost anywhere, and still I
followed. I was under some sort of pretense that I was being guided, with purpose,
somewhere amazing—the cat’s meow—as they say. We didn’t deviate at all from our
route though the street name did change a couple of times, finally el Camino ended,
and then the cat walked off of the street and then disappeared. I was standing at the
forefront of Mauerpark, and wandered to FLOHMARKT am MAUERPARK, it’s an
outdoor market. It may not necessarily be the cat’s meow, but the market is pretty
amazing. In New York City I would often happen upon markets on the Upper East
Side. Occasionally the city would close-off several blocks and set up various vendors
and booths. At the time money was somewhat tight so I would splurge for a Gyro and
walked up and down the street browsing, I seldom bought anything, but the grazing
was fun. Now I have money; browsing whilst knowing that I could buy anything I
wanted carries a very different mindset to my attitude before when living in NYC, I’m
not yet sure which I prefer. It helps knowing that I want to travel as light as possible,
and it’s a great help in having lived very fractionally before; but some of this stuff is so
damn nifty! I did buy a scarf for Rebecca and a collar for Nekoma, I would like to be
able to spot Nekoma regardless of who or what she presents herself as. While I was
looking at a vendor selling hemp and linen clothing I spotted a women that looked very
similar to someone I knew in Texas. I dismissed any possibility that it might actually be
her because she seemed the typed that wouldn’t be caught dead outside of the
American south, let alone in a Markt in Berlin. She was looking at leather boots, it was
just that she was so strikingly similar. The compartmentalization of our minds is so
fascinating, in order to file and retrieve more simply we create a cache that allows the
recovery of specific memories to process. One of the obstacles with the method,
unfortunately, is that if we see someone outside of the environment in which we most
aptly recognize that person we often recognize them with only minor familiarity. It’s
possible for us to be as friendly with a specific person as we are with anyone and yet
they could be as foreign to us as anyone else, I suppose it’s somewhat like seeing our
grade school teachers outside of the classroom. I shadowed her within the booth for a
few minutes, trying to make eye contact, just to be sure that she wasn’t whom I thought
she might have been. In the moment I noticed, too, that all sound surrounding me had
faded, I could no longer hear the blended voices of hundreds of marketgoers, or the
wind caressing makeshift chimes hanging scattered in various booths, buskers singing
along to their instrumental exercise, nothing, in that moment I could hear only the
footsteps and the subtle movements of this woman whom simulates almost perfectly a
woman I once cared very much to know. Eventually she looked up and over at me, and
she squinted, as if she were struggling with the same processes that I was. She took a
step towards me, and then hesitated, still uncertain. I walked over to her. “Cassia?” I
said, with skepticism. “Jonah…it is you.” Cassia responded. I grinned. “I wasn’t sure,
either.” I said. “Wow. How are you?” she said. “I’m well. Yeah. How about you? What are you
doing in Germany?” I inquired. “I’m good. Good. My folks wanted to come out here, and I
came with; we’re on vacation.” She said. “What about you? What are you doing here? Are you
living here?” Cassia inquired. “Living, no, no.” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve been jumping
around Europe for the last few of weeks; since my book release. I commissioned a sailboat in
Hamburg, and I’m making my way there, slowly.” I said. “A sailboat?” she responded.
“Yeah. I’m going to sail around for a while, and live on the boat.” I said “You’re going to live on
a boat?” She confirmed. “Yeah.” I said. “That sounds amazing!” she replied. “I hope so.” I
said. “I’m not really sure what to expect.” I continued. “Yeah, I wouldn’t either. That does
sound like it would be really amazing.” She continued. “When are you picking it up?” she
asked. “I got word that it was finished last week, but I want to spend some time in Berlin. I just
got here, like an hour ago; I’m planning on staying here for a week at least.” I said. “I’ll be here
for the next week, too.” Cassia shared. We walked around the markt talking in a way that
we never have. “Boerne was different when I came back, and anybody that I knew—be it old
friends or the families of old friends—they were all living lives very different than before, and
very different than mine. In many respects they hadn’t changed, at least not in the same ways
that I have, their lives were really only a reflection of their marriages, or children, or jobs, but
they were essentially exactly the same people they have always been. And that scared me. I think,
also, that was a major factor in my leaving Boerne, in the first place, not wanting to end up so
normal. So, in retrospect, perhaps I wasn’t as anxious about change or about the future
inasmuch as I was about not changing or my future being a reflection of everyone else’s. The
year I spent as a surrogate to my budding self I spent a great deal of time in your coffeehouse,
writing my book.” I was just talking, telling stories as if I have been lost somewhere on an
island, alone with only my thoughts. “What did you like about me?” Cassia asked. “Wow.
Well, One morning, I guess, kind of suddenly, I saw you—like, a vista that I had overlooked—
what it was, I think, is that I heard you laugh, I saw you smile, and the extraordinary shade of
blue that your eyes sheened, and that was that, Cassia. You had been fastened to my affection like
the impression of the moon the first time you see it resonant, and in absolute regard of her extent
and beauty.” I shared. ‘I don’t know what to say.” Cassia said. I had seen Cassia inasmuch
as a person could be seen, and moreover. I recognized in her absolute unanimity. Or, at
least, I thought I did, maybe I only wanted to. Actually, no, I have no doubt that what I
felt was real. “At the time, as I have been more than willing to mention as often as possible, I
was coming to the end of a long and challenging situation that greatly influenced my ability to
interact with people.” I said. When I realized how I felt about her it was kind of ‘too little
too late’ situation. Besides she had started dating someone else almost concurrent to my
realization, but between you and me, though they were a seemingly ideal match
externally, the two of them really didn’t share the right similarities, and they were
definitely too lacking in the right dissimilarities to make a relationship work. “Honestly,
Cassia, until now, I didn’t think I would ever see you again.” While Cassia and I were
walking around the Markt Rebecca unexpectedly popped into my mind. Cassia must
have noticed the change because she asked me what I was thinking about. “I like you,
Cassia.” I started, “A lot. And I didn’t think I would see you again, but you being here, now, I
cannot help but feel…something. The thing is-is that I met someone the other day, on the train
from Cologne to Leipzig. She was working the bar in the dining/bar car, and we kind of hit it off.
She crossed my mind, just now. That’s probably what you noticed, or felt.” I said. “Are y’all a
couple, I mean, are you seeing each other?” Cassia asked. “We parted with an unspoken
understanding, I suppose, that we would see each other again; and with the possibility even that
she and her son might join me on my boat.” I said. “Really? So y’all are, like, together.” Cassia
responded. I thought about how to respond. After-all I am interested in both Rebecca
and Cassia, but I have made choices in the past that have been based almost entirely
upon the prospect of a relationship, and that decision—those decisions—have left me in
a sort of limbo—you become so familiar and comfortable not making decisions for
yourself, instead allowing your future to be decided by a series of meaningless
relationships. I don’t necessarily believe, either, that Rebecca or Cassia would eventuate
something meaningless, I am just more conscious, now—at least I hope I am—when
communicating, or making adjustments of this magnitude. “No, not exclusive, or officially
together by any standard.” I said. “But, you were willing to make the commitment of seeing her
day-in and day-out while you lived…near each other on your boat.” Cassia replied. “That’s a
good point, but I think, I created a distinction between living together and sailing around
together. Only, now that I think about it, I’m not sure if Rebecca made the same distinction. If I
was going to be in any other situation I would not have immediately suggested we “move-in
together”, do you know what I mean?” I said, finally responding. Cassia was silent for a
moment while we walked through the markt. “I think I understand what you mean…” she
said, eventually, “…it’s difficult to have a template for something if you’ve never done it
before.” Cassia finished. “That’s it, exactly.” I responded. “Would you invite me to ‘live’ on
your boat?” Cassia asked. I shrugged, nodded, and smiled, before responding with
“After this conversation I would probably want to rethink or, just, consider further asking even
Rebecca. Because, you’re right, there is a degree of commitment involved, and that could really
create some confusion.” I said. “That’s a thoughtful response.” Cassia replied. “At the very
least, Cassia, I would like to spend some time with you while we’re both in Berlin.” I suggested.
“Where are you parents?” I inquired. “They’re here, in the Markt, somewhere.” Cassia said,
looking around. We continued to wander. At one vendor Cassia found a leather and
pink cuff that, in small bold pink letters, read MUD PRINCESS and she lost herself with
shock and excitement; I bought it for her, while she told me several stories which
revealed the sense of her reaction. It was amusing seeing a new side of her, a side that
didn’t often surface while we exchanged pleasantries at the coffeehouse. It was
expensive, even by European standards, the cuff was hand stitched and soldered.
“Thank you!” Cassia offered. “Anything to buy your love, love.” I said, jokingly. Cassia
slapped my arm. “You really don’t need to buy my love.” She said. I raised my eyebrows.
“What are you saying?” I inquired. “Jonah, I’ve always liked you, I was just kind of nervous.”
She said. “Nervous?” I repeated, and Cassia nodded. “Besides, I always thought you would
end up just kind of deciding for me.” Cassia said. “Deciding for you?” I inquired. “Are you
just going to repeat everything I say?” she said. “Repeat everything you say?” I replied,
Cassia slapped my arm, again. “Jonah, you know what I mean.” “Yeah, I guess I do.” I
responded. “So, why didn’t you?” she asked. “Why didn’t I just take you by the arm, spin
you heartily towards me, embrace your features in caress, and fervidly kiss you, in the
coffeehouse?” I said. Cassia was silent starring up at me in expression, at first “Well,
um…yeah” Cassia conceded with a nod. “I started to, I wanted to, I was being very,
very…too conscious about everything, about what I was doing, you know, I was hiding behind
all the shit that I had been dealing with; but then my book sold, and this whole other side of my
life took off, like, really, really fast, and it became a bigger deal than I ever could have imagined.
And, I guess, life took over.” I said. “Maybe that’s why we’re being given this chance, you
know…” I continued. “You mean meeting here?” she responded. “Yeah, I mean, Cassia,
what are the chances, really, that you and I would run into each other in Berlin, Germany, at
some Markt, on the same day, at the same time, at the same booth? It seems pretty serendipitous;
predestined even.” I said, Cassia smiled, beaming from the side of her mouth, while
looking up at me, her beautiful blue eyes seeming to go a shade darker in the moment.
She strapped the cuff to her wrist and we started walking somewhat hapless through
the market aisles. Cassia took my hand, we sealed our fingers, and held one another like
someone might try to involuntarily force us apart. Cassia saw her mom browsing an
apparel booth and we stopped in there staying within eye contact but also feigning to
hide, in plain sight. When she didn’t spot us after what felt like several minutes Cassia
and I gave up on our charade and made contact. “Hey, there you are!” Her mother said.
“Who’s this?” she continued. “This is Jonah, he’s a friend, from Texas, actually. He’s from
Boerne.” Cassia said. “Really? And he was just here, at the Markt?” Cassia’s mother
inquired. “Yeah.” Cassia said. “Wow. Small world.” “Isn’t it.” I said. “What are you doing in
Germany?” Cassia’s mom asked. “…do you live here, or are you on vacation, are you going
back to Boerne?” she continued. “Eventually I’m going back, sure. Not right away though.” I
responded. “Jonah has a sailboat in Hamburg, he’s going to live on the boat and sail around the
world for a while.” Cassia said. I looked over at Cassia who had a slight grin, but was
shaking her head. “What do you do, for work that allows you to live like that?” Her mother
inquired. “I’m an author.” I retorted. “You must be fairly successful to be able to buy a
sailboat and leave the world behind.” She said. “…or you’re parents own the boat, no, no you
stole the boat, you’re going to steal the boat, and once you’re in the clear, in the open waters, you
can survive by fishing. You can sail wherever and work odd jobs for money, and, you know, just
tell people that you’re a writer.” Cassia’s mom invented, and in such a way that I could not
actually tell if she was jesting, or not. Cassia has several different laughs, and though I
cannot yet distinguish between them all yet, I am fairly sure what each laugh is an
expression of. At the moment Cassia was laughing in silence; a full bodied, chuckle; I
took that to be a good sign. Cassia’s mom grinned. “What do you write?” she asked.
“Fiction…” I explained, “…short stories, mostly; freelance. Earlier this year my first novel was
released, though. It’s doing really well.” I said. “A novel? What’s it called?” her mother
asked. I told her the name and explained to her, in summary, what the book is about.
“That sounds familiar, actually. Is it possible I would know it?” She inquired. “Oh, yeah, of
course, very possible. It’s been number 1 on the best sellers list since it came out.” I shared.
“Really? So, you’re making a living as a writer, like, a real writer.” She said. I grinned, “A
real, fictitious, writer; absolutely.” I responded. Cassia’s mom acknowledged her husband,
Cassia’s father, who had, apparently, been standing behind Cassia and me for a couple
of minutes, motioning, silently to his wife looking for some clarity in the situation. We
turned around. “Mr. Lite, I’m Jonah. It’s a pleasure.” I offered, extending my hand. The
four of us left the booth and Cassia and I explained to her father everything that had
transpired over the past hour, or so. He asked many of the same questions his wife did,
she actually responded in lieu of either of us for many of them, and we ended up sitting
in a restaurant not far from the park and Cassia’s parents consult and interrogate me,
while she and I also provided a forward to our relationship. I bought the four of us
lunch. Afterwards Cassia and her parents went back to their hotel, whilst I continued
wandering around Berlin. I never saw the cat, again. She did lead me to the Markt and
to Cassia so I was almost certain that it was Nekoma who was still escorting me
throughout Europe, in her own catlike way. I took a subway to the heart of the city and
found a hotel. I sat outside Chapter One Coffee and watched people for the rest of the
afternoon. There is a slight overcast—partly cloudy—and warm with a cool inconsistent
breeze. The coffee is, of course, great. I don’t care too much for German—the speech—
personally I find it coarser than most languages, it’s choppy and somewhat indignant.
Obviously the language is my least favorite aspect of Germany, however there are far
more people in Germany that speak English than I expected, so perhaps they feel the
same way about the dialect as I do. I took a moment to breathe, to close my eyes, and to
acknowledge the sounds as they becloud in the midst of one another, and then to isolate
each distinct note to savor it, and then, again, to allow them to infuse. The early evening
sun began to disaffect from the exertive sunlight of the day, and so I switched from
coffee to wine, and I welcomed the gradual transformation of my perspective. After a
couple of glasses I was no longer so irritated by the groan of the coarse German tongue.

