We Met in the Rain

            We met in the rain, without words. It was beautiful. When my lips met hers, slowly, hesitantly, it was without restraint, or care. They were soft, wet from the cold dripping rain, and chapped from the constant howling wind. I didn’t care; neither did she.

            We met in the ruins of the abbey atop the hill and hid in the archway that now led to nothing. In days of old it was proud and tall, a safe haven for all the townspeople and travelers and monks, now abandoned but for us.

            I’ve known her my whole life, but I’ve always thought of her as mine, my Eliza. I don’t know if she ever thought of me the same, but when we were in the abbey ruins, our lips pressed tightly together, I felt like I was hers. She could have had me for all our lives, had they not been so short.

            We only ever met in the rain.

            Alanna dashes up the hill, stumbles, falls. She pushes to her knees and crawls forward, willing herself to stand again. She slips in the mud and the wet and presses ever forward. The hill is steep, the many stairs too visible for her to dare approach. Instead, she uses her hands to claw herself determinedly up the mossy slope, drowned in rain and lichen.  

            The hill overlooks the entire town to the south, and to the west lies miles of ocean. In the autumn storms it lies dark and dormant, rain meeting waves in cacophonous marriage. Atop the hill lies graves, and the ruins.

            An abbey, once rivaled by none, now lies downtrodden. Its stone walls and vaulted ceiling are gaunt and broken, with centuries dividing it from ruin and its life as vanguard of the faithful. Its grand face remains, with large windows devoid now of glass and merely a gaping mouth where the grand wooden door once welcomed worshipers. The roof protected one last remaining transept, connected to the rest of the ruins by a tall tower visible for many miles.

            It is in this last vestige of hope and piety that Alanna finally arrives, cold, wet, and dirty, like many a weary soul searching for guidance. But instead of clergy she seeks the company of another young woman, for whom she has been longing to see.

            Alanna waits in the transept under the tower, wrapping her dampened cloak tighter around her. The thunder rolls, and she trembles, but not for the cold.

            She trembles with apprehension, with anticipation, with desire. Will she be left alone, as the sky darkens and grows dim, til the only light to shine her way back the lightning striking ever closer?

            She trembles.

            A clap of thunder shakes the crumbled abbey, and Alanna’s eyes dart to the patches of clouded sky. She blinks just as lightning illuminates the entire hillside, leaving sizzled dirt where damp earth once lay.

            She blinks and sees for just a moment a specter, the bright white outline of what she can only describe as something unnatural. Something that cannot be. Something dead.

            For a long second it stares back at her, this shining specter of a girl with long unkempt hair and sunken eyes, staring at Alanna as if they’re old friends.

            Alanna blinks again, her face stricken in silent screams. Then the thunder rolls and the lightning strikes again, near the first patch of fire-struck earth, and Alanna is once again alone.

            “Are you there?” a voice calls, gently but urgently, barely audible over the din.

            Alanna tries to call back. It takes three strangled tries before she manages.

            “Eliza? Is that you?”

            Another rain-drenched woman, young as Alanna and just as beautiful, emerges from the darkened empty doorway and rushes to her, desperate. They grab each other and hold on, tight enough to leave reddened marks on frozen skin.

            For many seconds they don’t speak, merely touch. Eliza, the taller of the two, presses kisses to Alanna’s forehead, gripping her by the head as though she might disappear. Alanna wraps her arms around Eliza’s waist and pulls her close, hands slowly making their way up Eliza’s back.

            “I missed you,” Alanna murmurs, accepting every kiss like the blind man receiving Jesus’ healing touch.

            “Not as much as I missed you, my love,” Eliza says, resting her head against Alanna’s. “It was nothing short of torture to watch you in the square yesterday and not call out.”

            Alanna smiles, burrows closer to the other girl, impervious to the rain that once caused her to tremble. “I saw you looking, and I’ve thought of nothing since.”

            They stay like that for long minutes, swaying gently back and forth in the wind. Their arms keep each other warm, their embrace staves off the chill. And for these long minutes they feel nothing but the deepest, most perfect love. They stand protected under the tall shadowed tower, sheltered from the wind and the fear and the rain.

            And then the thunder rolls, and the lightning flashes closer and closer to the ruins. Alanna gazes skyward, pulls back in alarm as a crack echoes through the transept.

            “Shh, my dearest,” Eliza comforts, pulling Alanna close again. “It is only the storm. Nothing more.”

            “But if were followed – ”

            “We weren’t.”

            “But if we were – ”

            “No one dares to come here but us, Alanna,” says Eliza. She looks Alanna in the eye, hands caressing her cheek and hair. “No one but us and the spirits that dwell here.”

            “Don’t speak of such,” Alanna begs, but she doesn’t break her gaze from Eliza’s.

            “Then let us not speak,” Eliza grins.

            Their lips meet gently, held back by the sins they are so ready to commit. They take their time exploring this long-desired closeness, pressing ever inwards until it’s unclear where Alanna’s skin ends and Eliza’s begins. Neither have a thought nor care beyond the feel of the other’s touch.

            And then the thunder rolls, and the lightning strikes, and three horrifying things happen at once.

            From the darkened doorway comes an angry shout, as two men stand frozen in shock.

            From the rain-soaked transept, barely sheltered from the elements, Alanna and Eliza spring apart, caught mid-embrace.

            From the sky, a mighty crack as lightning strikes one final time, illuminating the four figures as the stricken tower crumbles.

            Mere seconds pass but Alanna feels the weight of every one of them as heavy as the stones surrounding her. She watches as her dearest Eliza stands one moment in front of her, hand still clinging to Alanna’s cloak, and in the next moment, gone.

            Where she once stood was now only rubble, as the once mighty tower disintegrates into ruin. The last vestige of light and clarity, the final champion of truth and love, now dead on the muddy ground, beneath layers of lightning-scorched stone.

            Thunder rolls, and Alanna screams.

