Drink Life to the Lees

When I was planning and thinking about Barcelona, I had no doubt that I would return, at least once, to Madrid. Anyone who reads or has read some of the entries in this blog from a few years ago will know that going to Madrid was a big part of my life, even if it was encapsulated in two months’ time. This is the entry from my personal journal the day that I left Madrid: The universe has a funny way of trying to make sense of itself. Or maybe it’s not that; maybe it’s just mocking our attempts to make sense of it. Either way, as I lie here tonight, I have to smile. I’m lying here in this room for the last time, and things are very much as they were the first night I spent here, two months ago. The shelves are empty, I’m lying on a bed with no sheets (I took them off to clean them and they’re still not dry), and I’m staring at the orange square of light cast through the window from the street. It’s as if careful measures have been taken t...

A pasture with cows, unending acres of corn, a small town in the distance. They were familiar to me, a different arrangement of the sights I knew from my home town. As I looked out the window I could almost convince myself that I was driving down Route 102. But I wasn’t. In fact, I was technically farther from home than I’d ever been. I was in Germany, on a train between Memmingen and Augsburg. It was just past seven in the evening when Maggie, Alex and I arrived in Augsburg. Back in Barcelona, we commented, the sun would still be an hour away from setting. Here, though, we stepped out of the train station into the last few minutes of sunlight. It was getting colder, too, which only increased the strange-yet-familiar sensation we’d had ever since we’d arrive in Germany. We looked at maps and tram schedules and compared them to the directions to the hostel. The signs held the unlikely and, in some cases, impossible combinations of letters and sym...

A while ago, as part of the internet’s Attention Deficit Education, I watched a short video about a kind of fungus that infects the brains of ants in the jungle. The fungus grows in the ant’s brain, eventually driving him crazy and forcing him to climb upward. When the ant reaches the very top limb of a tree his head basically explodes, releasing fungal spores which spread in all the directions of the wind. The spores infect other ants and, as with all things in nature, the cycle continues. After I got over the initial “Holy crap,” level of astonishment, I started wondering what it must be like to be driven upward by some mysterious internal force. At first I could hardly believe that a creature's brain could be affected in such a specific way. But I was forced to revise my opinion tonight not long after I walked out of my apartment. I was reminded, in fact, that that feeling was something with which I am very familiar. It started because I had noth...

“Hey, how’s it going?” I looked up from my book at the person who had matched my stride as we crossed the quad. A glance was all it took: pale skin, a crop of red hair that seemed pale, too, and a suit with a tie under his jacket. He was looking at me with the vague empty look reserved for politeness between strangers. This guy wasn’t a classmate or an acquaintance. This guy was workin’ for the Lord. I returned to my book. “What are you reading?” asked Red. I could have ignored him. It might have been more proper and mature to ask him to please leave me be, thank you very much. But I didn’t; after all, I was working for a higher power too, and it seemed wrong to let this opportunity slip by. “Hemingway.” I flashed him the cover. “The Snows of Kilamanjaro.” “Wow. Is it intense?” I snorted without looking up from my book. “Intense? No, I don’t think so. Good, though.” “Do you like to read?” Red’s legs were longer than mine and he was outpacing me. Out of the corner of my...

I didn’t have to slide the envelope across the desk like some sort of sleazy movie villain. Liz simply strode across the room, planted a soft kiss on my cheek, and glided her hand over the envelope as she walked back towards the door, picking it up in a movement so fluid that I wasn’t sure it had happened at all. I’m not one to get easily distracted by a kiss from a woman, but I ought to give Liz her due; she was a professional, after all. Before she left she turned back to me. “Suppose he’s not interested?” she asked coyly. I smiled. “Not likely.” Liz smiled back. “No, it’s not. But some guys … some guys are funny. Suppose he’s not interested?” “If our boy Harold is able to withstand the full force of your … ample … persuasions, then both you and he are free to part.” Her piercing gaze lingered. “And of course,” I continued, “you will keep the money.” Liz nodded and turned to leave again. ...

The most honest feeling in the world is hot sunlight burning away the night before and illuminating a hangover. At that moment, you are feeling nothing else; there are no thoughts lingering in the back of your mind, no distractions from the edge of your senses, and no predictions whatsoever for the future. At that moment you have no mind, no senses, and no future. You sit in that harsh sunlight for a moment, part of you hoping that it will burn you out of existence. That’s what I was doing on the steps of Vanessa’s apartment building. Half of my face was molded into the cement step while the other half was letting the sun do its work. Neither was helping, so I pushed myself up and moved into the shade, which was a painful move and far too ambitious for my condition. A half-smoked cigarette sat by my left foot; I knew it was mine because I could still taste it in my mouth. I went to breakfast. The diner’s vinyl booth wasn’t much of an upgrade from the cement stoop, but I didn’t ...

The leaves have left, The pageant is over. The distant sun shines no more But glows, amber like wine. The air’s chill is ever-present, It walks beside and all through. Autumn has fallen, And winter, victorious, Tiptoes in on soft white specks.