Cassia, and her parents, joined me for breakfast at Café Wintergarten. The
dynamic is interesting. Cassia and I had a subtle low-lying wooing period. Towards the
crown, just before I left, we began to recognize the elements of our connection, but…I
left. And because our relationship has been so fragmented sitting here now, with her
parents, feels, not awkward necessarily, but accelerated, in-a-manner-of-speaking. As if
she and I had been skipping on rocks scattered at random throughout a river, but,
again, it was more than that, as we jumped from rock-to-rock our relationship
developed, abruptly but on occasion we would come to rest on the same rock, which
vested something else entirely, something without limit, something rapturous. And, yet
fragments of ourselves were concealed, still, by the swiftly moving waters of our
attraction; what we didn’t yet know of one another ignited, both, intrigue and alarm.
The conversation, nevertheless, was good. Her parents and I got along well, I think that
surprised them, I wasn’t the typical man that Cassia would bring home to dinner; they
were relieved by this, I’m sure, especially her mother. We didn’t engage like a couple,
Cassia and I, because we weren’t, and yet we were addressed as a couple, even by her
parents. I cannot speak for Cassia but this concerned me. If we behaved as a couple for
the next week, and she flew back home in a direction opposite of my train to Hamburg,
who would we be to one another, how could we possibly be expected to apprehend a
relationship between two people who did not know each other beyond the
immeasurable unbounds of love, the act of communication would bridge the corporeal
with the ethereal, and, at the very least, Cassia and I needed to at least learn to how
compose the foundations necessary to outline our relationship from then to now. What
is your story? What is my story? What is our story? If we could understand our story well
enough to write it down we could be anything we want, or need to be for one another.
A little bit of honesty now is better than a whole lot of honesty, later. “You are
Americans, Yes?” A gentlemen sitting at a table near us interrupts to ask. Mr. Lite
nodded while his wife said, “Yes, we are.” “Where are you…what part of the America?” He
inquired, again. “Texas.” Mr. Lite said. “Texas! Yeehaw! Cowboy. Alright. Alright. Alright.”
The German guy continued. Cassia tried to hold back her laughter. “Have you ever
been?” I asked him. “To Texas…No.” “Or anywhere in the United States?” I inquired
further. “I went to Hollywood, LA. American movies! John Wayne.” He said. “John Wayne?”
I said. Unsere Kellnerin brought our check while Mrs. Lite was still conversing with the
German guy, who at this point had been ignoring his party for several minutes, he only
was interested in engaging with us. „Max , sich umdrehen , aufhören zu reden , um die
dummen Amerikaner!” Someone in his party interjected to try to get his attention. “Hey!
Hey…” I said to get his attention. „Sie richten uns nicht ! Sie wissen nicht, uns nur machen
Sie es sich aus, um die Unwissenden zu sein .” I said. Cassia and her family turned to look
at me, almost as surprised as the entire German party sitting at the table near us. “What
was that?” Cassia asked. “You speak German?” Mrs. Lite inquired. “What did they say?”
Mr. Lite inquired. “He told their friend to stop talking to the stupid Americans…” Mr. Lite
looked over at the table and made eye contact with the commenter. “…so, I told them that
judging us, and making bad assumptions about us, only makes them look ignorant.” Mr. Lite
turned to me. “Good. Good for you!” He responded. The German whom was talking to us
looked embarrassed. I’m sorry...” He said. “…my friend.” He continued, pointing. Mr.
Lite shook his hand. “It’s OK.” He said. Our bill was paid so we stood to leave the
courtyard, though we browsed Kohlhaas & Company the bookstore in the basement for a
while before leaving. “You must read a lot?” Mrs. Lite asked me. “Yeah, I do. I also collect
and sell books, too.” I shared. “Jonah has a small bookstore in Boerne.” Cassia said. “You do?”
Mr. Lite said, turning towards me. “Yeah. It’s small, I rent space in one of the antique shops
and sell new and used books out of it.” I responded. “That impressive. You’re an entrepreneur,
too.” Mr. Lite continued. “Oh, I don’t know that I would go that far.” I said. “Cassia read so
much when she was younger, all through high school actually, and then she stopped, suddenly.”
Cassia’s mom said. I’m not sure where Cassia had run off to, in the meantime Mrs. Lite
and I browsed the English language fiction titles near the front of the store and talking
about Cassia when she was younger. Stories that I’m sure Cassia would not want
retold. Ever. “Are you still planning on going to Hamburg when we leave here, or are you
going to come back to the states with us?” Mrs. Lite inquired. I took a deep breath. “Whoa,
that’s kind of a loaded question.” I said. “I mean, obviously, I’ve thought about going back since
Cassia and I have reconnected, but, I really do think I need to follow through with this trip…” I
paused for a moment, Mrs. Lite remained silent, “Another thing that has been in my mind,
today especially, was how quickly everything has moved with Cassia, expressly since just before I
left to come here…” Mrs. Lite turned and started to say something, but didn’t. “…I feel like
there are a lot of important milestones, I guess, that Cassia and I are tiptoeing around and that
makes me nervous.” I said. “What do you mean, milestones?” Cassia’s mom asked. “Well,
like, I guess, for example, it’s important to me for us to develop a strong foundation of
communication before getting in a relationship, and though Cassia and I have acknowledged a
connection between one another, we’re obviously close, and we obviously will be good together,
it’s just, the little things that make the relationship work…Do you know what I mean? You
know, there’s, like, mutual love and affection and then the day-in-day-out realness of being
together.” I finished. Cassia’s mother was nodding. “Oh, OK, yeah I know what you mean.
That’s very wise of you…” Mrs. Lite responded. “I hope so, because I really don’t want to
miss-out on a chance with Cassia.” I said. “She likes you, Jonah, a lot. I can tell.” Cassia’s
mother shared. “Then I’ll do everything I possibly can to make it work for us.” I said. Cassia
and her father appeared around the corner, each of them was holding a book, as I
finished talking; Mrs. Lite and I met eyes and smiled a smile of mutual assent. “Jonah!
Look what we found.” Cassia said holding the front cover of my book up so that her
mother and I can make out the title. Cassia’s father read aloud, with the book agape to
the opening page, the first paragraph, his eyebrows furled soundly. “This is really good.”
He said, as he finished reading. “I’m going to buy this, now.” He continued. “We should all
get one.” Mrs. Lite chimed in. “Will you sign them?” Cassia asked. “Nah.” I said. Cassia
made a face. “You’ll sign it, if you know what’s good for you.” Cassia said. “And if I don’t
necessarily know what’s good for me? What then…” I responded. “That’s why you keep me
around.” Cassia responded, beaming. “You’re too beautiful, jerk.” I said to Cassia. Mrs.
Lite asked for a pen at the front counter as Mr. Lite was purchasing the three copies.
The cashier handed her the pen and she handed it to me preceding my books, smiling
big. I took it and opened it to the title page where I wrote an inscription and my
signature. When they handed me the second book the cashier took notice and asked,
“Why you are signing?” “He wrote it!” Cassia shared. The cashier looked at me and held
the third copy up pointing to the cover, “You are the author?” I nodded, only. “Will you
sign a copy for me?” she asked. “Have you read it?” I inquired. She nodded, too. “One of
my favorite books, I read three times, already.” The cashier said, grinning. She pulled her
things out from under the front desk and pulled a copy of my book out of her bag and
handed it to me. “Do you want me to write an inscription, or to flat sign it?” I asked. She
shook her head, as if to suggest that she didn’t understand. “What’s a flat sign?” Cassia
asked. “That’s what it’s called when an author signs the book, only; they don’t write a message
or anything, if you’re a collector it’s…better, I guess, to have only a signature.” „Möchten Sie
mich zu schreiben und Beschriftung, oder einfach nur eine Signatur?” I asked the cashier. She
was taken aback. „Können Sie sich eine Inschrift zu schreiben?” „Ja, Natürlich.” I
responded. “I can’t get over that you speak German.” Cassia said. “Are you fluent?” Her
father asked. “I feel fine.” I said. Cassia and her mom laughed, her father chuckled. “Yes,
I’m fluent.” “Do you speak other languages?” Mrs. Lite asked. “I speak Spanish, French,
Italian, Swedish, a little Turkish, and obviously German and English.” The three of them
were looking at me as if I had kicked, no punted a baby, I almost felt like I needed to
apologize. “Why?” Mr. Lite inquired. “Why do I speak so many languages? I’ve never been
asked why before, that’s interesting. Because the syntax of different languages requires people to
think differently; a completely different thought process occurs. As a writer I thought it would,
not only, be a fun way to challenge myself, but a way to explore different approaches to thought,
people, and culture.” I responded. “That’s a good answer.” He said. “ I’m feeling kind of tired,
for being on my feet so much that last couple of days, I’m going to go back to the hotel and read
[your] book.” Mr. Lite declared. “That’s a good idea. I’m going to do the same.” Mrs. Lite
seconded. “You two can take the day to yourselves.” Mrs. Lite said, winking. “I wouldn’t
leave my daughter wandering around Berlin with anyone else, by herself, so take care of her.”
Mr. Lite warned. I took Cassia’s hand. “She’s perfectly safe.” “I’ll be fine, daddy.” Cassia
and I took the U-Bahn to the East Side Gallery. We felt like walking around, but with
purpose. To see Berlin in a relatively intimate way, a means that we could share
inasmuch as something unfamiliar to us that we could experience, together. Riding the
U-Bahn was a blast, this is Cassia’s first real experience with an underground subway
system, and the big yellow machine that is the U-Bahn is such a cool way to effete her
celibacy. She stood up, and she sat down, and we walked from one car to the next, and
enjoyed the U as much as we could have enjoyed any measure of Berlin, and in some
contexts probably more. The graffiti art on the cleaved Berlin Wall is so amazing. It’s
nearly a miles worth of artwork painted immediately following the fall of communism
and the reunification of Germany in 1990. Cassia and I walked, hand-in-hand, stopping
occasionally to look and comment about different pieces—that’s what I refer to them as:
pieces. Cassia makes fun of me for that. “What would you call them?” I asked. “I don’t
know, paintings probably.” She responded. “You sound like you’re trying to be sophisticated
or something, it sounds weird coming from your mouth.” Cassia continued. “Maybe, I am
sophisticated, did you ever consider that?” Cassia was laughing, from her stomach; her
silent, chuckle; teeth bared. Cute. “Would you prefer it in German: ‘Stücke’…?” Cassia
furled her top lip shaking her head. “Italian, maybe: ‘Pezzi’…” “That’s better…” Cassia
said. “Des morceaux…” “Oooh, des morceaux…I do like that. That’s French?” she asked.
“French, Oui.” Cassia and I crossed the Spree at Oberbaumbrücke, we followed our mutual
instincts to take a road to the south, and we ended up in Treptower Park. The statues and
architecture throughout the park pleasantly surprised us. It’s kind of a strange park; it
felt more like the courtyard of a museum or large estate. We walked through a small
abandoned amusement park as well. “Germany is so weird.” Cassia said. “This is pretty
strange.” I agreed. Cassia and I watched people standing, reading, and taking pictures at
the Soviet War Memorial, also inside the park. “Do you ever think about how people react to
things like this, memorials, outside of places that are familiar to them, or not even unfamiliar,
like when American’s go to D.C. and walk around the memorials, people react to it in exactly the
same way they do getting their picture taken with Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. Does that seem
strange to you?” I said. “I think you might be thinking too much…but, yeah, I suppose that is
true, and kind of strange.” Cassia responded. “I think about those kind of things, a lot.” I said.
“That’s probably what makes you such a good writer.” Cassia responded. I smiled, “…and a
terrible conversationalist.” I said. “You think you’re a bad conversationalist?” Cassia asked. “I
mean, yeah, I do.” I responded. “I think you’re great. In fact, at the coffeehouse, I’ve noticed
and been somewhat jealous how easy it seems for you to talk to people.” She responded. “Oh,
no. It’s actually kind of difficult, especially after Saaiqa. I guess, however, it is easier talking to
people I feel like I may never see again, people that I’m not actively interested in pursuing
friendships with. Do you know what I mean?” I said. “No, not really.” Cassia responded.
“For some reason I feel like I need to impress people that I want to be friends with, so I get
anxious, and I find it difficult to talk to them. People I may or may not ever see again don’t affect
me in any way whatsoever so it’s much easier to make small talk, or actively engage in
conversation.” I said. “Your mind seems so complicated.” Cassia responded. “I feel like the
opposite. Like I over analyze simplicity.” I said. “No, you’re complicated.” She said. “In that
case, I wish wasn’t.” I said. “I kind of like it, I like getting to know you, but it’s also nice
knowing that you may not always be complicated with me. I’ll see you one day and you’ll just
make complete sense to me.” Cassia said. I stopped walking, Cassia, still holding my hand,
stopped a few steps ahead of me, and turned. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I shook my
head, took a step closer, brushed her chin with the bow of the fingers on my right hand,
then held her chin between my thumb and forefinger and I kissed her, in the park, just
steps away from the Isle of Youth, also within Treptower Park.