           

            The men drag Alanna from the ruins. The stonemason and the priest, sent to investigate reports of ghostly sightings in the storm, see her only for her sins. They listen not to protestations or grief, and pause only to wonder if there is anything to be done for the other girl…but her body is not to be recovered, this night or any.

            Alanna knows nothing but her pain, and sees Eliza disappear with every falling tear. The men carry her to the town hall, where a waiting council of stern-faced elders await, her father among them. Eliza’s father, among them.

            “We found no spirits, save only she,” begins the stonemason, casting Alanna to the floor with disgust.

            “Alanna, I demand the truth!” Her father’s words register only dimly.

            “…and one other,” finishes the stonemason.

            “Another? Where is the culprit?”

            “Young fools in love?”

“Has the young man escaped you, then?”

The priest speaks up, still as the grave. “Young woman, actually.”

There is silence. Alanna cries and shivers and remains prone on the dirt floor. The fire lit in the room is not enough to warm her, will never be enough again.

The priest matches solemn gaze with Eliza’s father. “It was your daughter, who now answers for her sins before God, for she no longer stands on this earth.”

Gasps are drowned out by Alanna’s frightful sobs. She wishes to be dead as well, and not here, alone among her nightmares.

“Eliza?” the man says. “My Eliza, dead?”

“And what manner of sins were you committing there together, that she may end up dead?” demands Alanna’s father, fear and anger lovingly intertwined in his voice.

“I…” she begins, but her voice cracks and fails. “I loved her, and she loved me. She…she was mine.”

At her confession the rain seemed to pour down harder, gaining torrential power as it sought to drown out her wails.

The men murmur, and seem not to know what to do.

“We cannot let our town fall to sin,” begins the priest.

“My daughter is dead and yet you speak of sin?”

“Was it not her sin that caused her to become so?” spits the stonemason, who had seen the wickedness with his own eyes.

“Mine is alive, though I refuse to be grateful,” says Alanna’s father, stern and strong. “She must be punished.”

There are more whispers, suggestions, and Alanna hears none of them. She craves death. If they choose to spare her, she will seek it herself. It was a pact she had made, not with Eliza but with herself, and she knows deep inside she cannot live in this world freely, openly, and without reservation. She is either a lover of women – a lover of one woman – or she is no one at all.

The men come to a decision, and Alanna only realizes this as she is grabbed by each arm and hauled to her feet. They do not hold her, and the men are forced to drag her out of the town hall. She dimly notices that one of them is her father. He is not looking at her.

The rain shocks her into feeling once more, and she raises her head to stare deep into the darkness. She gazes towards the direction of the abbey ruins, of Eliza’s final resting place, and knows she will be there again soon.

Alanna is taken to her home, her father’s house, and shut into her room. She knows not if the door is locked or barricaded for she does not test it. She does not think. She does not sleep.

The rain continues until morning. It does not stop, but merely lightens as the sky turns from inkbottle night to the green-tinged grey unique to the seaside. The light has barely touched the earth when her door opens, and her mother stands before her.

“Is it true what they’ve said?” Her voice is falsely strong, as though she is only allowed so many words before her mouth fails.

Alanna turns to meet her mother’s eyes. She does not need to speak.

Her mother gasps, and one hand rises to shield her mouth. The other whips out and catches Alanna across the cheek. The pain is sharp and smart but Alanna has no tears left to shed, no emotion left that could broach this unending chorus of desperate screams that blind all her senses.

Her mother leaves. Alanna does not see her again.

Her father comes for her and, wordless, takes her by the arm and pulls her outside. She does not resist, and trudges behind him, head down, rain seeping into her still-damp clothes. She only know realizes she’s still covered in the mud of the night before.

They continue on a long-winding path through town, displaying her wickedness for all to see. She distantly hears shouts and perhaps jeers, but cares little for them. She raises her head when she realizes that they have started to ascend up the hill to the ruins, and the men from the night before are waiting at the top. Right next to Eliza’s remains.

Her father drags her towards them and throws her to the ground, as if she were nothing more than something dead and rotten washed up from the sea. He moves to stand with the other men and she looks only at the pile of stones where Eliza lay crushed.

The priest begins to chant, a call that echoes through the ruins and invites all manner of ghostly responses.

They do not disappoint.

The sky darkens so suddenly that all look up, only to see tumultuous dark clouds rolling in from over the ocean, swiftly coming to swirl above them. The priest falters, but renews strength and faith and continues on, despite thunderous melodies of sudden roaring seas.

Lightning strikes and in her heart of hearts Alanna calls out for Eliza to be with her.

She waits, staring only at the ruins, until lightning strikes again. One of the men shouts in alarm, and soon they all turn to stare. Alanna looks on in solemnity as the specter, so fearsome to her the night before, arises again from the stone and mud. But this time it does not disappear as quickly as it comes; this time, it drifts ever closer.

Within seconds the dead-eyed ghost girl is close enough to touch, and a few of the men splinter off and run down the hill, screaming. Another faints at the sight. Still more stand in frozen silence, and one prostrates himself, begging for his life.

Alanna just waits.

The luminous ghost of love once killed beckons for Alanna, and she rises to her feet.

“Begone, foul demon, I cast you out in the name of the one and Holy God!” cries the priest, the only one brave enough to speak.

Alanna brushes past him, and he proves not brave enough to do much else. The specter leads Alanna past Eliza’s tomb and through the ruinous remains, past grassy mounds and dried-up wells to the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea. The abbey once proudly beckoned ships and spirits alike to its misty shores and now is warns all away from the poisonous town below.

The ghost pauses only at the very tip of the headland, and waits for Alanna to come so close they are nearly touching. Alanna finds herself enchanted by this apparition, for although it appears only in the form of some nameless girl, she sees in it Eliza, and herself, and many women before and after, dressed in strange attire as they smile sadly at her, reaching out their hands. She reaches out her own, and it gently passes through the shivering death, and for a moment she feels the truth and beauty known only in the afterlife. She understands love, as pure and boundless as it can only seldom be, between mother and child and selfless lovers.

