This week I had 3 pieces of writing on The Adventure Handbook as part of their facebook series.
i’m always sad on planes where ever i am going. it’s something about being in the sky, and how lonely it is up there in the cumulonimbus. my friends have written letters, included photographs, for me to look at on the plane. it feels like a memorial. there’s so much land and water below, but it means nothing to me.
crying beneath the complimentary blanket is the most restrained that i can be. the blanket is thin and grey and smells like dust but i like it. it is my own.
i feel the luxury of being alone whenever i travel. i will wander around the airport, breathing air conditioning, the rain so thick i can’t see the landscape beyond the windows. so much of life is about these in between places.
finally, sitting down in my aisle seat i watch all of the films with the sound off. a tear hits the collar of my shirt and it feels cute.
we’ve been fighting most of the time we’ve been here. i get mad at you for things that are outside of your control, because it is easy to do that. it is easy to do mean things sometimes and i’m sorry. it is too hot outside and it is your fault, somehow. i cry at the acropolis with dust from the ruins in my lungs. i lose you in a crowd. i take photos because i feel like i should.
the acropolis museum is dull and full of old men smoking e-cigarettes. everything is white and it hurts my eyes. i wait in line for the bathroom for fifteen minutes. afterwards, we walk around the city trying to find a bookshop but when we get there it’s closed. you begin to feel anxious. i start talking in a funny voice because it makes you laugh. i’m trying.
when it’s cooler we drink all the beers and stumble outside, and [i forget]. that night we fall asleep with the air conditioning on, and when we wake up our bodies are covered in goosebumps. we go outside again and get lost. we wear shorts. we’re in love. it is okay.
when i woke up in new york city, blood had soaked through my jeans and onto the seat. i had taken two sleeping pills at the beginning of the flight so i didn’t notice. walking through customs i covered up the blood stain with my tote bag, not ashamed just self-aware. i took a taxi to your apartment, and felt too much of something and not enough of something else. in your laundry room i scrubbed the blood out.
to begin with you want to search for whatever comfort you can find, in all of those unfamiliar spaces. you have to trick yourself. when it snowed one morning we ran outside like children, i had never felt snowfall before. later that day we walked across the brooklyn bridge as the sun was setting. the sky was pale pink/orange and we were just dumb humans shivering beneath it.
in the night times i kissed too many people that i shouldn’t have, and i’m not sure what it meant. i didn’t care. i was making a habit of recklessness. i read poetry to people in a crowded apartment, the americans eating up the words i breathed at them. on new year’s eve there was a rooftop, and we all hugged each other in the dark. in a room with too many people in it, my hand awkwardly clutching a 40 oz, i gave myself over to the city.
eating falafel on a curb by central park, clinging to each other for warmth on a train platform, high in a bathroom stall. these memories are like recollecting scenes from a dream, imagined sensations. the best times were when i was alone, walking by myself around brooklyn, although i couldn’t begin to process whatever was going on. it was so cold and i felt purposeful. i didn’t know who i was in new york. i don’t really know who i am anywhere.