Chapter XIV

Cassia and I sat on a dock hand-in-hand as usual, with our legs and feet dangling
over the edge above the water. We watched a few couples sweep by in kayaks, and
waved. They waved back. One young man, while waving, lost his balance enough only
to tilt side-to-side a few times before regaining his composure. „Es tut uns leid.” I said,
waving, again. “I could eat.” I said as Cassia and I walked across the bridge away of Isle
of Youth. “Oooh, me too.” Cassia agreed. “I heard about an Italian deli that’s not far from here,
do you want to try that?” I suggested. “Lead the way.” Fritto is only a few blocks from the
north side of the park. It’s a nice walk through a tree covered residential part of Berlin.
We walked while discovering new mutual similarities, and making over-exaggerated,
playful, issues of our newly discovered differences. “I think young couples focus too much
on their similarities, what they have in common; sharing commonalities is, of course, great, but
it is possible to have too much in common. Our differences are what actually make relationships
work—and communication, of course—but it’s important for couples to have, not only, the right
similarities but also the right dissimilarities.” I said, after I felt—or thought I felt—a shift
suddenly in Cassia’s playfulness, almost as if we had reached one too many differences.
People are not used to developing relationships with people they don’t share a lot in
common with, romantic relationships at least. Friendships tend to develop from a single
mutual commonality; it’s kind of interesting that way, when we meet someone and
discover our mutual interest we’ll talk about that specifically, and only that, for as long
as it takes for comfort and familiarity to take over, and then we feel respectively capable
of sharing almost anything with them. “There was a period of a few years that I was
friendless, after a bad relationship…” I started “Saaiqa?” Cassia asked. “…Yeah.” I
confirmed. “I was, of course, struggling with developing friendships, but I realized, eventually,
that part of my problem was that I put too much effort in to wanting layered friendships, so if I
felt we were talking too much about one thing I put a great deal of effort into talking about
something else, changing the subject. I realized that a lot of my anxiety was stemming from the
hours I spent coming up with other things to talk about; ultimately, I couldn’t. And the
friendships went nowhere…” I was quiet for a moment. “…I think that what I learned was
that what people are actually interested in, or, I mean, what we crave is the interaction of
someone we connect with in an emotional or spiritual way, but we have to learn how to do that
despite our developed interests and conditioning and outlooks. But because we are never actually
taught that, and very seldom even think about it we feel content, instead, with the simplicity of
meeting people that remind us our ourselves, in one way or another.” I said. “So, our best
relationships are with people that we recognize a kind of harmony with, one that transforms
what we like to who we are?” Cassia said. “Yeah, I think that’s it, exactly. I like the way you
put that.” I said. “That sounds like a hard thing to learn.” Cassia said. “Maybe, I don’t know,
it might require only minor tweaks in our perspective and behavior, or it might mean a great deal
more than that, but either way can you imagine what you and I could develop, together, if we did
change?” I suggested. “Yeah, it would be worth it. But, I mean, what are we, Jonah? We’re not
exactly together, and in a few days I’m going one direction and you’re going another, and we
don’t know…” she said. “What we do know is that we want to be together, before yesterday we
didn’t know that. I’m going to go through with my plans only because it makes me nervous
making another great life change, one that would require me to ignore recent choices that I’ve
made for myself; I’ve done that before, a lot, and it has never worked out or me.” I said. “We
have come a long way since yesterday.” Cassia said. “Instead of stepping into a relationship
mold that has been pre-set let’s build our own model, let’s cast a new mold, and these next few
months will allow us an opportunity to see things a little differently.” I said. “Next few
months? I thought you were going to be gone for a year, or more…” Cassia inquired. “I’m
under no strict contract or rules, I can do what I want, where I want, when I want, for how long
I want. I could even just sail from here to the states…” I said. “That would be so cool! And then
you would have your boat there, in the gulf!” Cassia was so excited. “Then we could drive
down to Port Aransas, or wherever you keep it, and stay on the boat! Yeah, let’s do that. Are you
going to do that?” she asked. “Wow. Um, probably, I would like to sail to a couple of places
first.” I said. “Like where?” Cassia inquired. “I want to spend some time in Sweden; and
Istanbul, Turkey; and maybe Mumbai, India; …Zanzibar…” “That sounds like it could take a
while.” She inquired. “It won’t take a year, I know that. A couple of months, a few months, at
the most.” I said. We found a table in the corner, the only one not occupied, and perused
the menu. I noticed, after deciding on my order, a young man in the restaurant wearing
a ten-gallon red leather cowboy hat, his wrangler’s were tucked in to a pair of brown
leather cowboy boots, and he had a bumper sticker on his TOSHIBA laptop that read:
THE 2nd AMENDMENT AMERICA’S ORIGINAL HOMELAND SECURITY NRA.
“Cassia…” I whispered. Cassia looked up, “Why are you whispering?” she asked. “I don’t
really know.” I said, still whispering. “Look.” I said, nodding in the direction of the young
cowboy. She looked him over, and read the bumper sticker on his laptop, nodding.
“Haha, that’s cool. Do you think he’s American?” she inquired. “Oh, I have no doubt. He has a
textbook open, maybe he’s studying abroad.” I suggested. “Yeah, probably.” Cassia said. “I
also have no doubt that, if asked, he would argue a passionate point about buying American, yet
he is working on a Japanese computer…” I pointed out. “Hey, don’t give him shit.” She said.
“I can’t help that I immediately recognize the hypocritical. For example…” I started “Jonah…”
Cassia tried to stop me. “Bear with me…” I responded. “The bumper sticker…” I continued
“What’s wrong the sticker!?” Cassia interrupted, again. “The 2nd Amendment does not
protect some form of civilian policing of one another, it exists so that we can revolt against a
government that has grown to powerful and corrupt. And for the record, I’m pro 2nd
Amendment…so don’t worry.” I said. “And, yet, I also think most NRA members are absolutely
insane. They do have a fabricated perspective of the uses of the Amendment.” I continued. “I
wouldn’t have guessed that you are pro 2nd Amendment...” Cassia said. “I honestly would have
thought you hated guns.” Cassia continued. “I used to. There was also a time in my life when I
hunted…” I offered. “What did you hunt?” Cassia interrupted, again. “…Deer, duck, bore. I
think that’s it.” “No shit?” Cassia said. “Haha, yeah. My uncle had a lease Northeast of Temple
and we’d hunt deer and bore out there, I went duck hunting, once, outside of Atlanta.” I said.
“Anyway…as much as I understand the purpose and usefulness of owning guns I don’t
understand why people need high powered or semi-automatic weapons, I think that’s ridiculous;
as far as I’m concerned those people are compensating for an insecurity that they are unwilling
to acknowledge. I also think there should be more severe background checks, and I cannot
understand why anyone, in their right mind, would argue that point…” I said. “Because it’s a
free country, and everyone has the right to be an American.” Cassia said. “That’s why every
American can drive, right? With or without the licensing to do so? And why you can drive as
slow or as fast on any road in the country that you want…” I said, smiling. “Jonah, don’t be an
asshole.” Cassia said, grinning. “Am I wrong?” I asked. “That’s not the point.” Cassia said.
“Of course it isn’t. Do you know what you want?” I responded, playfully. “I do like that we
can talk like this, agreeing and disagreeing on things.” She said. “You almost weren’t so
understanding.” I reminded her. “Well you made an excellent point! Asshole.” Cassia
responded. “And, yes I know what I want.” Cassia smiled at me. I blew her a kiss, and
smiled back. We ordered and spent a few minutes taking in our surroundings, getting
acquainted with the Deli. Cassia’s phone jingled. “Haha, my mom sent me a Facebook
message from the hotel...” Cassia said. “She can’t put down your book, she loves it. She says
you’re an amazing writer.” She continued. “Awe, that’s sweet. If you respond tell her I said,
‘Thank you’.” I responded. “I can’t wait to read it.” The waitress set our food on the table
in front of us and walked away, smiling. Cassia and I sat in relative silence for a few
minutes while eating. The food was really great. “Can you teach me German? Or French,
or whatever other languages you know?” Cassia inquired. “I can try. I’ve never taught anyone
to speak a language they’re not familiar with.” I considered. “How would you do it?” she
asked. “I have no idea, I guess we could start with a few important words that you would use a
lot, and then I would talk to, and respond to you in whichever language you’re trying to learn.” I
suggested. “Do you really think that would work?” Cassia asked. “You know when you hear
a song for the first time, a song you really like, you’ll play it over-and-over-and-over again until
you just kind of know the words, you never actively memorized the words, it just happened.” I
said. “Learning the words is the first step, and then you have to train your brain to fill in the
harmony in-between.” I continued. “I really like how you explain things.” Cassia said. “I
really like your smile.” I responded. “This is really good.” She continued. “Here…” Cassia
took a fork-full and held it in front of her, “…you should really try this.” I leaned in and
took the fork in my mouth. “Mm, wow. That is really good.” I said. Cassia lifted her
eyebrows, “Nice try, no, you’re not getting a bite of my food.” I said, while simultaneously
layering my spoon. Cassia leaned over the table and I pretended to jam the spoon down
her throat. “Whoa, whoa…hey now.” I placed it gently at her chin and she, seductively,
took the spoon in her mouth, allowed her eyes to drift closed, she over-exaggerated the
spoon-full and winked as she came back to rest in her chair. “That was intense.” I said.
Cassia shrugged, grinning. “How is it?” I asked. “It’s alright.” She responded. “Oh,
yeah?” I said. “I’m kidding, it’s really good. I’m not sure which I like better.” She continued.
“Me too.” I responded. “Good lunch choice.” Cassia said, referring to the Deli. “How did
you hear about it?” She inquired. “I took this girl out clubbin’ last night and she was telling me
all about it…” Cassia was playfully unamused. “I overheard people talking about it while
sitting outside a coffeehouse last night.” I said. “What coffeehouse did you go to?” “It’s called
Chapter One I saw it…” I started. “My parents and I walked by there the other day. We talked
about stopping in but where on our way to a show.” Cassia interjected. “If you haven’t joined
your parents later this evening let’s go by there for a glass of wine.” I suggested. Cassia
nodded, while sipping on ice water. “OK.” She agreed. “So, do you want kids, someday, I
mean…and marriage and a family, and all of that.” I inquired. “Someday, soon, or at some
point, yeah…” she seemed to be thinking about it further, or how to explain something,
so I didn’t interrupt. I noticed instead her deep heavy blue eyes, which were searching
for something, begin to lighten into a sky blue—the pale blue where the earth meets the
sky. I noticed the subtle changes in Cassia’s facial expressions as she organized her
thoughts: wrinkling her forehead, squinting and widening her eyes, pursing her lips,
finally she looked directly into my eyes, and said, “Jonah, I think, that I have been both too
eager to start my life, to grow up, to get married, to ‘start living’, and terrified to grow up. I
know I want kids, and I want a family, and I really want a career but I also want to do it all on
my own terms.” She said. “I completely understand. I’ve been there, at that same place, exactly.
You still want to be a chef, right…?” I asked her, she nodded. “…yeah, I think that because
we’re all raised with a certain expectation of what life is supposed to be and how it’s supposed to
look, those of us that are more interested in a less conventional path tend to get left behind. That
same structure that works for everyone else doesn’t really work for us, or maybe we don’t want it
to; but still we are already engrained with it, and by it so we don’t necessarily understand how
to do it. Or maybe that’s just my experience, and I’ve been lucky enough to meet someone who is
in exactly the same situation, I don’t know, but it does make for a very confusing twenties.” I
said. Cassia chuckled. “When I left home, not for the first time, but for real, the second time, I
moved across the country, met a girl and we got married all within a year. I was so eager to start
my life that I made a series of really pressed decisions.” I said. “I do feel more comfortable having
this conversation now, with you, with less anxiety than I usually feel when I think about it. I
guess it’s kind of comforting knowing that that future is possible.” Cassia said. “So you want to
get married and have a family and all that, too?” She continued. “Oh, yeah, definitely.” I
responded. “I’m kind of surprised that you’re so comfortable talking about this, and that my
question didn’t scare you.” I said. “Yeah, well, I mean, we talked about it, about the importance
of communicating, and it just seems to me that if we can ask the difficult questions, or, you
know, the questions that people don’t usually ask until much later in a relationships it would not
only make it easier for us to talk about in the future but also a lot easier to approach other issues
that may come up.” She said. I was smiling from the corner of my mouth and just staring
hapless into her eyes, “You know, Cassia, that’s the reason, exactly, that I feel that
communication is so important.” I said. “I kind of figured.” She responded. The cowboy was
watching us now, his eyes were fixed above his computer, and at us. I lifted my head
after noticing and made direct eye contact, at first he looked down but then met my
gaze, again. “Excuse me…” he said. “I overheard you talking, in English; I’m American, y’all
are to, right?” He said. “We’re American, yes.” I responded. “Do you mind me asking where
you’re from?” He inquired. “Texas.” Cassia said. “Really? I am, too.” “Oh yeah, what part?”
I inquired. “Abilene.” He responded. Cassia nodded, she had never been. “I lived in
Abilene for a year.” I said. “Really?” Cassia asked. “No, shit.” The young cowboy
responded. I nodded to Cassia and whispered, “Yeah, the year before I moved to Boerne.” “I
went to Allie Ward Elementary School my second grade year, the year the school opened,
actually.” I said to him. “You went to Allie Ward!?” He exclaimed. “I did.” I responded.
“Man, I went to Allie Ward Elementary School.” Cassia looked at me. “It’s such a small
world. My mom will never believe this.” She said. “Are you studying here, abroad then?”
Cassia inquired. “Yeah.” He responded. “What are you studying?” I asked. “International
business.” He responded. “That would make sense, yeah.” I replied. “What are y’all doing
here?” He asked. “We’re on sabbatical.” I said. The young cowboy kind of looked at me
with confusion and hesitation. “Vacation.” Cassia retorted. “Where are you from?” the
cowboy asked Cassia. “Bandera.” She responded. He stared up at the ceiling while
shaking his head, trying to place it. “I know I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know where it is.” He
said. “It’s outside…” Cassia and I both started, simultaneously, I stopped. “…outside San
Antonio.” She responded. “Oh, OK.” He said. “How long have you been studying here?” I
asked. “Sixth months, I have another sixth months to go.” He responded. “Do you like
Germany?” Cassia asked. “I didn’t, at first…” he started, “…but, it’s grown on me.” He
responded, looking around. “What have y’all done since you’ve been here? How long are you
here?” He inquired. He and Cassia had a back-and-forth about what we’ve seen and the
time we have left that lasted a few minutes, I chimed in on occasion, but also finished
my lunch. “For lunch, sometime, before you leave you need to go to Falafel Dream 2010…” The
cowboy started, “…and the Brücke museum…I don’t know, actually, there’s a lot to do,
especially if you like modern history.” He finished. “Thank you.” Cassia responded, “I’m
sure we’ll stop by all of those places.” A few minutes later Cassia and I left thanking, again,
and offering luck to the young cowboy with his future. We walked slowly to Cassia’s
hotel where we found her dad in the bar downstairs with a beer and my book in his
hand. “Hey daddy.” She said. He closed the book around his forefinger to mark the page.
“Hey.” He responded. “You’re still reading.” She said. “I can’t put it down…” Mr. Lite
looked at me, “I really like it.” He said. “Thank you.” I responded. “Is mama upstairs?”
Cassia asked. “Upstairs, and still reading. She’s almost finished.” “Really?” I asked. “She is
breezing through it. What have you two been up to?” Mr. Lite asked us. “We found a park…”
We said, in unison. Cassia took over, “…and then had a lunch at an Italian Deli, which was
really, really good.” “We ran into a guy from Abilene, at the deli.” I said. “Wow.” Mr. Lite
said. “He’s studying here.” Cassia said. “That’s pretty cool. So, mama and I were talking about
room service for dinner tonight. I’m not sure if you have plans, but you’re both welcome to join
us.” Mr. Lite said. Cassia glanced at me. “We had a plan for after dinner, but…” she
glanced at me, again. “…we can join you…” I nodded, “Yeah.” I said, shrugging. “…for
dinner tonight.” “Mama will be done with the book by then, I’ll still be reading, so don’t talk
about it until after I finish, or while I’m around.” Mr. Lite said. “What are you drinking?” I
inquired. “Oh, it’s pretty good, it’s some German beer, I can’t remember, something light…”
“Radler?” I asked. “Yeah, I think so. Have you tried it?” He asked. “Yeah, it’s good. It’s like
an Arnold Palmer but instead of tea it’s, you know, beer.” I said. “There’s lemonade in this?”
Mr. Lite asked holding it to his nose. “Yeah.” I responded. “I was thinking earlier how
perfect this beer was for me tonight.” He continued. “Where did you have it?” Cassia asked.
“Um, on the train, between Cologne and Leipzig.” I said. “…with Rebecca?” Cassia
confirmed. I nodded. “Who’s Rebecca?” Mr. lite inquired. “A girl I met on the train, she
worked the bar in the dining/bar car.” I said. I looked over at Cassia. She’s not sure yet
what to make of that situation, and I don’t blame her, obviously, because I still haven’t
spoken to Rebecca about everything that’s happened these last few days in Berlin.
“What are you thinking, Jonah?” Cassia inquired. “Can we talk about it in minute?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She said. “Well, we’re going to run upstairs, we’ll see you soon.” Cassia said to her
father. In the elevator Cassia asked me again. “I need to have a conversation with Rebecca.”
I said. “Are you worried about that?” she asked. “No, not really, I just like to make sure that I
handle things the right way.” I said. “…so I tend to think about it.” I continued. “I
understand.” Cassia said. “When are you going to talk to her?” she continued. “Um,
tomorrow, maybe. Sometime this week, for sure, before you leave, and before I go to Hamburg.” I
said. Cassia knocked and we stood outside for a couple of minutes waiting for her
mother to respond. “Come in.” Her mother yelled. “We would if we could, but I don’t have
my key.” Cassia said. We heard her mom from behind the door, “Shit, OK, I’ll be right
there. Hold on. I’m coming. Dammit. Alright.” The door opened. “Hey you two.” Mrs. Lite
said, smiling. “This is so good!” she said, holding up my book. “Thank you.” I responded
“We ran into daddy at the bar downstairs, still reading, too.” Cassia said. “Yeah. I was talking
to the book, so he needed to get away. I was distracting him from reading” Mrs. Lite said,
Cassia laughed. “What are you two doing?” she inquired. “I think we’re gonna hang around
here until dinner.” Cassia replied. “Oh, great, well I’m going to be reading, OK?” Mrs. Lite
said. “I know. We might wander around the hotel a bit actually.” Cassia said. Cassia and I
went inside the room for a moment, grabbed the room key, and wandered down the
hallway, in search of nothing at all in particular. On the 11th floor, the top floor, there’s a
spa, ONO. “That looks nice.” Cassia said. “Do you want a massage?” I offered. She shook
her head. “Are you sure?” I pressed. “I mean, yeah, but no it’s OK.” She said. “I wouldn’t
mind getting one, too.” I implied. “Yeah?” “Yeah, why not. Let’s go.” We both decided on
the Herbal Thai massage. We asked if we could stay in the same room. It’s the fastest 90
minutes of either of our lives. I had them overwork my neck—staring down into a
computer screen in my lap as consistently as I do creates a world of problems. While
writing I try to ease the tension in my neck by cracking it every few minutes, I’m
constantly stiff and sore. After the two masseuse finish with our massages Cassia and I
laid on the massage bed staring into the marble floor below us, savoring the moment.
It’s easy to get up after a massage and jump right back into our straining and stressful
routines; but not today, not either of us. We will lay here until they make us leave. The
vibration on the table where we left our things below where we hung our clothes
brought us back to reality, the masseuse had left so Cassia jumped up, leaving her towel
on the floor and grabbed her phone. We were expecting the call from her parents to
invite us to dinner. Mom, hi, yeah, we’re upstairs. Yeah, in the spa. Yeah! It was Jonah’s idea.
OK. We’ll be right down. “Jonah, get up. It’s time for dinner.” Cassie demanded. “Can we eat
here, tell them to bring dinner up here.” I suggested, while Cassia chuckled. “Jonah, get up.
Let’s go.” She said. I stood, forgetting about the towel. “On second thought…” Cassia said.
“HA. Toss me my jeans.” I responded. There was a note on the bed when we walked into
the room. They had decided to get dinner at the restaurant downstairs. When we
walked into the restaurant they were being given their drinks. “Hey, they’re here.” Mr.
Lite said. “What would you like to drink?” The waitress asked. “I’d like the house cab.” I said
“I’ll have the same.” Cassia seconded. “OK, I’ll be right back with those.” “How was the
massage?” Mrs. Lite inquired. “You got a massage?” Mr. Lite inquired. “I needed it!” I said.
“Is the life of a writer so stressful?” Mrs. Lite said, playfully. “You might be surprised.” I
responded. “It was pretty great.” Cassia started. “I haven’t had a massage in, or,
maybe…ever. Not like that, anyway.” She finished. “If you get a chance, mama, you should get
one.” Cassia said. “Yes, we got massages.” I responded to Mr. Lite. “We were walking
around the hotel and happened by the spa upstairs and decided to stop in.” I continued. He
nodded. “I finished your book.” Mrs. Lite said. “Ah, ah, no, no, no.” Mr. Lite refused to let
us talk about it. “But, I’m not allowed to talk about it, yet.” Mrs. Lite said. “Or just while I’m
around.” Mr. Lite said. “I can’t believe George dies!” Mrs. Lite said. “What? No! God
dammit!” He exclaimed, mostly playfully. “I’m just kidding.” Mrs. Lite continued. Mr.
Lite took a breath of relief. “How could you do that to me? I almost had a heart-attack. Man. I
was going to say, that would have sucked. You’re book would have sucked.” Mr. Lite went on.
“Great, thanks!” I said. “Daddy!” Cassia jumped in. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I thought it was
pretty funny.” He shared. “You would.” Mrs. Lite said. Cassia chuckled listening to her
parents. “Y’all are cute.” She said. Mr. Lite leaned over and kissed his wife. “Does
everyone know what you’re going to get?” he asked. The consensus was, yes. Mr. Lite made
eye contact with the waitress and she come over to take our order. The conversation for
the next few minutes revolved around my bookstore back home, and how I would like
to expand and to grow it when I got back stateside. “I would eventually, sooner-rather-
than-later, like to incorporate a tea/coffeehouse and a small tapas deli.” I said. “That would so
great!” Cassia said. “And, Cassia can run the deli.” Mr. Lite suggested, somewhat kidding.
“That’s actually what I was thinking.” I said. “Really?” Cassia asked. “Yeah, of course.” I
continued. “It could be your baby.” I said. “If it all works out; you can run the kitchen and
create the menu.” I suggested. “Oh, that would be a dream come true for her!” Mrs. Lite said.
“Yeah, I hope that’s something that we can work out. I’m always hesitant to talk about futures
and dreams when it involves others because I know that I hate being disappointed—and I have
been many, many times—I would especially hate to disappoint anybody else, especially the
people that I genuinely care about, if those plans don’t become a reality.” I said. “I understand
that.” Mrs. Lite said. “You’ve been hurt, a lot?” Mrs. Lite asked. “I’ve been in a lot of really
bad situations. I’ve been through a lot for sure.” I responded. “I can tell; only someone who has
been through as much would be so careful with their words. I’m sorry to hear that.” She said,
with genuine sympathy in her voice. “Thanks.” I responded. Our food arrived much
quicker than any of us expected, and it was amazing. It was so good even that it was
almost too difficult to inquire about one another’s food. As each bite was relished and
softened in our mouths we sat in silence long enough only to catch our breath before
taking another savory bite. We looked at one another, only because we already knew,
the looks of blessed delight infused in our expressions said it all. I set my fork down on
the plate. “Well, this was a good suggestion.” Cassia lost it with mirthful hilarity. Her
mother immediately followed. Mr. Lite held it together though even he was nearly
blithesome. “So good.” Cassia said. We had all ordered different items off the menu, and
not one of us had anything but ovation for the cooking. The waitress came back and
asked if anything was wrong. “Absolutely not, that’s kind of the issue, there is nothing
wrong, at all. This is perfect. Please tell the chef that this is one of the better meals any one or all
of us has had in Germany.” I said. “Of course.” She responded, smiling. We sat and talked
and drank for an hour or more, at least it felt as if we had no secrets by the end of the
evening. We had become, for all intents and purposes, family. “How long are you
planning on being gone, sailing?” Mr. Lite inquired. “Cassia and I were talking about that
earlier. No more than a few months, sailing around the Mediterranean and the Indian Oceans,
and then I’m probably going to sail the boat across the Atlantic and moor her along the gulf, off
of the Texas coast, somewhere.” I said. “Oh, that would cool.” Mr. Lite responded. “That
would be awesome.” Cassia said. “How long would that take? Sailing across the Atlantic?”
Mr. Lite inquired. “A month, or so.” I said. “Just to cross the Atlantic?” he asked. “A month
is on the safe side.” I responded. “So it’ll probably take less time?” Cassia asked. “More than
likely, yeah.” I responded. “Good!” she said. I smiled, so did Cassia’s mother.

Chapter XV

I spent the morning at Chapter One Coffee, writing. The Lites’ sent me pictures
throughout the day. Occasionally I would break from writing my novel and write flash
fiction stories inspired by their pictures, some of my stories were short enough to send
as a text message. Cassia took to one particular story and supplemented it, I would
continue to composite as well, and before too long we had a well-rounded and
interesting story developing between the two of us. I spanned the coffeehouse and
watched people interact with one another and thought about Rebecca. Shit. I opened a
new document in Word and started writing down a few points to discuss with her,
when we talk. I should call her today, there’s too much going on in my world, and in
hers, I’m sure, to leave it untended. Still watching people in the café, and
eavesdropping incidental points in various conversations allowed me to put off making
the call as long as I felt capable, as long as I could justify prolonging it for myself. The
phone is ringing, and it continues to ring, I never considered that she wouldn’t answer.
Rebecca didn’t answer so I left a message. I’m in Berlin. This is a beautiful city. I ran into
someone I knew from home in a Markt; I know, it’s crazy. When you get a chance please call back
I’d like to talk with you about something. Take care, Rebecca. Bye. I felt much more relaxed,
just knowing that I laid the foundation. I could breathe now; the conversations
surrounding me seemed less irregular. I latched onto an elderly German couple’s
conversation and interjected, politely. We talked about Berlin, and how much it’s
changed in the last ten years, our conference was short-lived because my phone began
vibrating on the table. „Entschuldigen Sie.” I said to the elderly couple, and answered the
phone, walking outside. Hi, Rebecca. I’m good, how are you? I went to the flea market in
Mauerpark. Yeah, that was cool. I bought a cuff, like a bracelet. Yeah. Oh, I also went to The East
Side Gallery. Yeah! It was really great, and then Treptower Park. Mmhmm. Afterwards I ate at
Fritto’s. Fritto, Chapter One Coffee, I’m actually outside of Chapter One right now. I don’t
know, I can’t think of everything at the moment. Yeah, I did, I did. A friend from home, yeah, in
the Market at Mauerpark. Yeah. She’s here with her family. Is she what I wanted to talk to you
about? Wow. Well, yes, actually. No, ha, she’s not going sailing with me, she’s going home.
Well, I had a crush on her, I may be underplaying that a bit, back at home for a while, before I
left. Maybe we should finish this conversation in person. Will you be in Berlin or Hamburg in
this next couple of weeks? You can? OK. Hamburg, next week. OK, we’ll finalize as it gets
closer. It was really good to hear your voice. Thanks. Bye! After talking to Rebecca I walked
the streets of Berlin for a long while. She sounded understanding and simultaneously
disappointed, which, of course, is exactly what I expected, though I suppose, I was also
preparing for some contravention and resentment mixed in as well. When there is
frustration involved it’s almost easier to accept, otherwise the guilt can be unbearable.
Be upset please, you should be angry, and I deserve to be besieged. But, Rebecca will react in
whatever way is appropriate for her, and I cannot assume that her reaction would be
any more or less abridged, that she would hold back only to be considerate.