It is with this last joyous reproach that she is encompassed in the ghost’s embrace. She sways gently with the cold absent touch, and as she sighs out in contentedness, lightning cracks.

Thunder strikes.

The headland crumbles into the sea, and Alanna crumbles with it.

Out On the Town

part twelve

My necklace broke. Inevitably, shattered.

The bluestone ring, from Stonehenge. I wore it every day. I slept with it hanging from my neck as though it tethered me to this time, this place, but really it was a reference to what feels like way-back-when. Can it be called nostalgia when the memories aren't there, merely the feelings? I feel that I've lived another life these last few months since I've returned "home" and I'd twist the bluestone around my finger and remember my life back there. Back in England.

A short life, certainly, but an entirely separate one from what I'm living now.

I had nightmares about my necklace shattering. During the day I would anxiously twist it around my finger and at night I would anxiously dream of crumbling it in my hands, the shards slipping to the floor.

When it actually broke it didn't happen in slow motion, and it didn't make me sick to my stomach like the nightmares did. I unclasped the light silver chain with my mind in faraway places and suddenly it was on the floor in too many pieces to be considered a singular thing anymore and I stood above the shards, staring, one hand covering my mouth as I fought the urge to cry out, for help or pity, I wasn't sure.

When I finally dropped to the hard tile floor of my mother's bathroom my mind had gone from numb to chasing a vague notion of glue and tape even though I knew it wouldn't work. I scraped together every piece large enough to hold and tried to reconstruct the ring. And I was right, it didn't work; I've never been good with puzzles, let alone broken ones.

Eventually I tucked the chain and the three largest pieces into my pocket and quietly thought about how empty my chest and my neck felt and that feeling hasn't gone away since. I don't know if it will, but the pieces remain on my nightstand and there they will stay. It hurts when I wake up and it hurts when I sleep and I can't help but look at them. The necklace was worth far more to me than the twenty pounds I spent on it. I tried to find it in the online Stonehenge gift shop and even though they still carry the sheep hat I bought, the bluestone necklace is nowhere to be found.

Besides, I couldn't replace it, not really. I'd buy a new one and pay for the shipping but I'd know every time I felt it on my skin that it wasn't the real one, it wasn't the one I bought when I was there. Yet I still think a replacement is better than this empty lurching I feel every time I reach up and touch my neck and feel nothing at all.

In Hawaii I was told that if I threw a lei into the ocean and it came back, that meant I'd return someday. I was 11 and knew that was ridiculous because obviously the tide would wash the lei back to shore, but I threw one anyway and it came back to me. I returned three years later. In London I put the necklace on and told myself I'd wear it until I came back to Stonehenge, because that meant I had come back to England, hopefully forever. I feel disappointed that the necklace didn't last more than a few months, but then I feel disappointed that I believed it would last years (or more - the Queen only know how long it'll take me to find a way back).

But despite the pain, I can't get rid of the pieces. They will sit at my bedside and I will mourn them with every glance but I could never sentence them to some landfill. They will remain with me, even though I can't wear them, until I do, finally, make it to England for good. I will take them on the plane and carry them in my pocket and bury them in my backyard as the sun sets on British soil. 

Stars

part eleven

I had a good sense of humor in Denmark because I couldn't manage to stay up late at that point and I wanted to sleep until I was off the ship. I really liked what I was doing but I still felt like I was missing everything, including myself, and that didn't change until I was back in London.

I have roots in Denmark, stars that came from the island Mon, and as much as I liked Copenhagen I liked it better from afar. I felt myself fading and I wanted no more pictures taken. I only kept my camera out for the people back home who were excited that I was in the land of my ancestors. I didn't find any good souvenirs, though, and I felt bad.

No one can help but hold on to stars, even if they aren't the ones you thought they were.

I liked our guide but mostly I liked the water. I don’t think I’ll ever get over my fear of large bodies of dangerous, cold water but the pure, glimmering blue was so brilliant in the bright sun that I was willing to forego the safety of the distant bus in order to stare. I tried to take a picture to remember the first body of water I've ever been attracted to but I found I don't need help remembering (which is fortunate, as the pictures I did take greatly diminish the actual sight). I've always been interested in my heritage but I felt no bond with Denmark, and like many too-famous landmarks, the Little Mermaid statue was much smaller in person and I found I just didn’t care.

One Foot

part ten

The Republic of Finland has never actually been at war.

Technically, in 1809, Russia warred with Sweden over Finland and the history books call it the "Finnish War" but really, Finland is hardly worth fighting over. Even Russia knew it; when Finland asked for its independence in 1917, Russia just shrugged and let them have it.

I've never really wanted to go to India or France but I've always wanted to go to Finland. As it turns out, the reason why I wanted to go was much more interesting to me than the actual country.

My grandma and I used to play word games. This was her solution for me when I didn't want to be at the beach or the park or outside in the sun, but we were there anyway because it was a Saturday and my sister was bored, so she'd let me sit in the shade and say, "A! My name is Amanda and I'm going to Alaska and I'm bringing apples!"

And she'd say, "B my name is Billy and I'm going to Bermuda and I'm bringing boats!"

We'd go back and forth through the whole game and then we'd make up new games until we were laughing too hard to speak.

One time we were at the beach and my sister was playing in the surf with my step-grandpa and Grandma and I only made it to letter F before we stopped, because we'd already been through the alphabet game once and couldn't think of a country besides France that started with F.

"F! My name is Frida and I'm going to...um..."

"What country starts with F?"

"Um...well, I'm bringing...fish."

"I can't think of any others..."

"And I'm going to...um...Oh! I'm going to FINLAND!"

The tour guide in Helsinki very proudly told us how safe it is to live in Finland. She flipped her hair and grinned at those of us sitting in the front of the bus and said that the people of Finland would never dream of dropping their kids off at school, even the little ones walk by themselves. Which makes sense for a country that rents out patches of land for people to grow flowers on and prints every street sign and public notice in at least two languages to cater to anyone whose mother tongue isn't Finnish.

We went to a park in Helsinki and I took pictures of the cloudy sky and dew-soaked trees and a little green bench off by itself. I imagined growing up in Finland and sitting on that bench with Grandma. We'd play the alphabet game (in multiple languages because every Finnish child is required to learn at least three in school) and we wouldn't be able to come up with a country that started with U, and finally I'd shout "USA!" because that would sound just as funny to us as "Finland" did when we were at the beach.

Finland's Wikipedia page tries really hard to include itself in major wars of the last few centuries, but the reality is that Finland is just a quiet place known for its safety and lack of invasions. The most exciting thing I learned while there was that a fire destroyed all the wooden houses in Helsinki in the early 1800s, but even then, the tour guide glossed over the gory details in favor of detailing the eleven month maternity leave granted to each mother and the fact that college students don't have to pay taxes.

Grandma and I went to Finland together. It's important to both of us that we can say that now, and maybe I don’t want to live in Helsinki and maybe I loved London and Gothenburg and Tallinn more but what matters is that we were both there, together.

All Alright

part nine

The last time I looked at London wasn't from my familiar Gloucester hotel room but from the shuttle that took us to Hyde Park and back to the airport. I went to Heathrow and felt that there was nothing left inside my chest because it was all welled up behind my eyes and I couldn't let it out right there. I wanted London to be so much more than a one-night stand but I had to leave...and that was all right. Maybe not alright, because I was still burning out and I wouldn't sleep for 30 hours straight, but I knew in my head that it was all right. My chest would feel better when I no longer had to face that I was leaving, when I was just gone and had no choice. And indeed I felt much more at peace in the Heathrow airport terminal than the night before when we ate at the Hard Rock Cafe in London and I knew I was spending my last evening in the city for God knows how long.

All Alone

part eight

If ever a song reminded me of Tallinn it will always be this, for we spent so long tracking down these little dolls for my step-grandpa. We never found them and he had to buy different ones that he wasn't in love with, but that was okay. I loved the one I bought for my mom, but I bought it the moment I laid eyes on it and that's how you have to shop, I've decided. I loved feeling like I was all alone; we wandered the city without a tour guide and took our time finding the castle and listening to the men playing violins in the courtyard. If ever I return I will go by myself and I'll go through the same shops for nostalgia's sake, but the graffiti on the walls outside will probably be different. I probably won't find "Retrofuturism: Translinguistic Futurism" spray-painted on a fence again. I don't even know what that phrase means but I think it has something to do with the narrow, decrepit cobblestone streets with sleek white security cameras precariously secured to the peeling brick buildings.

I only wandered around Old Tallinn but I found buildings with strange metal rods attached to the walls for no apparent reason other than to help intrepid assassins reach arched rooftops. Street bands of teenagers played Western songs in every square for whatever coin you might be carrying, and how could I not give money and applause to the boys proudly trumpeting through "Eye of the Tiger"?

The McDonald's in Tallinn accepted any type of money and even though it's not called a "Quarter Pounder" in Estonia, the cashier understood what I wanted well enough and the ketchup even tasted the same - slightly more acidic than that of any other fast food restaurant. It offered free wifi, too, and for once I didn't mind being the tourist who goes to McDonald's instead of eating locally. In my defense I was traveling with my grandparents, which made for not quite an adventure as the backpacking-through-Europe trip I guess I was supposed to take (but really, is that any better a stereotype than being a tourist? I don't really see the difference, myself).

The street signs were confusing, though, even if they had English translations on the bottom. Our map was terrible but I liked getting lost. 

Why Am I the One

part seven

The evening after Stockholm, I sat on the top deck of the ship and pretended to read, long after the sun set and my fingertips went numb. I didn’t care for the tour we took that day, an hour and a half spent inside a single Jewish temple and barely any sight-seeing, so I should have either been happy the day was over or happy that I was one day closer to seeing London again, but still...

Still, I hated packing myself up to get back on the bus and back on the ship and back on the plane because why am I the one who has to go back? Why can't I stay and for once tell the others to go on without me? I think I would like that and I don't think it would be too much, not for me. I could stay away from the western towns and live in Sweden forever. Maybe not Stockholm, for as beautiful as it is it's also boring, but maybe Gothenburg, or the small little house on the edge of the forest with its own little dock that Grandma and I picked out as "ours" when we saw it through the window during dinner. I could buy it and live there forever and Grandma could come visit me, or live with me if she wanted, that would be fine with me, and for once we would know that we were home.

But I know very well that the little house isn't what I really want, it's just a way to get away. What I really want is to go back to the botanical gardens in Gothenburg and wander around without a guide to call me back. Usually I don't even like flowers, but I loved the beds of purple and black tiarella covered in raindrops. I loved the carved wooden dinosaurs for kids to play on and the distant clock tower peeking over the many kinds of trees that I couldn't identify. I don't even like rain but what I want is the smell of rain and the feeling of it dripping down my hair and blurring my vision as I look across the fields of dandelions and marigolds and roses. I don't like flowers individually because they mean nothing to me, but the gardens were beautiful and I wouldn't mind visiting every other weekend just to get away from everything in my life that does not have depth.

What I really want is the old church on the hill we visited before the botanical gardens. I think if I lived in Gothenburg I would start going to church again. It's one of those places where I could sit in the wooden pews and think "Why am I the one?" and not feel like I've had too much of...everything. I would probably still feel sad but maybe at least the wistfulness for something besides what I have would ebb.