I quit day dreaming about my conversation with Rebecca while I was standing
underneath the Topography of Terror, the former Gestapo and SS headquarters of the
Second World War. The doors were open and people were streaming inside, so I
followed. I really don’t like walking through Holocaust museums. And still, I do think
it’s important sometimes to remind ourselves of the horror that we have committed
towards one another, not necessarily to humble ourselves but to underline the value of
treating one another well, I mean, to remind ourselves that we are capable of treating
one another compassionately. Unfortunately, though, our reactions to things can be
incredibly limited, and by that I mean that we have learned reactions in the same way
that we memorize dates and places and names in history class, and that’s because we
unwittingly relate to our emotions comparatively to the way that we relate to our
schooling—with a formulaic methodology that applies only to general concepts of
understanding. The problem with that, other than, you know, everything, is that the
only emotion that we really have an understanding of and instruction in—by
instruction, I mean, textbook only—is Anger, so we tend to react almost immediately, to
very nearly every situation with Anger. And even when walking through a place like
the Topography of Terror. I took my time and walked through the former Gestapo and SS
headquarters intently, not necessarily engaged in the items, the things that illustrate a
time past but the feel of the building, the energy created by the Nazi’s while they
hurriedly course from room to room, barking orders and deciding the fates of millions
of human beings, the effort that many of them most certainly struggled with when
convincing themselves that the Jewish people were not really people, they were
something different, something lesser, while simultaneously delegating an order to
execute. An energy like that cannot be excised. I watched people walking through who
seem not to notice such an energy, they allowed it to saturate their moods and their
beliefs, but they could not recognize the distinction between it and themselves. I often
find the complete lack of consciousness in people unnerving, but it’s a symptom of
something else entirely. Cassia texted me while I was in the museum, she was curious
about what I was doing. I am witnessing post neo modernism society at its worst. I texted
back to her. Uh. What? She responded. I’m at the Topography of Terror. I typed. What’s
that? She replied. It’s one of the many Holocaust museums in Berlin. I texted back. Oh, OK,
so what was all that business about post neo modernism? Cassia texted. Just how people behave
while visiting museums such as this one. I responded. Oh! I see, you’re being your over-
analytical self. Cassia typed. Haha. Something like that, I guess, yeah. I sent. What are you up
to? I also typed. My parents and I are walking around Museum Island. She responded. How
is that? Sounds like it could be fun. I replied. There were a couple of museums that were
interesting, but this is too many, too many museums for one day. Cassia shared. Are you OK?
Cassia texted. Yeah, why? I texted back. I don’t know, you seem, kind of, not yourself. She
typed. Yeah, I mean, I called Rebecca, and we talked briefly. But we need to finish our
conversation sometime, I don’t know when. I sent. Did you talk about us? You and me, I mean.
Cassia replied. Yeah, I did. I responded. Can we meet later for drinks? Cassia texted. Yeah,
of course. I replied. Where do you want to meet? She asked. I’ve been meaning to go to the
Cordobar, let’s meet there. I sent. OK. How do I get there? Cassia replied. Actually, I’ll meet
you at your hotel and we’ll take the S-Bahn there. I said. OK. Cassia retorted. We agreed on
a time and we stopped texting. Texting came about when I was in high school, about
half the people I know took to it—to texting—immediately, the other half, well
notsomuch. I was one of the notsomuch. Being able to communicate with almost
anyone via text is cool, I like that whole business, and it can be so much easier and
quicker than calling someone, but, like, what is the procedure of ending a conversation?
Do text conversations actually end, ever? Do you just stop texting? I don’t get it. And
there’s a completely different lingo, or language, even. I’ve heard it said that people
hate when someone starts a conversation with, “How are you?” I don’t understand that,
and I don’t ever want to understand that. The generational gap between me and ‘the
younger’ generation is as wide as the Millennials with any generation.
Anthropologically they are not human, it’s terrifying. And there are so many of them,
they now outnumbered the baby-boomers at their apex. Cassia is a Millennial, getting
to know her was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done; besides, of course, my
last real relationship, that was terrible.

Cassia was waiting outside the hotel when I walked up, she smiled and walked
towards me, gave me a hug, and took my hand, turning towards the subway. We had a
ten minute ride, at least, from the hotel to Cordobar. Our conversation was organic, it
was real and honest. It occurred to me, while listening to her that we had taken several
strides in our relationship, and they had manifested so fluently, these past few days. We
were equally as willing to put the effort into one another, and into the development of
whatever might evolve. The train skates into the station and we wait on the opposite
end of the car for the strides of people to exit, and we follow. Just as the doors close
behind us, the subway door situation still makes Cassia uncomfortable and skittish.
We’d have to walk a bit. It was a fairly high foot traffic area, and most of the people
seemed to be locals. We walked past several cafés and restaurants and a few businesses,
it was a really nice walk, so nice even, that we didn’t really want the walk to end. Cassia
and I could walk and talk and lose ourselves in converse, completely dispassionate of
our situation. I think, eventually, we would over-concern ourselves with that same
situation that allowed us to walk so indifferently throughout the heart of Berlin,
Germany. We can only take so much unfamiliarity before it begins to burden us. So we
stopped, instead, and sat at a wooden table to the left of the Cordobar entrance against
the window adjacent an old rosewood piano arranged con the painted white brick wall.
The café wasn’t full, neither was it empty. The front room was small, less than fifteen
tables, Cordobar extended towards the rear of the building, however there was not a
point throughout the night that either Cassia or I ventured back there. The wine
selection was awesome. They specialize in German and Austrian wines, which was
exactly what I was hoping for, not that I have a particular fondness for wines of the
region—I’ve never really experienced them—I was hoping to be educated. I asked the
waiter, in German, what they would recommend for a pair of Americans who are
looking for a great bottle of German wines. He suggested the 2006 Moric Neckenmarkt
Alte Reben and then went on to say but that’s a €179 bottle of wine, „so…” he said, and
shrugged. “What a fucking snob.” I said turning to Cassia. “What did he say?” Cassia
asked. “He’s judging us by our age and our appearance. He’s implying we can’t afford the wine
that he is recommending.” I said. “Dick.” Cassia whispered. „…so…wir werden eine Flasche
für die Tabelle, und , was , ein, keine zwei Flaschen zu gehen zu nehmen.” He stood, frozen,
and just after he started walking away, I stopped him. „Auch werde ich brauchen, um auf
lhre Manager zu sprechen.” He nodded and walked away, defeated. “He looks shocked,
what did you say to him?” Cassia asked. “I told him that because it costs as much as it does
we’ll have one bottle for the table and only two bottles packaged to go. I also told him that I
wanted to speak to his manager.” “Haha, so now we’re buying three bottles?” Cassia joked.
“We’ll give one to your parents.” I said. The manager showed up, and I explained that we
had a problem with your snobbish waiter, he shouldn’t judge people by their
appearance. The manger apologized profusely and offered us a free meal with our
wine, to which we agreed and placed an order. Tips are not customary here but sitting
here right now I almost wished they were, so that we might leave without offering. “So,
tell me what happened with Rebecca.” Cassia said. I held her gaze and grinned, took a deep
breath and said, “Well, I explained to her that you and I ran into each other in the market, and
that we’ve been interested in each other in the past, and probably are again.” I said. “Is that it?”
Cassia inquired. “Pretty much, at that point I felt like it would be a better idea to finish that
conversation in person. I was direct with my intent, but wanted to express the subtleties with
largesse.” I said. “OK, I can understand that. What happens when I leave and you two sit down
and you decide that you want to be with her because she’s here?” Cassia said. “Oh, no, no, I
wouldn’t do that. Please don’t worry about that.” I said. “How can I not?” she continued. “By
trusting me. I think that having this time to consider what I’ve said will help her to realize, too,
that she doesn’t really want to be with me, or that it wouldn’t work, or something.” I said.
“How do you think the conversation is going to go?” Cassia asked. “I guess, I’m going to
share, in greater detail, who you are, and about how we ran into each other, and, just, the way I
feel about you.” I finished. “OK. What do you think she’ll say?” Cassia inquired. “I’m not
sure, exactly. I mean, I think…I hope…I want, her to say something along the lines of ‘it’s OK,
it probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway, our lives are too different, blah, blah, blah; but, I
mean, it really doesn’t matter how she responds or reacts. Because, I’ll be empathetic, of course,
but in the end I need to follow my heart and go after what I want. And she can’t really manage
or control that…” I said, then sat there for a moment “…and, if she tries to, the whole
conversation will get considerably easier for me, because I’ll no longer feel guilty for leading her
on, and…yeah.” I concluded. “You feel guilty?” Cassia inquired. “Yeah, of course, I mean
Rebecca and I started something and even went as far as to make tentative plans, and between
then and now everything has changed; she should be upset with me, she has every right; not that-
that would or should change our relationship and how I feel about you, but nevertheless, she
should be upset. I mean, wouldn’t you be?” Cassia lifted her eyebrows and nodded, “Yeah, I
guess so.” She said. We poured ourselves another glass each, and toasted. “You really like
me don’t you?” Cassia asked. I made several subtle explosive expressions with my face
and said, “Well, yeah, I do, and I always have…” Cassia smiled, and looked down, staring
into her glass. “I am sorry, Cassia.” I said. “For what?” “For how I behaved when we first
met.” I responded. “You don’t need to be sorry, I’m the one that’s sorry…” she looked down
into her wine glass, again. “Do you remember that message you sent me? In the morning,
after that night when you met my cousin in the bar.” Cassia asked. “Oh, yeah, when…well,
yeah. I do.” I said. “You were right, Jonah. And I’m sorry for the way that I behaved, and for not
putting effort in to getting to know you.” She said. “Look at what we would have missed out
on!” Cassia continued. “I don’t think we would have missed out on anything, we were going to
be together, regardless.” I said. “What’s Rebecca like?” Cassia inquired. “What’s she
like…well, she’s a year older than I am, and she has a son. She was born in, and grew up in
Sweden, she’s Swedish and English, in her early twenties she moved to England, and now she is
bartending on a train in Germany.” I said. “Is she pretty?” Cassia asked. I nodded, “Yes, she
is.” What does she look like?” Cassia asked. “I’m always hesitant to answer that question.” I
said. “Why?” Cassia asked. “…no matter how I describe her the image you create in your head
will not be even remotely similar to what Rebecca looks like.” I said. “Yeah, I know, I’m just
curious about what you’re attracted to.” She asked. “Cassia, please don’t compare yourself to
Rebecca. I understand that drawing those comparisons is almost natural, but it’s never healthy,
for you, or me, or anyone. Besides, the only similarity with the women I’ve dated, or have been
interested in is how dissimilar they are.” I responded. “What do you mean?” She asked.
“Basically, I don’t have a ‘type’.” I said. “I think everyone has a type.” Cassia said. “I can
promise you that I do not.” A waiter came to our table to inquire about how we were, how
our food was, how the wine was, etc., and it wasn’t our original waiter. In fact I haven’t
seen him walking around in a while, methinks he pissed off his last customer, at least at
Cordobar. “It’s a different waiter, haha.” Cassia said. “I was just thinking about that.” I
responded. “So, changing the subject, I’ve always wondered if there was anyone, besides me, I
guess…” Cassia started, and laughed. “…at the coffeehouse that you don’t like, or what you
thought of everyone.” I smiled and thought about the question and started to laugh. “Nah,
I like everyone. It annoyed me that very few of the people that worked there actually put effort
into developing a friendship with me, you weren’t alone in that. Though everyone else obviously
put more effort while I was in the coffeehouse. I put more effort into you than I did with
anyone…anyway…I know that Justine’s boyfriend had some issues with me, but I think he was
more threatened by me than anything.” I said. “You think he was threatened by you?” Cassia
inquired. “Absolutely.” I responded. “Why?” she asked. “I think it made him nervous that I
was the only person that could call him out on some of his issues.” I responded. “Really?”
Cassia said, “What kind of issues.” She continued. “He has some issues with
insecurities…and because of that he spent the better part of his life creating a persona that made
him feel more aggressive, more, um, macho. And, even though it’s not real, it worked for him,
you know, I mean, he is kind-of the leader of the Alpha Males at that coffeehouse, all the guys
there look up to him, and he doesn’t even work there.” I said. Cassia laughed. “That’s really
true. What do you mean, though, about his persona not being real?” She asked. “He’s a story-
teller and he tends to either exaggerate or flat-out lie about many of his experiences.” I
responded. “How do you know?” she asked. “Some of his lies weren’t well thought-out.” I
replied “Such as…” I was hesitant to get into it, because regardless of his issues I do like
him, and I respect his girlfriend a great deal. “For Justine’s sake, maybe I shouldn’t…” I
said. “Come on, it’s me…” Cassia said, and she did have a point, I didn’t want to feel like
I couldn’t tell her things, and I do want her to be the one person I could share
everything with. “OK, well, either he is smart enough to know—or he’s just lucky—that
keeping certain ideas separated from one another will keep most people from noticing obvious
connections, which have allowed him to maintain his lies for so long. For example: he has made it
known that he spent several months in jail, right…?” Cassia nodded, “Yeah.” She said, also.
“You also know that he works in a bank.” I said. “Well, yeah.” She responded. “But, no, bank
would hire someone who spent that kind of time in jail, especially not one of the largest financial
institutions in the world.” Cassia just stared at me a moment, “Wow. Yeah. You’re right…I
never thought about that.” She said. “That’s what I mean. He’s either really smart or really
lucky.” I said. “The thing that concerns me, though, especially considering Justine, is that if a
guy would lie about being in jail—because, you know, most people would lie about not being in
jail, what kind of person lies about going—what else would he be willing to lie about?” I said.
“Yeah, that’s a good point.” Cassia said. “Why haven’t you said anything to Justine?” she
continued. “They’re close, they seem to genuinely love one another. I’m sure there are certain
lies he’s told in the beginning of their relationship that haunt him now, and he wants to be open,
and to be honest with her about them but he’s probably terrified about what he’ll lose.” Cassia
nodded only, she didn’t say anything. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes. I took a
few big sips of wine. Cassia finished her free, light lunch. And licked her fingers. A
small handful of people walked in and sat against the window on the other side of the
café, Cassia and I watched them sit down and settle themselves. “I’m not sure why but I
was just thinking how I can sometimes be cautious about the conversations I get caught up in,
because I can get stereotyped as being too serious. There are a lot people that take me so
seriously…” I said, Cassia looked over at me. “…I don’t really understand it. I’m the least
serious person I know.” Cassia listened, only. “I guess, for some reason, people need me to be.
All I really need is to always be able to laugh at myself.” I finished. Cassia took my hand, I
smiled. “I’ll always laugh at you…” Cassia said. “Thanks.” I said, increasing my grip, as if
to silently imply that her words meant more to me than she may ever know. Cassia took
her glass and drained the remainder of her wine down her throat. “Come on, let’s go…”
she said, standing, and beginning to pull me up and out the door. “Whoa, wait, wait, I
need to let them know to bring the other two bottles I paid for.” I said. “Right.” Cassia said,
“Hurry up!”