But as I sat on the deck, cold and tired of thinking, I knew that even if I managed to be the one who stayed in Gothenberg and left everyone else behind, it wouldn't be what I really wanted. I might rail against those western towns and tourist points but truly my home is England, and I will live out my life there the way I want, even if there are days still where all I want is to stay in bed.

Everyone else comes up on deck to wave when we pull out of each port but this time I'm the only one who stays when they all return to the bars and dance floors and warm, cramped cabins. That's partially a punishment for not having a better attitude in Stockholm and partially a desperate attempt to look at land for as long as possible before we return to open seas.

I guess it was also a mourning for Gothenburg. It really was a shame I couldn't have gone there twice, or just stayed in London the entire trip.

But I'm a fool to think that nothing would go wrong before I made it back, or that the worst isn't yet to come.

It Gets Better

part six

I twist the ring between my fingers, the smooth spotted bluestone soothing against my skin and my nerves. I do this without thinking

I've done so many things but nothing is as great as standing where people have been standing for thousands of years. I can't cry with everyone around so I stem the flow and wish I could stand at Stonehenge under the stars. I can't believe it’s simply something that humans have done and then ruined because we ruin everything. Everything hurts me and I feel different from everyone else but I know it will get better, because I bet they all feel the same way and that hurts even more. I don't think I'll forget but I'm worried that I won't remember that this is really happening.

Standing before Stonehenge and trying not to cry because it's too much to take in even though I've been there an hour and really, it's just some upright slabs of stone, but it's too much to think about. It's a Moment, just like my first glimpse of Russia at 1:30 am through windows of the Solarium.

There were other moments, but I think about Stonehenge every morning when I put on my necklace I bought in the gift shop after I finally managed to rip myself away from it. It was simple and cheap, only a bluestone ring on a short silver chain, but I wear it every day and I think about it when I get nervous or stressed. I twist the ring around my middle finger, a new habit I've picked up these last few months, and I even have nightmares of it shattering. Twisting it only helps so much; it's never quite enough to calm me down. 

Carry On

part five

As I return to my cabin each night, far later than anyone but the staff still cleaning and preparing and smiling unfailingly, I seek out each security camera and make strange faces at the black lens.

I don't mind that someone will see because it's just a glass lens and it has to be refreshing for whoever’s on watch at 2 am to see someone who doesn't look half-dead (physically or figuratively, it's all the same here). I want to stop and scream that I'm not the ghost you are to me but no one would hear. Instead I just walk to my cabin and clutch my laptop and journal and nod at each passing attendant, using my headphones as an excuse not to engage in excruciating small talk. All I want is to just carry on.

I don't want the age thing to be such a big deal but if one more old person gives me that surprised look when I tell them I graduated from university already, I'm going to give them a deadpan stare and say "Why, how old are you?" I know that's not really playing fair but it's much harder to be respectful of the elderly when I've already listened to this album three times and my headphones are starting to press against my glasses and give me a headache and if I forget to say "university" instead of "college" they think I haven't actually accomplished anything yet.

We Are Young

part four






My dad likes this song, as I found out when he drove me to the airport on day one of my trip. He raised me on Beach Boys and Dr. Demento but I never did like the Beatles, and I know he doesn't like My Chemical Romance but it's good that he likes Fun. because they are my traveling anthem.

           

I desperately want someone to find new ways to fall apart with, but I don't lack for people to carry me home. Even though home can never be in the same place as my parents because I can't live in San Diego. I don't talk about serious things when we are driving to the airport because I can't bear to set the world on fire and then disappear without helping them put it out.

Some Nights

part three





For forty years, French architect Auguste de Montferrand designed and oversaw the building of St. Isaac's Cathedral in St. Petersburg, Russia, commissioned by Tsar Alexander I.

Montferrand died in 1858, one month after the cathedral's completion.

While Montferrand's widow grieved, Tsar Alexander I refused the man's last wish to be buried in the crypt of his masterpiece, for Montferrand wasn't Russian, or Orthodox.

The altar of St. Isaac's Cathedral is carved out of lapis lazuli and malachite. I've read about these stones in textbooks but I didn't expect them to be so deeply and painfully vivid; how can such color exist in nature? Maybe I was supposed to spend more time looking at the golden, shining paintings of Christ - they looked like someone had taken a long time to create.

Probably not as long as forty years, though.

My grandma came to stand next to me as I stared at the blue and green altar for the thirty-five minutes we were allowed inside. She whispered in my ear even though every other tourist wasn't bothering to be quiet. She said that she wished she could lie down on the floor and stare, forever, because only then could she truly manage to take everything in. I nodded in agreement and thought, if a man can spend forty years building a monument to a religion he didn't believe in, then we are all entitled to the eternal resting place of our choice.

St. Petersburg has no shortage of Russian Orthodox churches but apparently Moscow holds the more traditional ones. I felt more cheated by the lack of interesting souvenirs than in the European-style churches. I honestly couldn't tell the difference between them anyway, at least not from the exterior.

The Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood was built around the location of the assassination of Tsar Alexander II, thus earning it’s grotesque moniker. The altar isn't made of lapis lazuli but it does have a great origin story, for it was built directly over the pooled blood of the tsar. I wondered if they washed the blood away before they began construction or left it, a morbid stain to mark out the right spot.

The small girl picking daisies in the grass outside didn't know about the blood, and I wished I could have taken her in hand and shown her the lapis lazuli in St. Isaac's instead of merely spying at her from behind the wrought iron gates. Instead I went inside and ignored the floor-to-ceiling mosaics of New Testament stories and gazed upward at the colossal image of Christ's face bearing down on the worshippers. In his arms he once cradled a German bomb, which stayed live for decades yet never detonated, only to be discovered in the 1970s when restoration finally began.

I didn't want to spend forever in the Church of the Spilt Blood. Maybe because it's only a museum and no longer a place of worship, which I suppose made me feel a little cheated, just like I felt cheated out of good souvenirs. Fake Faberge eggs and cheap nesting dolls and vodka were all that any tourist shop had to offer.