Cassia would only be in Europe for two more days. That occurred to me while
we were walking, it also occurred to me that though it might feel like we’ve been together
for some time, it has, in reality, only been a few days. And yet when she leaves
everything is going to be different, my life has changed since we’ve engaged again, just
as Cassia’s has, and I have no way of knowing the effects of that. We walked hand-in-
hand throughout Berlin in silence. I wondered if she was ruminating on the same
thoughts that I was; it was refreshing knowing that the two of us could walk, like this,
both thinking the same thing, in utter reticence, and find harmony in it. We can walk
together, and in our own space, aware of one another, and yet unfettered by the
concerns of the other; that is trust, and conviction, at its most transparent. We walked
by a man with dark long hair, he had a full beard, and was wearing a leather sleeveless
shirt, and beaded cuffs on either wrist, in his lap he had an electric acoustic classical
guitar plugged into an amp that was placed behind him and to his right. We stopped to
listen. The fingernails on his right hand he had allowed to grow out so he could finger
pick flawlessly, which he did. On the guitar, at the top of the neck, just underneath the
head, a stick of incense burns. He was able to produce sounds from this guitar that
neither Cassia nor I knew were possible. We stood there throughout the entire
performance, which was lengthy. At the end of which we looked at one another, left
some money in his guitar case, and walked away. Life is made up of little moments. The
moments, such as these, that we happen upon without intention and without promise
that exist in our realities as frequently or infrequently as any one of us is willing to
acknowledge, or willing to recognize tend to be the most meaningful. There were
dozens of people who kept walking, they heard a noise only, and it entreated on them
inasmuch as background music in a coffeehouse; others stopped and stared, intrigued
inasmuch as we might be at a movie theatre; and still others, such as Cassia and I, are
well-versed enough to take that moment with us, because we knew how, and we were
willing, it was more than that though, we actually wanted to, we wanted to collect
moments: as memories, or as feelings transformed. As those somethings that would
represent us one occasion at a time. “What are you going to do when I leave?” Cassia
inquired. I grinned, but only because I knew it was on her mind, also. “I’m going to have
to leave to. I don’t think I’ll be able to hang around here without you, I’m sure I’ll miss you too
much.” “So, you’ll go to Hamburg?” she asked. “Yeah.” I responded. “The next day?” she
inquired. “As soon as you leave, probably. I’m not going to stay any longer than I have to.” I
said, and Cassia smiled. “I’ll only come back here with you.” I said. Cassia looked over at
me smiling from the side of her mouth, she stopped, and turned to face me before
kissing me. We stood there embracing one another, for…

Chapter XVI

We sat on the banks off the Spree and watched boats heading back and forth
through the river. We spoke in choppy German, my first attempt to teach her the
language; we laughed, a lot. In German. I started making up very short biographies for
people walking by while Cassia laughed in effort to echo what I was saying. She is
getting better. I’m going to miss this, her laugh, and her smile, and Cassia’s terrible
German accent. „Ich liebe dich.” Cassia said, in the most perfect German I’ve heard her
speak, and I smiled. „Ich liebe dich.” I repeated, looking into her imposing and piercing
blue eyes. It’s exceptionally bizaare to me that while we are all actively waiting around
for some spiritual meaning, a design or method that outlines our purpose in as clear
and uncomplicated a means as fathomably possible, we simultaneously submit—and
ultimately reject our ethereal aspirations—for a commercial, materialistic, distorted
purpose; a trivial driven idealism that nourishes only our ability to treat people like
things, soulless, defused, and meaningless things. As often as we recognize profound
contact and beauty in one another, and in the world, I cannot understand our
willingness to depreciate ourselves. There is nothing about this moment that Cassia and
I are incapable of appreciating, and there’s nothing about this moment that we will not
appreciate. We allow ourselves to feel, we are not embarrassed, we are not shy, or
tormented, or bewildered, and that is what moor’s the differences between us and those
whom are fastened, whom are resistant, and whom are unconscious, those who will
never truly discover purpose spiritual or otherwise. I cat interrupted my thoughts,
strolling a figure eight and rubbing-up against Cassia. “She likes you.” I said. “I wonder
where she came from.” Cassia commented, looking around for anyone inquiring about a
meandering cat. “She’s been following me around for a while.” I said. “The cat?” Cassia
confirms. “Yeah. I call her Nekoma.” I responded. “Nekoma. Why Nekoma?” she asked.
“Nekoma means—or is—a cat-like fairy.” I responded. “She’s pretty.” Cassia said.
“Nekoma.” I say. She stops strolling and looks up at me, she smiles before she continues
following her octennial design. Nekoma hangs around for several minutes listening to
Cassia and I talk, apparently with approval, before she disappears down the walking
path along the river. “Is she going to be OK?” Cassia inquires. “Nekoma? Oh, yeah, she’ll be
fine.” I said, as Cassia watched Nekoma until she could no longer see her. I watched a
sailboat drifting across the water. “You’re excited, aren’t you?” I looked over at Cassia,
she was watching me while I watched the boat, I looked back at the sailboat, and… “I’m
torn. Still, look at that…” she watched the boat, with me, as it slowly drifts by us, there
was a young couple onboard: a young man at the helm, he was steering while drinking
a beer, the young woman sat on a beach chair, at the bow, with a glass of wine and a
book. They were completely oblivious of time inasmuch as time scorned their
indifference, time was still not welcome within the ambit of this boat. Cassia
recognized, as well the immunity that life had to offer from the life that we are imposed.
“Am I taking you away from that?” she inquires. “No, you know that. I wouldn’t let you; I’m
managing two desires in exactly the way that I choose.” I responded. “OK.” Cassia said,
taking my hand. I realized then that the minutes between Cassia releasing my hand to
acknowledge Nekoma, and now were the only that Cassia and I were not in physical
contact, in some way, all day. I stood and brushed the backside of my pants. Cassia
followed. Cassia was standing on the balcony in my hotel room watching the city
several stories below. I walked up behind her and took her arms in my hands, and
sliding to-and-fro up and down each arm, her blouse slipped, and I kissed the bare
shoulder; brushing her hair around the opposite shoulder I kiss her gently from her
shoulder to her upper neck. I could feel her smile. She turned around and kissed me. I
picked her up and carried her to the bedstead, and Cassia chuckled the entire way.

What happens next is none of your damn business.

A song that I haven’t heard in a while spirited its way into the measures of my
mind, I hummed along to it as it caroused in my head, and Cassia only listened while
staring up into and drawing pictures in the speckling ceiling above. “I know it’s
dangerous. It’s my Big Dark Love. Can I come over tonight?” I started to sing, Cassia
committed her mirage to memory before looking over at me while I repeated the same
few lines over and over again. “What is that?” she asked. “Part of a song I used to listen to.
It feels like a long time ago, a different life.” I responded. “How many lives have you lived, up
to this point?” Cassia asked. I started counting them, on two hands “…11…” nope, three
hands “…12, 13, 14, and 15. I’m currently on my 15th very distinctively different life.” I said.
“How long was each one?” Cassia inquired. “They all vary so much, it’s never the same.” I
said. “What about you Cassia, how many lives have you lived?” I asked. Cassia thought
about it a moment, “Three, maybe.” She responded. “That’s considerable…” I said. “…and I
absolutely believe it; you’re definitely more rounded than most people realize.” I shared. Cassia
put her head on my chest and sketched the outline of my ribs with the tips of her
fingers. “What would it be like? If we could be together, always.” “It could be however we want
it. That’s the beauty of relationships, they don’t have to be like everyone else; we can shape it
however we want to.” I responded. I lurch, slightly as I take Cassia’s hand “Ha, sorry, that
tickled.” I said, releasing her hand. Cassia laughed. “Hey, I haven’t seen you wear a
headband at all this week…” I observed. Cassia gave me a perplexed look, as if to suggest
that she had no idea what I was talking about. “You wore headbands almost every day at the
coffeehouse, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you wear them outside of work too.” I said. “Oh, no, I
really only wear them for work.” She responded. “I like that American Flag band you wear, it
seems to suit you really well.” I said. “What made you think about that?” Cassia inquired.
“I’m not sure, actually. I guess I was just thinking about our relationship before, when we we’re
first getting to know each other.” I said. “Why? It was…so bad.” She responded. “It’s still a
part of us, of our relationship. We might not be laying here at all if that didn’t happen.” I said.
“…maybe.” “It is kind of amazing that we are laying here; considering everything that
happened, or that didn’t happen. Isn’t it.” Cassia suggested. “Fuck yeah it is.” I said. Hahaha.
Cassia’s response was immediate, she, of course, did not expect my reaction. “That’s
why I’m thinking about it, it’s all pretty unbelievable.” I said. “We’re in Berlin...” Cassia said.
I nodded. “Germany...” She continued. “I know.” I said. “Together!” She continued, still. I
held her tighter. “We know each other from Texas, but the first time we made love was in
Berlin, Germany; because we just happened to run into each other here.” Cassia said. I guess
my frame of mind was reassigned, she was completely enthralled, all at once; I grinned
and met her gaze, and she began to compose herself. “Let’s get dinner.” Cassia exclaimed
fairly suddenly, after we had been laying there holding each other in silence for a while.
“Ok, yeah, let’s get dinner.” I responded. She crawled out of bed and began dressing
herself, I didn’t move, I watched her, how she shifts, and changes, and moves; she knew
I was watching her and I could feel her diffidence budding, even in the shadows of
Cassia’s imprudence I was nearly overwhelmed by her. “What?” she finally whispered.
I shook my head. “I am in awe of you.” I responded. She exhaled, I think her eyes fill with
tears, “Jonah, let’s go.” She says. I step out of bed and put on some jeans and a T-shirt
and I follow Cassia out into the hallway. In the elevator she was humming Big, Dark
Love, I joined her. We were two crazies humming along to a song in our heads, while we
made our way to the lobby. “It seems like we eat, a lot.” Cassia shared. “It does kind of seem
that way, probably because there’s nothing substantial, or that feels substantial that we do
between meals, except, of course, you know, making love.” I responded. “So, what you’re
saying is that we should just eat and have sex all day, every day?” Cassia inquired. “Yes,
exactly.” I responded. ”In all seriousness, though, Jonah…How do you do it?” Cassia asked.
“What do you mean?” I responded. “Well, how do you not go crazy managing your time, or
feeling accomplished, you know, between meals?” Cassia started. “When I have time off from
work and I stay at home I start to feel overwhelmed by all the nothing.” Cassia continued. “Oh,
right. Well, for years it was really hard! There were both too many and too few hours in a day, I
suppose it’s somewhat difficult to explain. Also, I guess, you know, I had issues with anxiety for
a while—well, I guess, off-and-on for my whole life—but it may have been more severe for me
because of that.” I said. “I worried about what I was accomplishing, if that makes sense, I mean,
I felt accomplished, like I was doing something, but it still felt like my method, or my routine, or
something, I guess, was off, as a result of the anxiety.” I continued. “What were you anxious
about?” Cassia inquired. “I don’t know, nothing. Really. Until my mid-twenties I don’t think I
was affected by anxiety at all, all I worried about was how not to grow up. Eventually that,
coupled with the anxiety, developed, in the midst also of my bad relationships, created a cocktail
of problems for a few years.” I said. We stopped at Linda Carrell to eat. We sat in arm chairs
across from a wood-burning stove. On the wall behind the stove was a collection of
blue-and-white ceramic plates of varying sizes that depict different events. Cassia and I
took pictures of each other sitting next to the wall in such a way that would allow the
camera to capture the blue-and-white ceramic plates and the wood-burning stove as
well, we took a ‘selfie’ of the two of us in front of the stove. I’ve never been much for
taking pictures, under the right circumstances I’ll linger and pose for a picture but only
if someone else is taking them. I rarely think about it myself. As I’ve mentioned I often
regret it. A lot of moments have gone ignored and probably forgotten because of my
indifference, for people like me having a camera on my iPhone is both a convenience
and an inconvenience, the iPhone, having a camera, allows me the opportunity to
always have a camera, but I really don’t like cell phones so I only carry the thing when I
absolutely have to, unfortunately the moments in which I don’t have to carry it are also
the moments that would provide for the most important and beautiful memories. C’est
la vie. I just so happened to have my Canon EOS 60D on me today, but it turns out I’m
just as bad about carrying my camera as I am carrying my phone. Cassia and I left our
glasses of wine to rest on the table between us and the wood-burning stove, I was
drinking a red and Cassia started with a white—she was planning to switch so I bought
a bottle of red, which was just behind the two glasses and centered—we took a picture
of the wine in front of a roaring fireplace; it wasn’t all that cold outside, the fire was
somewhat inane, yet there is always something comforting about a dimly lit room, a
glass of wine, a fire, and great company, it really doesn’t matter what time of year it is.
“What’s your dream car?” Cassia asked after we had been sitting and haplessly staring at
the fire for what seemed like hours although it couldn’t have been more than a moment.
“My dream car…” I said, in a low and somewhat disoriented manner. “…for the longest
time I wanted a Dodge Viper GTS, with a gunmetal pearl paint job. Actually, it’s still at the top
of the list, however my new dream car, the one that I’ll buy as soon as I get back stateside, is the
Tesla Model S P90D.” I said, engaging a slight grin just thinking about it. “Isn’t that
electric?” Cassia asked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing…This car being electric is like a side
feature, honestly. The power this car has is phenomenal. I’m talking about a car that can reach
speeds of over 150MPH, it can go from 0-60 in under three seconds with a smooth transition, it
has smart air suspension, ultra-high fidelity sound, a panoramic roof, turbine wheels…and it’s
electric, AND it can drive 300 miles on a single charge. This thing is a fucking spacecraft.” I
responded. She laughed at me. “Cassia, don’t get me wrong the Shelby Mustang is a
gorgeous car, however it’s no Tesla.” I said, in response to her laughter. “No, I just like your
passion, that’s all.” She said. “Alright, next question…” she continued. “Describe the perfect
woman.” She asked. “Uh, next…” I responded. “Haha, what? Why?” she inquired.
“Next…” “Jonah!” Cassia continued. “You. You’re the perfect woman.” I conceded. “No.”
Cassia said. “Yes, next question.” I said. Cassia shook her head. “What superpower would
you have?” she asked me. “Oh, that’s original.” I said. “I think there’s something to it.” She
responded. “OK, superpower…um…I’d want to be able to manipulate the boundary between
fantasy and reality.” I suggested. “Holy shit! Why can’t you just do something easy like flying
or X-ray vision or something?” I laughed. “OK…and I’d be able to fly. How ‘bout that?
Happy?” I said. “A little happier, yes.” Cassia responded. “What about you?” I inquired.
“I’d like to absorb the powers of other super-humans.” She said. “What if there were no other
super-humans? How would that translate, like, for instance, would you be able to read the
feelings and thoughts of people if you touched them or passed by them or something?” I
inquired. “If I have superpowers then I’m sure other people will.” She responded. “Do you
think there would be enough superheroes in the world for your power to be useful? I’d imagine
there would have to be a considerable number of super-humans running around in order for
absorbing their powers to be significant.” I questioned. “Why can’t you just, like, fly or have X-
ray vision or something simple and normal?” I said. “Oh, I see now. I see…OK, next question,
if we did karaoke, would you perform, and if so, what would you sing?” Cassia asked. “I would
perform, yes; there’s a lot of songs I would sing, hmm, I’d start with ‘Sweet Caroline’ by Neil
Diamond.” I said. “Hahaha, no, you wouldn’t.” Cassia laughed. “I would, BAH, BAH,
BAH…” I said. Cassia laughed almost uncontrollably. “Did I ever tell you that I played the
trumpet in the school band?” she said. “No, you didn’t tell me, a friend of yours did, though.” I
said. “Which friend? Eh, it doesn’t matter, but we played that song, ‘Sweet Caroline’, and the
trumpets had the best part!” Cassia said. “I’m sure they did.” I said. “So you can play along to
me singing, then; yes?” I continued. “I don’t often just carry around my trumpet, though.”
She said. “We’ll have to plan it then.” I responded. “I knew someone for a short while, and not
even all that well, when I moved back to Texas that would have a new question to ask people
every single day, they were consistent with that, and they were the ‘of these particular choices,
what do you most relate to and why’, kind of questions…” I started, “That sounds like it could
get old real quick.” Cassia interjected. “…yes! But that’s only because my experience of her is
only that of questions and reciting obscure, yet intriguing poetry; as often as the two of us spent
time together—on several occasions—she never once indicated that there was anything more to
her than that, and I have never been able to fully, like, understand or accept that.” I said.
“Yeah.” Cassia said. “I wish I wasn’t so bothered by it, though. I have spent years, it feels,
trying to absolve my stigmas, still, there are some that I completely empathize with.” I
continued. “But you still feel bad about it.” Cassia commented. “Yeah, I do. It has nothing to
do with her, though, personally, it’s, like, I feel guilty for making judgements of any kind. At the
same time I recognize that I am very particular about the type of people I want surrounding me.”
I said. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. You’re allowed to not like someone,
right? Even for no reason. I think we create the problems when we convince ourselves that we
need a reason not to like them.” Cassia shared. I raised my eyebrows, without realizing,
“That’s very insightful.” I said. “Don’t look so surprised” Cassia said, grasping a small
pillow from the armchair and throwing it at me, then taking it back, and then in
pretense of a second attack she extended her arm, but instead placed the pillow, again,
between her lower back and the armchair. After stealing the pillow from behind
Cassia’s back and tapping her across the face with it, I looked around for anyone in the
café who could stir the fire, and decided instead to stir it myself, followed by placing
another log in the fire, no one noticed. I’m sure they would have taken exception to the
action, for insurance purposes, you know, they wouldn’t want an American patron
alighting themselves on a wood-burning stove. One of the employees did notice shortly
after however and, at that point, I was able to pawn it off onto someone else, no one
specific of course, just, someone else. “Excuse me.” They said. “Yes?” I engaged. “May I
ask who has placed a log on this fire?” they inquired. “On this fire?” I replied. “Ya.” They
said. “I’m not completely sure…” I said, looking around the café for an imaginary
employee. “I really wasn’t paying all that much attention. Cassia, did you happen to see who
placed a long this fire?” I inquired. “I think he went around the corner this direction, but it’s
been several minutes, so I cannot be sure.” Cassia responded, holding back her laughter.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. If I see them I’ll point them out.” I suggested. The manager—I’m
assuming—walked away, unamused and ensured that it was, in fact, I that placed a log
on this fire. “What’s your favorite color?” Cassia asked me. “Green, or more aptly, a dark,
maybe a Forest Green.” I said, nodding. “Yours? Oh, wait, never-mind…” I said. “What?”
she inquired. “I know it.” I suggested. “You think you know my favorite color?” She asked.
“Yeah, of course.” I said, again. “OK, smarty, what’s my favorite color?” she asked. “Pink.” I
confirmed. “…pink, is, actually, my favorite color, yeah. You didn’t guess that just because I’m
a woman did you?” she suggested. “No, Cassia, I genuinely knew that your favorite color was
pink, I pay attention to you, and I recognize the things that you’re interested in. Besides we
bought that cuff a couple of days ago.” I responded. “Thank you.” Cassia said. “Now, what
kind of things really make you laugh?” Cassia inquired. “Hmm, that’s a good question, I can
appreciate a lot of different kinds of humor; I like shock-value humor, that’s a surprise, you know,
unexpected and I like subtle humor that’s almost too subtle to notice, I’m not really concerned
with the specifics or the genre, necessarily. I think that’s too hard a question to just answer; I
think you would have to experience it, hanging-out and watching movies with me and such.” I
said. “Yeah, I guess I couldn’t really answer that either.” She responded. “What is your
favorite movie?” she asked me. “Oh, shit, haha, I don’t know. I really like Good Will Hunting,
Finding Forrester, the first Pirates of the Caribbean, Definitely, maybe, Serendipity, What
Dreams May Come, Wet Hot American Summer, They Came Together…I mean, the list really
could go on.” I said. “The first Pirates of the Caribbean was the best.” She agreed. “So good.
The script was perfect, the casting, directing, music…it was, like, the perfect movie.” I said. “It
sounds like Pirates is your favorite movie.” Cassie suggested. “Maybe, except that there really
was no message or intent, it was basically just entertaining.” I said. “I don’t know that-that’s
enough to make it my favorite.” I continued. “Who’s your biggest influence?” Cassia asked.
“That’s another really good question. Do you mean professionally, like, literary influence, or just
in general?” I countered. “How about both.” Cassia said. “OK. My biggest literary influences
are David Foster Wallace, without a doubt, Don DeLillo, and Haruki Murakami. I think some of
my greatest influences, in general, are people like Johnny Depp, Robert Downey Jr., Andre
Agassi, people who have struggled with balancing art, fame, and their humanity. And people like
Nelson Mandela and Og Mandino…” I said. “It’s never really easy for you, is it?” Cassia said.
“I don’t live in a black&white world like most people. It’s interesting, there are some things that
are over-simplified and others that get over-complicated. I can’t explain that.” I said. “Who are
your influences?” I asked her. “My uncle. He means more to me than anything. Alice Water’s,
also. She’s a…” said. “A chef, yes, I know. I know her cookbooks.” I interrupted. “Yeah! And,
like Gordon Ramsey and Bobby Flay, of course.” Cassia shared. “What’s your biggest goal,
right now?” I asked Cassia. “I want to go back to school for cooking, and, you know, eventually
run my own restaurant. Or the kitchen at your place…” She said, smiling. “Could that
actually be a reality? Your bookstore-restaurant thing.” She asked. “Oh, yeah, absolutely. I’ve
been working on it for years, and I have the means now; it’ll depend, really, on the amount of
time that I’ll have to dedicate to it, and how good I am at managing my time.” I responded.
Cassia nodded. The mood changed suddenly, the energy surrounding Cassia and I.
Neither of us spoke for a few minutes. We only sat and stared in the roaring wood-
burning stove. “Do you know that feeling you get, right after you’ve hit an animal, when
you’re driving—you know, like a cat or something that you’re not actually used to seeing
someone hit—and you just, kind of, fade, like you’re contemplating something, but physically, I
mean, not mentally; like your feelings are ruminating on something? And time seems to just
pass, and you’re inflated and, like, floating…” Cassia said. I nodded, at first, but noticed
that Cassia wasn’t looking at me, “Yes, unfortunately. I do.” I said. “Yeah, that’s how I’m
feeling right now.” Cassia shared. “What, why?” I asked. “I don’t know.” Cassia said. “Are
you sure you’re feeling something negative? I mean, sometimes there’s a similar feeling people
feel, when their floating, and without thought, it can be blissful.” I suggested. “No, I know that
feeling, too. I do. It’s not that feeling.” Cassia responded. “I went driving one night…” I
started to say, “…and a quarter mile, or so, past my house I saw an animal laying in the road,
it seemed dead, I centered the car so that I would drive over it and not hit it, but it started to
crawl as I got nearer, and at that point there was nothing I could do. I hit it. It was a grey cat
and the car that had passed me a moment before had hit while it was crossing the road but it
didn’t die, I killed it. The feeling you described, that’s exactly how I felt while I was driving.
Usually, when I go for drives, I sing-a-long to the music on my iPhone, but, of course, I was, as
you put it, contemplating something, physically. I put on talk radio so that I could ignore it.” I
finished. “That’s a pretty horrible story, why’d you tell me that?” Cassia said. “Um, I don’t
know, a couple reasons, I think, I mean, obviously to express a happenstance that relates, so you
know that I know what you mean; but also because I told myself that night that I needed to write
about this. And that was an important realization for me, actually, telling myself to write about
it. I realized that I could both experience, directly, these situations and feelings like that, but also
separate myself from them and look at it from the outside, so that I could write about it. It was
the first time I felt like an author and not just a writer.” I said. “Thank you.” Cassia said. “For
what?” I inquired. “At some point while you were talking to me I was able to focus on you, and
my feelings of isolation, I guess it was, just, went away.” I smiled. “You’re welcome, Cassia.” I
said. Can you tell me another story?” Cassia asked. “Of course.” I responded. “What kind of
a story? Like a fiction or a true story, about me?” “A story about YOU, Jonah!” she
responded. I thought about Rebecca a few days ago, when she asked me the same
question, and, at first, I didn’t know what to say. The first thing that came to mind
tonight was also one of the stories I told to Rebecca. I hesitated telling it, for that reason,
but then realized this was something important that Cassia would need to know about
me, because it is a reflection of me, and why I am who I am, today. I told it differently,
though, as if I were reading it. “When I was a baby; I was dreaming in my crib; my mother,
hesitant to wake me—because of the startled fits of a newborn (and mine were pretty intense),
had errands to run, and, believing that they would be quick and that she would be back before I
woke, left me dreaming in my crib. As she neared, wherever it was that she was going, she
became overwhelmed with a feeling, both awesome and chilling, so she returned to wake me up
and take me with her—of course, too, my spate was noteworthy…” Cassia laughed, “…before
she returned, with me, to her errands. Afterwards, as we were pulling up to the house she was
surprised and horrified to see that the house was engulfed in flames…” Cassia gasped, “…a fire
that had sparked in the room in which I was sleeping, the home and everything within the home
had been devoured; while I lay dreaming in the backseat of the car.” I finished. “Jonah, Is that
really true?” Cassia asked. “My mom told me the story a few years ago, but before then I never
knew it happened, or I forgot, or never knew, actually; I don’t know.” I responded. “That’s
amazing. So, your, kind of lucky to be here.” She said. I nodded. “Do you have any more near
death experiences?” Cassia inquired. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure I have dozens, especially when I was
a teenager just beginning to drive. Oh, I got one, I was standing in a station, in New York City,
waiting for the subway and I stood at the edge of the platform and I looked down the tunnel for
the train, and just as I straitened-up again and began to back away from the edge of the platform
the train came, from the opposite direction. I was inches away from the subway train hitting my
head.” I said. “Oh, shit.” Cassia responded. “Yeah, that was pretty crazy. Also, when I was
six or seven, maybe, I was swimming at a community pool on a military base in California, and a
pair of Mormon boys tried to drown me.” I said. “They tried to drown you?” Cassia repeated
“Well, they held me under water for an extended period of time on a few separate occasions
before they were stopped. I don’t think they were, necessarily trying to actually drown me. They
probably didn’t understand the concept of life just yet, for whatever reason, but it could have
been bad.” I said. “Isn’t your ex-wife Mormon?” Cassia inquired. “She was. She’s not
anymore.” I said. “She was Mormon when you two were married, though, right?” Cassia
confirmed. “Yeah.” I said. “What was that like?” she asked. “Her being Mormon?” I
confirmed. “Yeah.” Cassia verified. “I think the hardest thing to understand, in relation to
her and I, because she was Mormon, was the expectations she had about marriage as a result of
her upbringing, her religion. But all the family stuff, the traditions, I mean, it wasn’t so
culturally different that it was strange. Basically they’re still living in a different time, like 60
years ago; but LDS…” I said. “LDS?” Cassia interjected. “Latter-Day Saints. It’s what
Mormons call themselves…but, it was founded in the United States, so, culturally, it’s pretty
familiar.” I said. “The most difficult thing to get used to was the cold.” I said. “The cold? Are
Mormons generally colder people? Was your ex-wife, cold?” Cassia asked, sarcastically. “I
met her in Idaho, and up until then I wasn’t used to living in a place so cold.” I said. “Since
then almost everywhere you lived, for a while, it was cold though, right?” Cassia inquired. “It
snowed, but it wasn’t necessarily colder than Texas, not Santa Fe, at least.” I responded. “But,
for the most part, yeah.” I continued. “What kind of music do you like?” I asked her.
“Country music, mostly, but I do like other kinds: some classic rock, eighties folk-rock: Shake
Russell, Crosby, Stills and Nash…kind of stuff.” She said. “That shouldn’t surprise me, but it
kind of does.” I said. “What?” she asked. “That you like Shake Russell or Crosby, Stills and
Nash.” I said “Why?” she inquired. “Because, the only people I know that listen to either of
those groups, that are younger than like, forty-five, are serious music fanatics or musicians.” I
responded. “Really?” she asked. “Yeah. Your parents must listen to them.” I said, Cassia
nodded. “Yup.” She said. “So, are you a morning or a night person?” I asked. “Both. I would
normally be a night person…” Cassia said, “…but, because I work morning shifts, I, kind of,
have to be a morning person.” She said. “So, if you didn’t work morning shift do you think you
would be a night person?” I continued. “Probably, I would have to get used to that again,
though.” She responded. “What are you going to do on the plane?” I asked her. “Read your
book.” She responded. “Next question…” Cassia asked. “Shoot.” I responded. “Was this,
like, our first real date?” Cassia asked. I laughed. “We talked earlier about that night, when I
met your cousin, and we got into that argument…” I said. “Yeah…?” Cassia responded. “I
like to think that-that was our first date.” I said. “Hahaha, you’re maniacal!” she said. “Haha,
Cassia that was our second, or maybe even our third argument-slash-date…” I reminded her,
grinning. I had blocked Cassia on Facebook at one point because I felt like our
intentions and messages were getting so blurred and confused that our whole
interaction was becoming a mess, after a few days, thinking she got the point, I
unblocked her and assumed that everyone would continue on with their lives; similar
to when a storm is formed, and the conditions necessary to maintain a storm correcting
themselves and creating balance, anew. As soon as I unblocked Cassia she requested
my friendship back on Facebook. I was taken aback. I remember pacing back-and-forth
on my patio outside thinking about it, ultimately it had occurred to me that I once
expressed irritation in the lack of effort that she placed on our relationship as part of the
reason I blocked her, so with this action it would have been hypocritical for me not to
accept her request, and, secretly, I wanted this to mean that she was developing an
interest, or finally to recognize that she has always been interested in me. A couple of
days later we got into a conversation, and, again, an argument after she had unfriended
me on Facebook. Yeah. A part of me knew her intention in requesting me was so that
she might take the opportunity to unfriend me but I didn’t want to believe it. Cassia’s
entire life, up to that point, had been, basically, a series of events that she had never
really learned or understood how to manage, and she was terrified to grow up—though
she would never admit to it, even now—she was scared of change, so she tried
desperately to avoid it. Very much in the same way that I had when I was younger.
After Cassia unfriended me I told her that she was maniacal. A libel that appears to be
turning into a playful inside joke between her and I. “I’m counting this as our first date.”
Cassia said. “So you’re saying that today is officially the first day of our relationship?” I said.
“Is that a question or a statement?” she inquired. “Today is the first official day of our
relationship.” I said. “But, wait, you never actually asked me I wanted to be in a relationship
with you.” Cassia said. I shook my head. “And, I’ll never have to.” I responded. “Smooth”
she said. “Was it?” I responded. Cassia shook her head as she leaned in to kiss me. “Our
first official kiss.” She said. “I’m not sure that I understand that one.” I responded. “As a
couple…” she continued. “There we go. I’m on board now.” I said. “Are we going to talk by
emailing or can we text or call, or what?” Cassia inquired. “We can email of course; but my
phone works internationally. You can call me anytime and there will not be extra charges.” I
said. “Really!?” she exclaimed, excited. “Yeah, as long as you’re calling from inside the
United States.” I responded. “Even when you’re on the boat?” she inquired. “Yup.” I said.
“How does that work?” she asked. “Oh, shit, I don’t bloody know. I’m just glad it does.” I
responded.