Stupid or not, I expected snow and bears in Russia, and although both were conspicuously absent I did find a t-shirt that read "I've been to Russia and there are no bears." Whoever started that stereotype was an idiot but I'd love to meet him, just as I'd love to meet Montferrand and that little girl with her flowers.

Some Nights (Intro)

part two

The cruise ship was cold at night. I often had to pass through the outdoor pool deck to get to my chosen haunting grounds, because I kept taking the wrong staircase. An elevator would have taken me directly to the Solarium, but I quickly stopped using elevators; I always wanted to be alone and the elevator walls were made of glass and the ocean was always so very dark and close.

I'd pass the pool attendant shivering in his windbreaker, which might be enough during the day but at night the Baltic Sea feels freezing, even though it's far from that. We were sailing on the first crossing for the spring, and although the Baltic hasn't frozen over completely since 1987, it's still too icy to travel through until May.

I always tried to greet him pleasantly, the poor man on top deck duty, but all that would come out was an awkward half-smile as I hunched over and slowed my steps for the automatic doors. It was warmer inside, the Solarium artificially heated, jungle sounds playing softly and the spa jets humming even though by 9 pm I'd be the only one around. I could never quite pin down the theme of the Solarium, some mix between safari and wilderness and India, but it didn't matter because there were green chaise lounges and no one to bother me except the passing attendants.

So one night, like every other, I sat down in one of the lounges and turned on my Kindle and turned up my music and settled down to pretend I wasn't in the middle of the ocean. It took longer to get to Russia from Estonia than I would have thought, so these nights grew common, and I learned that George R.R. Martin is great for escapism and between fiction and Fun. I always managed to forget about the ship for a while.

I'd read for hours, stay out longer and longer each night, and feel relieved that I refused to carry that walkie-talkie my step-grandpa tried to force on me the first day of our trip (“I am twenty years old,” I told him, and the subject never came up again). I did have a cell phone, a red flip phone like the ones we had in middle school, but it barely got reception on the Baltic. So I'd read and listen and eventually come across some profundity beyond fighting and politicking and that night, like so many others, I paused to collect my thoughts. And like so many other nights, I thought the same things:

The people I wish would talk to me won't, because I'm a tourist in a group of so many camera-toting t-shirts and they are native and I can't leave the group, as much as I want to turn down a cobblestone street and just disappear. So instead I try to meet the younger crowd on the ship, but to do so in earnest would require me to visit the clubs and that's not my scene. Instead I just keep wandering by myself and reading for hours in the Solarium and going up to climb the rock wall, shuddering away from every accidental glance at the oceanic whitecaps.

If only I had the guts to stop the young girl I keep passing in the elevator and ask if she wants to hang out. I imagine exactly how the conversation would go:

"I know this sounds weird, but you're literally the first person I've seen in a week who wasn't 50-plus," I'd say, raising my hands in a gesture of peace.

The girl would regard me closely. "I'm 20."

"Me too," I'd tell her. "You don't look it."

"Neither do you," she'd answer, starting to smile.

"A fact I've been constantly reminded of since I left London," I'd sigh and roll my eyes.

"You're from London?" She'd ask, her own accent making it clear she's either American or Canadian. "I would have guessed America."

"I'm from California," I'd shrug, closing the gap between us and holding out my hand.

The girl would reach out and shake it briefly and then pause for a moment, wondering about the proper follow-up question. "So where are you headed?" she'd ask, settling for a change of subject.

"Well, it's dinnertime, so I guess I'll go eat."

"You know, if you want to wait, the buffet opens in half an hour." Her implied invitation would be clear, yet smooth in the way I never manage.

"I like the food there much more than the fancy shit in the dining room," I'd grin.

She'd laugh and agree, "And none of that ridiculous assigned seating!"

We'd continue to chat as we climb the staircase and spend the rest of the evening hanging out together. She wouldn't try to talk me into going to whatever party was happening on whatever dance floor and I wouldn't talk too much about things that don't matter, all those things that tend to spill out when I’m desperate for company, like obscure movie trivia and my favorite trends in young adult fiction and why I don't want to be from California anymore. We would just walk around the ship and laugh and agree to Facebook each other the moment we found working wifi, no pressure, just laughing and sharing our misery together.

But at some point I would always stop imagining this beautiful fictional friendship and remember that I don't "hang out," not with strangers on ships that I'm too shy to talk to. And I definitely don't use elevators anymore.

my life as told by fun.

part one

May 9, 2012. Four days after I graduated from university, I got on a plane with my grandparents and flew to London. We spent only five days there, but for the first time in my life, I learned a profound and honest truth about myself, without even trying. I learned that for once I actually knew myself and my heart. I had thought for so many years that I wanted to live in England, that I needed to be there; and the most important thing I learned in those four days was that I was incredibly, profoundly right. And after those five days, I got on a cruise ship and visited some other neat places and at the end, I was different. That I hadn’t predicted, and living life again as my old self was no longer possible, probable, or doable. 

In the end, all I had left was the desperate need to get back to England. It took me four more years to do so. In the meantime, I had Fun.

Transnational / Cinema / Reflections: Wonder Woman (Jenkins, 2017): A Film Interview wit...

Dr. James Wicks, professor at PLNU and one of my former professors, gave me this opportunity to speak about some of my favorite things, superheroes and feminism, over at his blog!

Transnational / Cinema / Reflections: Wonder Woman (Jenkins, 2017): A Film Interview wit...: Here is an interview with Emily Anthony, a former student of mine and a recent graduate from the University of Leeds in Leeds, UK, where she...

Almost a Poem

The heat of the earth-worn stones presses against my feet. The silent stillness of the summer breeze teases my hair, lightly, gently, against my ears. I turn my head skyward and gaze, blinking only for my mind to comprehend the pervasive presence of the night above.

There will never be another night like this.

The crickets grow louder as they accept my trembling form into their hallowed homes. Shadows trick the corners of my vision, and my mind wanders from the sky, feeling its black, shining light wash over my subconscious as I snatch at the figures in my periphery.

There is no one there. Just the sky. The stars glare down at me, I imagine their heat, their light, and then...I'm floating. Speeding through space, through atmospheres and debris and silence, so much silence, a silence no one has ever heard before and will never hear, not in the future, not in the past.

I cannot understand the night sky. I cannot live there, I cannot visit, I am constrained by the lenses and frames and air of this earth. Of this planet.

But there are many planets. The sky holds wonders, it holds fear and death and silence. And wonders.

One day, there will be those who travel the night sky. I will look up and know that although it is not night to them, it is night to me, and only during night can I feel them, see them, imagine them weightless, floating about space.

They will find a way to travel, find a way to live. The night sky will change, from impenetrable, imperfect silence to a conquered future home. Terra-form, warp speed, hyperdrive, space station. One day, one day, one day. Not today, not my lifetime.

I will always have the night sky, but there will never be a night like this.

Although I imagine so much, so often, and gaze at the sky in its glory, it does not notice me. I feel the wind and see the figures and pretend, the universe cares. Cares for me, touches me, watches me as I watch it, it that cannot be quantified, explained, understood, examined.

They try to. They explore. Many years, many ships, many people, many places. It will never be understood. The earth is not understood, and so the universe cannot be examined. We are not ready. We are not advanced. We are not prepared. The night is powerful, and beautiful and calm and always, always there.

But it will never be like tonight, never again.

The crickets will forget me and chirp as they hop away. The sky will never shimmer again, not like tonight. The breeze will flow, warmer and warmer, then colder, colder, but never perfectly teasing like tonight. I will never feel alone and bonded to a million other lifeforms like I do tonight. The fading, fainting feeling of firm devotion to a world outside the world, a billowing landscape of rippling, empty space, will fall from my lips and mind and my imagination will never play with the shadows of night again.

I will never shut my eyes and blindly piece the constellations together with a heavy, ambivalent arm like I did tonight.

There will never be any more stars for me.

Not like tonight.

Quiet and Still

The solo was played

The duo portrayed

The trio assigned

The quartet aligned

And all were quiet still

The scene passed away

The end didn’t stray

The lights dull and gray

No lines left to say

And all were quiet, still

Prayers whispered in silence

Only end to violence

Body only semblance

Of what’s gone, the essence

And all were quiet; still

They would never complain

If you’d only explain

That one day they’ll remain

Living never with pain

And they were quiet…still

Nightmare

It was an uncomfortable sensation, feeling that tear resting on my cheek. It was cold, but I didn’t wipe it away. Instead, I sat, silently enjoying the feeling of memories rolling down my face, like acid burning a hole in my reminiscence. For once, it hit me just how much I was wasting my life away, one tear at a time.




The radio blasted as Erin drove barely above the speed limit down the hot, desert highway. She clutched a mug of lukewarm coffee in her right hand and steered shakily with her left. Her eyes were bloodshot, the result of having slept no more than an hour at a time in the past week. Or was it two? Time held next to no meaning for her anymore.

This also explained why, at two in the afternoon, she was doing everything she could to keep herself awake.

It was because of those damned nightmares. Nightmare, really. She only ever had the one. Sometimes, it changed, the ending altering slightly to cater to her current fears. But always the same beginning, always the same setting, always the same voice…

She shuddered violently, just thinking about the voice. The voice that literally haunted her dreams. She nearly spilled her coffee as she fumbled to turn the radio up even louder, a vain attempt to drown out her thoughts.

Are you afraid, Erin?
Her eyes grew wide as the words whispered across her thoughts. She could just hear him, hear it, hear the way his calm, soothing tone turned heavy and harsh, taunting her, dragging her down, farther and farther into the realm of her deepest fears.

It’s not going to stop…it won’t ever stop…

The mug fell from her grasp, dousing the seat beside her in sticky liquid. She began to lose control of her breathing, nearly hyperventilating, and her eyes slid out of focus as she struggled to keep her sight on the road in front of her. Erin jerked the car off the road, into the desert sand, threw it in park, and barely twisted the key out of the ignition…

That’s it. She’s dead. Did you hear that, Erin? You’re dead.
Her mouth moved into the shape of a silent scream. She writhed in her seat, fighting the seatbelt, desperately trying to escape the voice in her head. A few long, anguished seconds passed before sobs came spilling from her throat and tears poured from her eyes. She could never get away from the voice. It followed her, everywhere…

A few more seconds passed, then minutes. Erin continued to howl, tears and screams flowing from her as she worked herself into hysterics. She could feel the effort in her tired limbs, each second making it harder to keep her eyes open. But she couldn’t sleep. Not now. She had to get to Jared before nightfall. He was her last hope, the only person who wouldn’t cast her out into the street and call her crazy. Jared would listen to her, like he had listened before, on the phone...But she had to get to him first.

Her struggle was useless. No matter how hard she tried, the darkness slowly encompassed more and more of her consciousness, an effect of the excruciating lack of sleep. And the voice was soothing once again, calling her, pulling her towards it, toward the nightmare.




She stood in a vast expanse of nothingness. All around her, nothing, an existing place that consisted of nothing at all. It was just…there. And she was there too, but she could not feel, could not move, or speak. There was nothing to touch, to feel, to see. Just…nothingness.

It was also…green.

Mint green. Pale, mint green, the color of old plastic school desks. But in this place, she had no concept of color, of green. She knew what green was, but she had no word for it, only understanding the abstract concept of the color around her. Her mind was all emotion, and at the moment it was blank.

A black dot appeared before her, obscuring a small span of the nothingness, but the distance between it and her was impossible for her to perceive. Fear enveloped her completely. It rose, filling her, spilling over, and she opened her mouth in a silent gasp. Her eyes leaked tears.