Chapter XVII

I was sitting at Fritto’s when Rebecca called. Cassia left, yesterday. She had called
as they were leaving the airport in San Antonio, we are on the entrance ramp to 410. We
talked until they turned right on to HWY 16. I can’t believe there are 5, 452 miles between us
right now, I looked it up. Cassia had said. I thought about Cassia as Rebecca was on her
way to meet me at Fritto’s. I’ve already eaten. I explained to Rebecca, she had too. I
ordered a bottle of wine, and wanted to be at least two—maybe three—glasses in before
she sat down across from me. Situations like these always make me nervous. Our
emotional intelligence is neglected growing up, our formidable years; the years when
we should be learning about ourselves, our emotions, and how to interact with others
are wasted learning about things that are relevant only to those of us who actively
exercise the material, and even then we could just open a book or even peruse the
internet, it’s such a waste. As much effort as I have put into developing a healthy degree
of human and emotional interaction the situation is still only as sensible as the
understanding of both people involved, and as competent and conscious as any one
person may seem we are vassals of our moods, we never really know how we’ll react
until we are faced with the situation. So, I’m drinking. I had just started my third glass
when Rebecca walked in. I stood and we hugged, I kissed her cheek, and slipped the
chair out from under the table for her to sit. She thanked me. Don’t thank me, yet, I was
thinking. “How are you?” Rebecca asked, first. “I’m good, yeah. I’m good.” I responded
pouring her a glass of wine. “Thank you.” You’re welcome.” I said. “I’m nervous.” I spit
out, like a prepubescent school boy. Rebecca was a bit taken aback. “Uch, sorry…” I
started, “I’ve had a couple of glasses…” I finished. “How many” Rebecca inquired. “This is
my third…in fifteen minutes.” I said. “Oh, I see…” she said. “Some liquid courage.” She
suggested. “Yeah, you could say that.” I responded. “So, I guess, we’re just going to get right
into it.” Rebecca said. I searched the room with my eyes. “So, you met this girl in the
Markt here?” Rebecca inquired. “No, not exactly. I met her at a coffeehouse in Texas a few
years ago…” I responded. “Really? So, you two ran into each other in the Markt?” She said. I
nodded. “Jonah, that’s kind of crazy…” Rebecca didn’t say anything for a moment. “Where
is she now?” Rebecca inquired. “They left yesterday, back to Texas.” I responded. “They?”
She asked. “Yeah, she was on sabbatical with her parents.” I said. “And, you two, just, kind of,
hit it off, again, then. Is that right?” Rebecca asked. “That’s pretty much it, exactly. Yes…” I
said. Rebecca flagged down the waiter and asked for a water, and avoiding making eye
contact with me. “OK, so, Rebecca, I’m not sure how you feel about this, I’m having trouble
reading you right now, I can imagine that you’re upset, and I really don’t blame you. One of the
many difficult things about our emotions and our feelings and how they fit in, fit together, with
everyone else is one of the most complicated and confusing things about being human. I
understand that. I did not plan on this…” I said that, and I take a deep breath, upset at
myself for using that phrase—I did not plan on this—after exhaling I continued again,
“…I recognize that you and I have a connection; as far as I am concerned, that is undeniable.
What I feel, and what I want is to be with Cassia, romantically. I believe that she and I share both
the right similarities and dissimilarities, and I love her. I believe that you and I have what it
takes to make an honest and powerful friendship, and sometimes recognizing which-is-which
is…hard; Cassia understands and accepts our relationship, yours and mine, as well…” I
stopped talking, again, for a moment. Rebecca was staring directly into my eyes, I really
hate putting people in positions such as this. “You’re feelings and your reactions are yours,
and as such you are going to, and your welcome to, of course, feel and react in whatever way you
need to. I am prepared for that…” I said, and I didn’t know what else to say, I wasn’t sure
if I would know how to respond to anything she might say, either. I held her gaze
throughout the entire monologue, as I finished, though, I stared deep into the crimson
potion in my glass. Rebecca said nothing, for a moment. She sipped at her wine and
nodded, somewhat, and to herself, she pursed her lips a bit, and wrinkled her forehead,
all while heavily considering something. Rebecca does weigh her thoughts and her
words heavily, I’ve learned that. I was having more trouble reading her now than I ever
have, and that concerned me. The wine was behaving in exactly the same way that I
had hoped when draining it down my throat, it doesn’t always work out that way,
because alcohol is so unpredictable. I had no right to ask her to say something, but
sitting here, in silence like this, not knowing what she was thinking, my thoughts and
feelings being ripped in opposing directions, and lacking insight of any kind. This was
unpleasant. Still, I’m the reason we are in this position so if I’m feeling unpleasant I’m
sure that I cannot imagine what Rebecca’s feeling. I’ve forfeited my right, even, to
suggest that I might have any emotionally distressing effect on her at all, though, either.
And now I’m over thinking. I’m nervous. Rebecca opened her mouth to speak but
decided against it. After a moment she started again, “Jonah, you have no idea what I’ve
been through, with my son, his father is…well, he’s got some serious issues, and I’ve been left to
raise and support him on my own…” I started to wonder where she was going with this,
and though I can understand the trials of being a single parent, of being expected, no
abandoned to manage everything alone, I cannot understand how that, really, pertains
to our position. “My son also has some serious issues....” Rebecca stopped herself, and she
reconsidered her train-of-thought. “OK, you know what, I didn’t mean what I said, and
you…I was feeling frustrated, angry, but that has nothing to do with my son, and it would be
foolish for me to compare your life, and Cassia’s life, to mine and my sons life, and it’s remiss for
me to use my son as an excuse, or to hide behind him and ignore the fact that I’m just angry; no
I’m hurt…” I nodded, it didn’t feel like the appropriate time for me to say anything.
“…Yeah, I’m hurt. Because I do care about you, and my feelings for you have been growing, and
I’ve been getting more and more excited about spending time with you on the boat. It would be
easy for me to feel indifferent to what you’ve said to me today, and to ignore it completely, and in
response express only my own frustration and annoyance; but I feel like that’s common
practice…” Rebecca stopped herself and took a deep breath, like she was beginning to
reconsider her direction again, because it feels good to express your frustration, to
direct all the negative energy and sensitivity towards the cause, but it’s also unhealthy.
Rebecca started speaking, again. “…that behavior is normal, I guess, for people who don’t
react appropriately or consciously, and, though, I could easily justify that reaction and whatever
behavior I embrace, it’s really just me folding to my own drama, that would be the easy thing to
do, but the easiest course is not usually the best…Yes.” Rebecca said. Neither of us said
anything for a couple of minutes. I wasn’t sure if she was finished, and I had no
intention of speaking out of place. “I would like to be friends. Were also going to have to
decide what that’s going to look like, who we are to each other, and what we want to be for each
other.” Rebecca said. “I appreciate that, Rebecca. I am hearing what you’re saying, and I know
how difficult it is, whether I have the right to say this or not, it really does mean a lot.” I said.
We both lifted our glasses and simultaneously sipped at our wine. “This is good.”
Rebecca said. I nodded, while savoring it, and letting it swirl in my mouth. “There are a
lot of emotions right now, that I’m feeling, and that I’m sure your feeling, and that is going to
cloud and confound things between us for a while, but we should talk soon, Jonah. Can you call
me a week from today?” Rebecca suggested. “I can, yes. Rebecca. A week from today.” I
responded. “Good.” She said, exhaling. A breath she seems to have been holding for far
too long. “I’m going to stay here…” Rebecca said, “…and finish your bottle of wine, but can
you go? I think we need to just be a part, now, for a while.” She continued. “Of course. I’ll call
you next week. Thank you for talking to me, Rebecca.” I said. “You’re welcome, Jonah.” I stood
and started to walk away. “Jonah…” she interjected. I turned, “Yeah?” “Thank you for
being honest with me.” I smiled. “Always, Rebecca.” I responded. I have no doubt that
Rebecca was second-guessing the way that she approached me, I’m sure that the rush,
the feeling of releasing all that anger, and whatever other anger she has been holding on
to, was almost too great to ignore. It took a lot for her not to do that. That says a lot.
That means a lot. I walked towards Treptower Park. I needed to clear my head,
completely. I didn’t want to think about anything: not Rebecca, not Cassia, not Berlin,
not my sailboat, and especially not the prospective. I would simply be in a place that
held a positive verve for me, and enjoy this time in Berlin. I went straight to the Island of
Youth and sat with my feet hanging over the water, watching boats paddle by, and
waving at people. I thought of nothing.
 I waited up for Cassia to call. There is a seven hour difference between Texas and
Germany. It was one o’clock, Berlin time, when I heard her ring, I was in my hotel
room. Hey Love. I said. It’s good to hear your voice… How are you…? I’m tired, too. Oh, no,
it’s OK. I wanted to hear from you before I fell asleep… I miss you too… What did you do
today…? Haha, yeah I wish… No, I went out… I talked to Rebecca, actually… Yeah, she called
me when I was at Fritto’s… Yeah I did, I spent today going to places that reminded me of you…
She told me she was in Berlin and that she wanted to meet, so she met me at Fritto’s… We met
in person, yeah… It went alright, I guess, I was nervous… I told her that I loved you and that I
wanted to be with you… I did… Well, at first, not too well; she caught herself and expressed
understanding and she wants us to be friends… Yeah, she was visibly upset, angry… She wants
me to call her next week, or a week from today… She was so upset actually that she told me that
she was going to stay at Fritto’s, but that I needed to leave… Cassia laughed. I went to the
Island of Youth at Treptower Park… Cassia and I talked for a while, a few hours at least, I
can’t remember exactly what time because I fell asleep on the phone. I’ve only done that
at one other point in my life—talking to my first girlfriend, in middle school. We didn’t
talk about Rebecca beyond that short conversation. It’s kind of amazing how
comfortable Cassia is with my relationship with Rebecca. It doesn’t cross any
boundaries of course, and never will, but it’s really rare to meet someone who is
comfortable enough in their own skin for that repose to translate into feeling
comfortable with others. I did tell Cassia that. I felt her smile, but she never actually
responded. She changed the subject. I woke up to a text from Cassia making fun of me
for falling asleep. I laughed. I miss her. I miss the sound of her voice. This is going to be
harder than I thought. I gathered my things, checked out of the hotel, and bought a
train ticket to Hamburg. It would be a relatively short trip, a couple of hours only. Once
I loaded my bags and found a seat I tried to sleep but struggled. Within a few minutes
Nekoma was sitting at my feet looking up at me, smiling. I smiled back down at her.
She jumped on the seat next to me and crawled onto my lap and closed her eyes. I was
dreaming in no time. I chased Cassia, when I first knew her, and I didn’t handle the
situation well at all. It occurred to this past year that if you chase people, they’ll run.
However if you live your life, if you do your own thing, the people who belong in your
life, the people who should be in your life, they’ll come to you. Even if they were once
headed in the opposite direction. I woke up to the train skating to a stop in Hamburg.
Nekoma was gone. I didn’t feel like moving so I gathered my things, again, and settled
on a bench in the station lobby. There is an overcast in Hamburg today, the lobby was
drag and somewhat gloomy, my mood affected things, too. I didn’t sleep. I watched
people wandering around, and looked for subtle differences between the ways people
behave in like situations here, in Germany, when compared to the behaviors of people
in stations in The States. There are subtle differences. Language effects the way that we
think, our thought process. And that, of course, will affect the way that we behave, the
things that are commonplace, what’s normal, or at least accepted as normal. The sun
came out long enough to shine through the heavy glass windows and illuminate me,
filling me with warmth before it disappeared again behind a cloud. I googled nearby
hotels. And wandered in to the Hotel Atlantic Kempinksi, right on the water, Alster Lake—
the Außenalster. There were dozens of sailboats floating in the lake. I began to get
excited about my boat. NEWSAIL built her, they’re half an hour south of the city, but
she—my boat—should be floating on the Elbe by now. I called the builders to confirm.
They were sending someone to meet me at my boat tomorrow at 10:00AM! I walked
around the lake, or at least as far as the Uhlenhorster Kanal. I stopped, on the way back,
at a café right on the lake, Café Hansa Steg, I ordered a tea and sat outside watching the
boats. It’s a little Swedish Café. I sat at the bar while they prepared my tea, and I spoke
Swedish with the manager, it’s such a lovely language. The sun was setting behind the
city as I ambled back to the hotel, the few clouds in the sky turned pink which in-turn
pronounced the coral hues diffusing from the beautiful German architecture. I have
been lucky in my life to have seen hundreds of amazing sunsets from all over the world,
this is unquestionably among them. At the restaurant I ordered the famous Atlantic
Lobster Soup. I dined in the hotel. The founder of the Atlantic was, apparently, a
successful restaurateur in his heyday; this is by far the best Lobster Soup that I have
ever had. I sat alone and didn’t think much—I enjoyed my soup and my chardonnay,
only. I could choose now to spend a few days in Hamburg, aimlessly wandering around
the city, and engaging with people in different parks, cafés, restaurants, and bars or I
could move onto my boat and disappear into the world, away from the things of man,
and experience life as few have, egressing only when, and if I am addressed. Nekoma
was waiting right outside my hotel room door. She met and held my gaze as I walked
towards her, and my hotel room. I unlocked the door, returned the key to my pocket,
and held the door open for her to follow me. I removed everything my pockets and
started untying my shoes when Nekoma spoke “Don’t be nervous.” She said. Startled,
my hand slipped, and a knot formed binding the two laces together. “Nekoma. Hi. You
scared the shit outta me…” I took a deep breath. “…yeah, I mean, nervous, I don’t know if I
can help that, you know, I’m leaving everything I know behind, in a way that I’ve never done
before. It’s different this time. But, I am, also, excited.” I said. “I know.” Nekoma said. “I can’t
come with you, you know. You’re on your own, now.” She continued. “I’ll be living on a boat
in the ocean all by myself…I don’t think I’ll get in to too much trouble out there.” I responded.
“You’ll need the company, though. Rebecca would have been great company.” Nekoma said.
“Yeah, she would have, but it would have been…I mean, with Cassia and everything. Rebecca
and I, alone, on a small boat, for an indefinite period of time…You know.” I said. Nekoma
nodded “Yeah, still…” she said. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen, but knowing that my
routines and my inhibitions, and everything is going to change so drastically makes me curious,
I think it’s going to be a good thing.” I said. “I’m just worried about you, it is my job after all.”
Nekoma responded. “Yeah, about that…” I asked. “No, don’t ask…” she stopped me. “Am
I never going to know?” I said. “Knowing is so much more relative and insignificant than y’all
know, at least in the context of the way that people today generally apply it.” Nekoma said.
“What about the way that I apply knowledge? Did you think about that? Did you? No, you
didn’t.” I responded. “Why do you think it is that most people seem to irritate at the thought or
the impression of philosophical…or alternative ideas.” I asked Nekoma. “Oh, I think it’s
because by its very definition all philosophical or alternative ideas are new or are different and
that, generally, frightens people; and there are certain stigmas that follow words and ideas and
perceptions that people have manipulated in order to create negative belief systems around. It’s
great marketing, basically.” Nekoma responded. “People have been getting paid for
generations to influence the way y’all think about things, unfortunately that also affected the
way we feel about things, and that was a symptom, or side-affect that no one really expected.”
Nekoma continued. “It’s been made to sound like a conspiracy. It’s like that whole business of
people who don’t understand something, they’ll be more willing to label you, or an idea as stupid
instead of taking the time to think about or inquest the idea.” I offered. “The single most
frustrating thing to me is a person who is unwilling to put time and effort into another human
being; as far as I am concerned if someone is willing to put effort into you then that alone is
enough reason to put effort into them. But, some people won’t, they don’t, and I cannot
understand that, for the life of me. I don’t get it.” I said, and Nekoma nodded. “And then
there is also that whole thing about, you know, somewhere, somehow, someone decided that the
only reason for one person to talk to another person is because they are sexually or romantically
attracted to them, and that’s stupid.” I said. “It’s another symptom of what we don’t actively
learn in school, we’re indirectly taught that we make friends in specific environments, such as
school, and eventually work, but if you’re not introduced to a person within those settings they
don’t exist, I mean, in the purview of an affable relationship.” I continued. “You’re getting
pretty profound, here. What’s the deal?” Nekoma asked. “I think, well, knowing that I’m
leaving soon, that I won’t be able to talk to anybody for a while, and you being who you are,
whatever you are, all this stuff that has been on my mind, like, forever, is coming up.” I
responded. “I think that because this is such a serious question for me, and something that I
seem to desperately need to understand I’m hoping you could offer some insight, or something
that only you could offer…” I continued. “OK, well, I don’t know, Jonah. I mean, I think people
are getting more and more scared and ins…” “Scared of what?” I interrupted “I don’t know,
everything…” she said. “Ah, I see.” I responded. “…Yeah, and instead of being able to
manage it, everyone is just not dealing with it, and the lack of work has taken on the illusion of
progress, and everything is just really, really fucked up.” Nekoma responded. “Great.” I said.
“Jonah, your right, you’ve always been right about the way things are, and the direction
everything is going, you’re also right when you suggest that the only real means of explication is
to be willing, and to be understanding, and to be accepting of one another, and your right that
the fear of not knowing is your…is humanities, driving effort, and that educating ourselves to be
emotionally stable and well-adjusted human beings will make a dramatic difference; the problem
is that the aged generation, the influential are more interested in maintaining power then they
are about their children’s future.” Nekoma went on to say. “That doesn’t really make me feel
better.” I responded. “Is that why you’re asking these questions? To make yourself feel better?”
Nekoma countered. That took me aback. “No, not necessarily. It would make feel better to
know that there was something I could do about it.” I responded. “You have written a book that
approaches those questions exactly, and you are writing another book that approaches other
important questions.” She said. “Is that enough?” I said. “Does it feel like enough, Jonah?”
Nekoma asked me. “That’s a good question. I don’t know…that makes me wonder what
enough actually looks, or feels like.” I said. “What do you want in life?” Nekoma asked me.
“Love.” I responded. “That’s a pretty vague response.” She fired back. “Is it? I don’t
know…” I said. “In what form I guess is what I mean.” Nekoma said. “I want to love and to
be loved by someone I feel I cannot live without, someone who inspires me, and feels me with
hope, someone whom the very sight of affects me in the most unspeakably positive of ways: that I
can give up any part of myself on a whim for them, for no reason other than I can; and, I want
the recognition of love in and of all people to manifest as only love can manifest.” I responded.
Nekoma smiled from cheek-to-cheek. “I think what you need, what you’re missing, will
come if you lived your life just like that…if you lived as if you already had that. If you interact
with people while supporting that belief, that mindset, and feeling, then you cannot help but to
cultivate it. Because, for the longest time, Jonah, you have been afraid, you worry about whether
people like you, and whether your actions and reactions are appropriate, and you have been
living as if you are only harming the people around you. You behave as if you don’t matter, or
worse even, that you don’t deserve the love of people around you. We accept the love that we
believe we deserve. You haven’t always behaved or felt this way, I know. You stopped believing
in yourself, and you’ve forgotten how to find that again.” Nekoma said. “I’m here to help you
find that again, I think, now, you need only to forgive yourself something.” She continued. I
didn’t say anything for some time, Nekoma lay next to me in the hotel room bed and
we stared up into the spackled ceiling, the television was on in the background
providing white noise, only; a German sit-com with imposed laughter directing the
Teevee audience when it was appropriate to laugh. I woke up in the middle of the
night. Nekoma was still here with me. She had pulled the comforter up and over her, I
was sleeping on top of it. Nekoma was fast-asleep. The Teevee had been turned-off. I
stood next to the window and looked out over the lake, there were a small handful of
sailboats still out, star-gazing? Or maybe they lived out there. I don’t know. The city
was behind me but the light illuminated the night sky and filled the horizon ahead with
a faint, inflicted, and contaminated afterglow. It was still beautiful. Nekoma shifted in
bed behind me.