Erin.

The dot grew. Harsh, flowing black lines began to emerge around her, weaving through the nothingness, covering up the green.

There you are.

The voice was unmistakable. She knew it. It was the only comforting part of the nothingness; it knew who she was, it knew all about her. She wasn’t alone.

The black lines, like vines of ivy in how they twisted, covered more of the space.

Are you listening to me, Erin?

She looked around wildly, trying to find the source of the voice. Of course she was listening. She wanted to see something other than the awful, wild vines that spun a dark web around her. But the voice also surrounded her, echoing and vibrating, with no discernible speaker.

Are you afraid?

The voice had changed. It was still the voice she knew, but it was no longer the voice she longed to hear. This was the voice she longed to escape, even now, even as all her memories and thoughts fled her entirely.

It’s not going to stop, Erin. Never.
The fear was nearly crushing her now as the black encompassed more and more of the expanse. There were only small spaces of green left, little havens for whatever the emptiness was before. Though she knew nothing about it, she desperately wished for it back, wished for anything that would save her from the black.

And then there was only one small sliver of green.

As she watched, a sharp, pointed vine inched toward this last sliver. If Erin could have pulled together any sort of coherent thought, she would have recognized it as moving in slow motion. But she had no coherent thoughts, nothing to ground her to the world she knew when awake. Here, there was only emotion. Here, there was only fear…fear and an overwhelming helplessness…she couldn’t stop the vine from moving. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t speak, and each passing second brought her closer and closer to some unspeakable, utterly horrifying destiny. Her instinct was to cling to this last sliver, to crawl into it and find herself in a place she knew. Her consciousness yearned with the desire to be close to the green, be in the green, away from the black that was moving, slowly, slowly toward her.

And then…

The sliver was gone. The last vine had sunk into place. A loud click filled her senses, and it was then that she knew, then that she felt the sinking, dooming feeling of what was happening to her. She was finally able to conjure one word into her mind, the word that was associated with all the feelings of helpless, devastating fear. One word that the great voice, booming with its taunting, deadly authority, confirmed…

Dead. That’s it, she’s dead.

No. It couldn’t be. It was a nightmare, she wasn’t dead, she wasn’t going to die, she wasn’t, she wasn’t, she wasn’t, SHE WASN’T, NO! SHE WASN’T DE—




I didn’t start worrying until night fell.

That isn’t true. I was worried the entire time, but I didn’t get worked up over it until it was dark and there was still no sign of her.

She had called me around eleven in the morning. I was already at work, but I still answered. It wasn’t often that I heard from my old college girlfriend, and I was grateful for that. She only ever called when there was an emergency.

There was something wrong with Erin. I had known that since about the third week we were dating. The first time she fell asleep in my car and woke up, screaming. I thought she just had a nightmare, but this, this was much worse. Throughout the entire time we were together, which really only ended up being about a year and a half, she always had those…terrors. Not every night. Sometimes not even for weeks. But when they came back, they came back in full strength. We both said that they had nothing to do with our breaking up, but…for me, they were definitely a factor, and I’d bet anything they were for her as well.

And now, six years out of college, she was still having them. We didn’t live too far away from each other, only about four hours driving distance, but most of it was through stark desert. Neither of us made much of an effort to keep in touch after graduation, but every now and then, she’d call me. Sobbing. Terrified. And I’d know exactly what was wrong the moment I saw her number on the caller I.D. There wasn’t anything I could do to help her, if there was I certainly would have found it long ago, back when we were together and I tried so hard to fix her. I even convinced her to go see some doctors, and short of sleeping pills, nothing worked.

So I just went on with my life and every so often I’d answer the phone and I’d talk to Erin, try to calm her down. It was always left at that. Always. Until now.

I don’t know if the nightmares had gotten worse or if they were finally driving her crazy, but she was near hysteria on the phone. She pleaded with me, begged for an escape, and I told her to come see me. I didn’t know what else to do, what else to say…but maybe if she was here, we could work on it, finally figure something out.

But somehow I doubted that.

I wasn’t sure I should wait to do something. She should certainly have been here by now, even if she got lost or there was traffic (which there shouldn’t be, not on that route). But should I call the police? Would they do anything? Maybe I should report her as missing…or maybe I should go find her myself.

That probably was the worst idea of them all. I knew the road, but it was long and not the safest to travel in the dark. Besides, even if I found her, what if something was wrong? What could I do? Best to call the police.

“911, please state your emergency.”

“Yeah, I have a missing person to report…”




The blackness was comforting. What was more comforting was that she could recognize it as blackness. It was more than a concept or a feeling. She knew the name, the word.

She smiled. Black. Quiet. Warm. All these were things she could name. It made her very, very happy.

And with that, Erin let it all go. She let it all fade into the blackness.




They say there wasn’t anything that could have been done about it. Not sure I believe that, but it doesn’t matter now.

Nearly a day later, and I couldn’t stop crying.

The images from it would be with me for a long time. As the person who reported her missing, I was the only one they called to identify Erin’s body. To identify what was left of it, really.

The coroner said it wasn’t very quick. She ran her car off the road. A plain, level, straight desert road, no other cars in sight, nothing to stop her, or scare her, or get in her way. It’s unknown why she crashed. Why she was steering so erratically that her car rolled three hundred feet before stopping, upside down, her body trapped inside, most likely not yet dead. She wasn’t quite crushed, only trapped. Trapped and bleeding and hopefully, I prayed, unconscious. By the time I called 911, she had been trapped for hours, and very, very dead when they reached her. Dead from bleeding out.

I sat and wondered what else I could have done. Probably nothing. But that tear, it rested on my face, and burned. The tears would always serve as a reminder to what had happened, what could have happened, and what will never be.

I didn’t wonder, like the police did, about what had caused her to run off the road. I knew. Deep down, I knew.




That night, it took me a long time to get to sleep. But once I did, I had a nightmare.