Barakah
 I wondered what Cassia was doing, she called earlier and we spoke for several
minutes. I pictured her at work, her hair in a bun on top of her head, a headband
sheathing her forehead, her cheeks pink and overworked, Cassia’s black eyeliner
accentuating her fathomless deep blue eyes—you are taken aback when you meet her
gaze, always, it is unavoidable, because it is unexpected, it is electrifying, she is
electrifying. She is both lost in thought—she is probably day-dreaming and consumed
in what she has designed, in what she has imagined—and still she is stark-forthright in
her work. Cassia is perpetually fixed in my conscious. I watched the sun rise out my
hotel room window, out beyond Alster Lake, in the distance where the earth meets the
sky. Nekoma rose and sat on a chair next to me. “It’s beautiful.” She says. I nodded, only.
“Good morning.” I eventually say. Nekoma echoes my address. “How’d you sleep?” I ask.
“Great.” She says, stretching. “You?” she asks. “I didn’t really. I watched the night, all night,
and the sunrise.” I said. “How do you feel?” Nekoma asked me. “Incredible.” I said. “Good.”
“I’m meeting someone from NEWSAIL at 10:00AM, do you want to get breakfast before I leave?”
I ask Nekoma. “Sure! Wait, are you leaving right away? Are you sailing off into the unknown
as soon as you pick up the boat?” Nekoma asked. “No, I’m going to spend a day or two
wandering around Hamburg, I am going to move into the boat, though. I’ll check out of the hotel
as soon as I find a place to moor her.” I respond. Nekoma and I walked south along the
water on Alter Wall and then cut through Rathausmarkt and went in to Café Paris, we sat
inside. The place was gorgeous. We were sat in the main room, which was elongated
and had three enclave circular frescoes depicting various events. I had the best breakfast
that I have ever had. This is a pleasure that is not possible to express so I won’t even
bother trying. Nekoma didn’t speak, not once throughout the entire meal. We simply
dined, savoring every taste as if it would be our last, and if it had been neither Nekoma
nor I would have protested. When she finished her last taste Nekoma placed her silver
on either side of the plate, where she had found it, and immersed herself in inhale, and
with a single complacent exhale she was restored to the extent of our mutual
acceptance, and I followed swiftly, and in likeness, right behind. “Well, shit.” Nekoma
said. I nodded. “How do we surpass that?” She continued. “And, it’s not even 8:30.” I
responded. “We have time to walk to Sporthafen, if you want to do that.” Nekoma suggested.
“You want to come with?” I confirmed. “Yeah, of course! If you don’t mind.” she said. “Not
at all…” Nekoma and I walked out and down Großer Burstah towards the marina. I
couldn’t stop talking as we walked. I talked about nothing, about everything, and
switching from topic-to-topic uncontrollably and without pause I made little if no sense
in my process. “You’re excited.” Nekoma eventually interjected. I stopped for a moment
and shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, well, yeah…!” I said, grinning like a schoolboy. “The food
this morning was so good.” I said, to change the subject, I suppose, I’m not sure. “Yeah, it
was.” Nekoma responded. As we neared the marina we could see the masts of boats
parked in the moorings, they interrupted the German horizon like skyscrapers. It was
beautiful. I’ve waited nearly my whole life for this moment. “You’re making me want to
go with you.” Nekoma said. “Well, if you want, I suppose, you can. And you can get off
anywhere, right? Your situation is rather unique.” I said. “I can’t go.” She responded. “As
much as I wish I could, and as exciting as it might be, I can’t go.” Nekoma continued. “Are
you leaving me when I accept the boat?” I inquired. Nekoma nodded. “I’ll be in Hamburg for
a few more days…” I said. “I’m leaving now.” She responded. “Now?” I protested. “Yeah,
Jonah.” Nekoma replied. I nodded. “I’m gonna miss you.” I told her. “I’ll miss you, Jonah.”
“God, I feel like we’ve gotten so close. This is strange. I don’t know what to do, or what to say.” I
said. “I know. We’ll see each other again.” Nekoma said. “Really?” I responded. “Oh, yeah,
of course. Definitely.” She said. “OK. I can live with that, I’ve been in that position before,
many times.” I said. “Yeah, I know…” Nekoma said, smiling. “Thank you.” I told her.
“You’re welcome. Thank you!” she responded. Nekoma and I hugged and held each other
for a while. “Don’t forget to name her.” Nekoma whispered in my ear. “Who.” I said.
“Don’t who me, your boat.” She responded as she started walking away, and I watched
her, again, walk away. I turned to look at a boat that started an engine and when I came
back there was a grey cat, her tail straight up in the air, and swirling in the sky like a
flag, she had stopped and was looking back at me, when she turned around to walk
away I headed for the marina office. Inside a man behind a counter was standing and
chatting with a gentleman in a suit, they seemed to have a familiar rapport; both men
stopped speaking to one another, and turned to look me over as I walked in, whatever
they were looking for neither found it in me and they continued talking. „Entschuldigen
Sie?” I interjected politely, though neither bothered to acknowledge me, waiting a
moment, and looking around to see if there was anyone else in the office that would
speak with me, I gave the two gentlemen another minute to finish their conversation.
This bothered me the first couple of months that I began transitioning from one life to
another, from not having money to having money. I’m young and I don’t necessarily
dress the part, as a ‘respectable’ adult male, whatever that actually means. I do dress
nice, I wear button-ups, more often than not, though I don’t wear suits, and my hair is
long and in either a pony or a bun, and I’m rarely completely clean shaven, nevertheless
I find that I am befitting of a young, successful, American author. I’m also intelligent
and intuitive enough to know that the man behind the counter is the marina manager
and the gentlemen that he is speaking to is the representative from NEWSAIL, the man
that I am here to meet with. After another moment I asserted myself, repeating my
previous interjection with dominance, and following it with „ Entschuldigen Sie! Mein
Name ist Jonas , ich bin hier, um mit einem Vertreter NEWSAIL erfüllen.“ They immediately
quit talking, both of them stared directly at me, again looking me over as if to reconcile
some emotional or mental stigma about what they were hearing, about what they were
being expected to accept. “You’re Jonah?” the Rep. from NEWSAIL asked with an
insulting amount of suspicion in his voice, and in English—as if to corroborate the claim
with discourse. “I am Jonah. I’m the gentleman that spent very near to €150,000 with your
company not even a year ago to commission a sailboat that has been verified to be ready
presently, in fact I believe I’m early…” I said, glancing at the clock hanging on the wall
aside the marina office counter. “My apologies…” The NEWSAIL representative stated
while walking towards me and extending his hand. “We have some papers to sign, if you
don’t mind?” he continued “Not at all.” I responded. „Haben Sie etwas dagegen , wenn wir
lhr Büro?” the Rep. asked of the marina manger to which the manager replied „Bitte.”
Directing the two of us to his office behind him. The representative closed the door
behind him and sat on the opposite end of the managers’ desk, while asking me to sit.
“Again, I apologize for my rudeness before. I was expecting, well, someone different.” He said.
“I understand. I get that a lot.” I responded. “Do you mind me asking what it is that you do?”
the representative inquired. “I’m an author.” I shared. “Really?” He said. “I am.” I
confirmed. “Anything I might have read?” he asked me. “Possibly, I’m not sure what, or if,
you’re a reader…” I took a deep breath, this guy’s passive aggressiveness was starting to
frustrate me “…I’ve been a long time writer of short stories that are prominent among readers
of literary journals, my first novel was recently published and has been at the top of the best
sellers list for several weeks now.” I explained. “What’s the title?” he asked. He hadn’t even
began pulling the papers from within his briefcase as of yet. I told him the title, and he
considered it a moment, like he was, again, trying to reconcile something he could not
accept. “You wrote…” “I did.” I responded, nodding. “I’ve read it, everyone I know has read
it. It’s phenomenal.” He said. “Thank you.” I responded. “Do you mind if we get started? I’m
somewhat eager to meet her.” I said. “Meet who?” “My sailboat.” I confirmed. He laughed,
“Of course, of course…” he responded. He and I went over the paperwork and licensing,
the whole processes took less than ten minutes, and I was told it would be considerably
longer, but this guy kept wanting to talk about my book. He had a copy on him, and, of
course, he wanted me to sign it, which I did—with an inscription. After which point he
slid a packet and two sets of keys over the desk towards me. “Let’s go meet her.” He
said. The office manager led us through two locked gates, around a handful of corners,
and finally to the slip that guarded my boat. “Here she is.” The Rep. said to me nodding
towards the deck. I stepped on board and immediately felt at home. The Rep. followed
but the manager showed himself back to the office. It became abundantly clear that the
man that NEWSAIL knew nothing about boats, his job was simply to take care of
paperwork, he was more than likely an in house lawyer so after he showed me the
cabin and asked about my impression he went on his way, but not before making it
clear that among the paperwork was a checklist of everything that I had commissioned,
and one to verify that everything on the boat was in good working order; something for
me to do before sailing away. I thanked the lawyer, the NEWSAIL representative, and
walked him to the office. After parting I spoke with the marina manager about staying
moored here for a couple of more days, and verified that it would be OK that I stayed—
lived—on the boat for the duration.
Checking out of the hotel was challenging, because I made reservations for
multiple nights and stayed only one, they wanted to make an issue of it. I have the
patience for neither the act of ignorance nor engaging in a back-and-forth display of
male prepotence about it so I simply said: y’all do what you want with the room, you’ve
already been paid, so I’m giving you the keys, and I’m leaving. The concierge was amused at
my usage of the word y’all while both the supervisors and manager were trying to
continue our discussion even after I had walked out of the hotel. The two were
probably still arguing as I dragged my bags into the cabin and stacked against the
starboard wall of my boat. I dropped weightless into a leather reclining chair I had
commissioned and was situated exactly where I had intended, and I felt unbelievably
overwhelmed with bliss. I am on my boat. It seems surreal, like everything that I had
been through these past several months was leading up to some indistinct destination
that was only a fabrication of my ambition, when, in actuality, I would turn around and
head back in direction from whence I came. And once I had returned to where I belong
everything would exist only, exactly, the way that my life had been maintained before,
and all this, everything that I have come to know would be believed an illusion. The
reality is-is that I am here, on my boat, and as I step down into the cabin—my cabin—
from the deck above I am immersed in my own design. I step down onto the hard
cherry wood floor: almost everything is wood, the walls, the floors, and the cabinets are
all a dark cherry wood, the wood trim throughout the boat, however, varies to bring
contrast—the dining table, to my left, is rounded and extending, as if to outline a J, with
an oval shaped table at its center. My kitchen, just opposite the dining table, I designed
after watching a marketing video selling the UEV 490 CONQUER Trailer. One of my
favorite aspects of the kitchen are the drawers, which stay the cutlery and the crockery,
the compartments were framed specifically to hold each piece of silver, each plate, each
glass, each pot, strictly, so they remain fastened in their individual place, regardless of
circumstance, and each drawer is partially hollow to allow for the draining, and the
drying of the kitchenware, within the drawers. Another really great function of the boat
is the dual desalinization tanks in the bow, they work on the principle of heating up a
tank to just boiling, and then allowing the water vapor to be stored again as fresh water,
there are a few freshwater storage tanks on board. I traipse past the kitchen through a
small archway with saloon style doors into the next room, to my immediate right is
small crescent fashioned bar, and a few bookshelves, adjacent to that is an L shaped
couch surrounding a pair of very small round wooden tables. To my left, after walking
through the weald swinging doors, is my study, and my rose wood custom made
desk—gorgeous. Beyond that the room narrows considerably, but not before my wall
encompassed bookshelves envelope half of the room. Moreover is the guest bathroom,
with a full-sized tub, before the single guest bedroom on the left with a full-sized bed,
and the double occupancy room on the right with two twin beds. Everything is exactly
as I expected, it is better, even, than I could have imagined. Every room on the boat has
an electric fireplace that employs an actual flame, and the entire boat is wired, and
supports an indoor/outdoor home speaker system. I connect my phone into an
auxiliary chord, choose a playlist, and amplify my boat with song, while I carry-on
exploring my new home. The master bedroom and bath is beneath the cabin entrance
beyond the kitchen/dining room. It is the only room at the stern of the boat. I ran back
through the extent of the rooms and into my bedroom, nearly diving onto my new bed.
I can open a skylight above me, one of the many cool electronic functions this sailboat
provides, and stare out into the sky, I am more than excited to be sailing at night, away
from anything touched by man, and gazing miniscule up and towards the stars. Also
directly above there is a full-sized bed on the deck of the boat, it rests several inches
inside the deck and is revealed, and lifted by either the touch of a button or a crank, for
deep sea outdoor sleeping. I unpacked my things, and stored my bags in a
compartment under my bed. For the rest of the afternoon I wandered around pressing
buttons, and testing levers, turning everything on-and-off, and making sure that
everything that is intended to happen, does happen, that everything works as it is
supposed to work. I completed the check-list given to me by the NEWSAIL Rep., and
set it aside to complete a second time, tomorrow. I organized a mail delivery system to
send me a few boxes, at this location, after a specified amount of time, so they should be
arriving in the next couple of days, these are things like DVD’s, clothes, books, various
items that I wanted to have with me, but wasn’t eager to haul around Europe for
several weeks. I stopped by Ditsch, and ordered a pizza, on the way home I found the
German equivalent of a Hastings Entertainment and I bought a couple of old DVD’s that
I hadn’t seen in what felt like forever, and then I lounged around on the boat eating
pizza and watching movies. Cassia called, the phone rang and startled me out of a
stupor, I picked it up excited to hear her voice, starting the conversation with Guess
where I am? We talked about the boat, I took her on a video tour, and sent her a
ridiculous number of pictures, she kept repeating that she can’t wait to see it, and to see
me. I’m going to stay in Hamburg one more day, before leaving, I told her. No, today’s my
second day. Yeah, I left Berlin almost immediately after you did, the next day, I explained. I’m
going to sail to Sweden. No, I haven’t talked to Rebecca, she wanted to wait a week. Yeah. I
might be in Sweden before we talk. I just think that because I’m in Hamburg, and I have no clue
when I’ll ever be here again, I should spend at least a day sightseeing. Did you start back at
work, yet? Yeah. How is it? Haha. Already ready to vacation again. Haha. They’re asking about
me? Would you? I mean, the last that anyone there heard you and I weren’t talking, at all. I
completely understand them not believing. Show them my book, and the inscription I wrote you.
Yeah. I found a couple of old American movies in a used DVD shop and ordered a pizza. I’m just
hanging out on the boat, tonight. What are you watching? Yeah, of course I’ve seen it. I can’t
picture you liking it, though. You do continue to surprise me, and I’m sure you’ll never cease to
surprise me. Cassia and I talked for a few hours, I stopped the movie well into our
conversation and walked up to the deck where I opened up the bed and lay there
looking into the chemical sky. I described what I saw, as only a writer can, and Cassia
listened with such intensity. I wish you were here too. My dreams woke me up a couple of
times during the night, they were intense. Sleeping on the water greatly effects your
dreams, and I grew up sailing so I, of course, had slept on a boat before, but nothing
could have prepared me for this dream that I was ebbing in and out of. It was as if I had
let a sheet of acid dissolve on my tongue while I was dozing off, and then suffering a
spiritual ritual of extreme personal significance. The universe had chosen me as the
exact center, and the pressure and supposition was, or felt, beyond my counsel. When I
woke, however, in the morning I welcomed more assurance in myself and in my ability
than ever before. I didn’t know where I was when my eyes first opened, I browsed my
bedroom with a comfortable ignorance. I had read somewhere, once, that placing items
that represent the four elements in the four corners of a room helps assists in bringing
balance to a space, natural balance. I know many people have established brands—
shame; stigmas—for that type of thing, natural or holistic healing and ideas, but, in
reality, it’s like praying, what does it hurt. I used to think it was fear that bound people
to certain ideas with prejudice and solidity, but it seems to be more of a lesson in
complacency, an act of familiarity. It’s like when you decide not listen or to accept
something that somebody says before they’ve said it simply because you have already
made up your mind about it, about the idea or about the person, but really, I mean, you
can only learn something or, at the very least, gain some understanding, some
acceptance. I don’t know, maybe I slept too good last night. I love you, I texted Cassia;
she’ll wake up to that. I walked first to St. Michael’s Church, and of course sat under the
statue of the archangel slaying the devil, before wandering into the church itself. I let
fate lead me to Mélange where I ate the second best breakfast I’ve had in Hamburg. I
past Café Paris on my way south to the Warehouse District in Speicherstadt, so cool, with
the canals running through it, and exactly what you would imagine a German
warehouse would look like. I have never been much to make or build models of any
kind, but when I see them, and the effort that goes into them, and think about the
general concept of them, I do find it all fascinating. Hamburg is the home to the largest
model railway in the world, and it is really phenomenal; it’s a depiction of sites and
communities from all over the world. Being at Miniature Wonderland can be compared
to looking down on some of the most intriguing and beautiful places everywhere, from
a single venue. I spent a lot of time here. My favorite part of the exhibit was, actually,
the section modeling the United States, because I have been to, and have personally
seen every location that was built to illustrate America. It was mid-afternoon when I
walked out under the overcast sky. I wandered aimlessly for nearly half-an-hour before
deciding to go to the Botanischer Garten, the Hamburg Botanical Gardens. I could have
spent the whole day here, it’s amazing. My favorite park, before today, has always been
Central Park in New York City. And that might have had something to do with the fact
that I grew up out in the country, and would have gone nuts without that escape while
living in New York City—nevertheless it really is a great park—and yet, in comparison,
to these botanical gardens, Central Park is a lawn. I stopped at Hafen Diner on the way
back to the marina, there I ate a Hamburg cheeseburger. Apparently it’s rumored that
the hamburger has its origins here, which, I suppose would make sense, however I
know a few Americans who would argue that claim. Besides, what’s in a name? A good
cheeseburger is by far the perfect end to life on land, regardless of where the burger
comes from, or who created it. I washed the burger down with a Weihenstephaner, a
really good German beer. I sat at a bar that was stranded, strangely, in the center of the
café, and I made conversation with the folks sharing the space with me: we talked about
my being an American—with a great German accent—and we talked about their
experience growing up in Hamburg, and American politics—because it always comes
up when chatting with anyone from anywhere—and we, of course, talked about my
leaving to live on a sailboat for an undisclosed period of time. They were all pleased
that I had my boat built in Hamburg, apparently it meant that I had taste, and that I was
capable of recognizing the best when I see it. I didn’t tell them that it was really just a
matter of convenience at the end of the line of a long European sabbatical, I planned it
that way. We didn’t talk about the invention of the hamburger, I thought that would
only bring animosity, and ruin what has become a fine, and potentially exceptional
friendship with a handful of people that I will likely never see again. That’s when
talking has been the smoothest for me, when I know I won’t, or I can expect to never see
someone again, I could go on talking for hours. It’s the prospect of having to impress
someone, someone that I might be eager to see again, someone that I might be over-
eager to identify with, and, in which case, over-exert myself, come-off way to strong, or
not know how to impersonate myself at all, that the act of expression becomes almost
overwhelmingly difficult—or it had, at one point; it is possible that I have overcome
that. I wander how many people actually think about that, you know, about how
difficult it might be to talk to another person, in different situations or environments or
when faced with moods that we may or may not recognize. I heard a comedian—Ellen
DeGeneres, I think—once say, something along the lines of: we’re all spending our time
thinking about what other people are thinking about us…when all they’re thinking about is what
we are thinking about them. It’s interesting, but nevertheless I think keeping the quote in
mind makes it easier for us to stop worrying so much about what anyone else is
thinking about us, if, of course, we are able to remind ourselves, as it becomes
necessary, to remember what everyone is actually thinking about. The amazing selfless
act of selfishness, a paradox that fucks with my head whenever I think about it. I am
wandering aimless around Hamburg. The setting sun distracts me from the endless
loop of inconsistent absurdity, well absurd only in that making sense of our own
ambiguity is immeasurably foolish. Maybe that’s why new age thought is considered by
many to be psychotic. Any one point that we try to make is contradicted famously by
itself, simply by making the point. The Warehouse District is as beautiful now, if not
more so, than it was this morning, they’ve lit the buildings in a way similar to paintings
in a gallery. It’s nice, I sit here only, and watch the painting change as it is shaped, and
reshaped by an indifferent world. I enjoy it for a while, even beyond the light chill that
begins to affect me. I see so much change. It is not until the chill reaches my bone and I
radiate a coldness that cannot be extracted by anything but a hot bath, and a cuppá of
peppermint tea, that I head back to the boat. Stopping for groceries on the way. I step
into the cabin and with a remote hanging by the steps lite the fireplace in the study, and
I take a few minutes to acknowledge the check-list a second time, and everything works
just as well, if not better the second time around, completing it I slip it into an envelope
and set it aside to mail off in the morning. And then I boil some water in the kitchen for
my peppermint tea, and run a bath in the master-bathroom.
I start my duel 557 6.2L Supercharged V8 Electronic Fuel Injected engine—I just like
saying that—and we (me and the sailboat) glide north, up the Elbe. On either side of me
Germany reveals himself differently to me now, there’s a disassociation that exists that I
had not felt before. I was at the whims of the land, the country, and now it’s as much
only a painting as was the Warehouse District last night: changing, as it is shaped, and
reshaped by an indifferent world, though, also, the separation that exists as an inception
of my new perception. I stand at the wheel guiding her near the estuary as smooth, and
as satisfying as anything I have attempted. People along the river wave at me, some
children even chase me, on the banks, stumbling, screaming, and laughing in my wake.
The wind is crisp on my face as I open her up and test her acceleration, her liveliness,
and she skates atop the water as if she were lingering above it, suspended. The engine is
programmable, designed with the ability to navigate, to detect objects within a safe
distance to negotiate, and to steer automatically. I could go downstairs and watch a
movie, while my sailboat maneuvers the Elbe. She’ll tell me when we have nearly
reached the instructed destination. In the future I may apply the service, there might be
a time when I sail back down the Elbe, and into Hamburg, while I sit in my study and
write a story about the perils of the North Sea. Today, however, how could I possibly
close my eyes to this happenstance, this opportunity? It would be criminal. The mast
trembles, slightly, as restless as I have been for evidence that there is something
altogether astounding about what we do not know, and have not yet experienced. I can
see the entrance of the North Sea in the near horizon. Slowing the engine I prepare to
employ the mainsail, offering everything now to the wind. I draw the halyard and the
mainsail began to rise. I started to get the chills. When the luff was tight I cleat off the
halyard, I sheet in the mainsail and she moves forward on her own accord. I was told
before leaving Hamburg that sailing on a boat before naming her was bad luck, I told
them that I make my own luck—which isn’t necessarily true—but it seemed important
to me that my boat can explore her name, and find one that is more befitting of this
particular boat. In Arabic there is a word that explicates the continuity beyond presence,
one that begins with GOD and flows through and into humanity. Barakah. I thought that
fitting: a continuation of presence, of life, from the source, a kind of guide, if you will,
from the spiritual to the corporeal, and the fabric that connects everything, that
connects us to one another. Later I would paint the name, Barakah, on the port and
starboard sides of the bow, and along the stern. Before long I couldn’t make out land
behind me, Germany is foregone. As much as I had looked forward to this moment, to
have imagined it in daydream, to picture myself sailing ahead, further, without…I have
never actually mentally prepared for it. I suppose now I would become an interval;
hollow, even. And this time it would be of my own volition. Years ago as I was driving
away from home, heading somewhere that might as well have been nameless to me,
knowing that the move would be indefinite, I had a growing feeling of loss as I crossed
each states border heading further and further away from familiarity . I felt the absence
of everyone I knew—I missed them. At least that was my understanding, perhaps, in
actuality, what I was feeling was the loss of myself, and that feeling was me holding—
carelessly, senselessly, and desperately—on to who I was, out of fear of who I wasn’t, or
worse, who I might be.