Luggage Struggles

 The transatlantic plane ride was long and just a smidge uncomfortable as I was the middle of an aisle section. Unfortunately, I couldn't catch a wink of sleep on the flight but the flight did make up for it by having flash little flat screens on the head rests letting the passengers watch recent film releases. I was quite excited to watch the Avengers again and I sat through some of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate factory.

We finally touched down at Heathrow on Tuesday morning and we taxied for a further ten minutes before we filed out of the airplane. Up to that point I was starting to get some idea of how multicultural London was going to be. I mean I read all the stats about the place and I understand that it is when of the larger cities on the planet. I must say, however that Heathrow was like landing on Coruscant. A reference that most Londoners seem to get, which I will expand upon momentarily. My first true hit of cultural shock was I did not hear a word of English until about an hour into our escape from the airport. That may read a bit harsher than I may intend but for me it was quite a change from my comparatively small hamlet.

After we collected our luggage we had some herculean tasks ahead of us. First, we had to get out of the effin' airport. Second, we had to make it to our apartment and check in. Third, we had to sleep the sleep of the dead. Jet leg was creeping on us both and it showed in the most obvious ways. Getting on the tube proved challenging . We had four failed attempts at receiving our Oyster cards thanks to the peculiarities of the dispensing machines. Right when I was about to unpack our suitcases and craft a lean-to out of some of my shirts and ties, Elizabeth got out of the line she had been stuck in for half an hour with a ticket to Stockwell.

So, we got on the train near 11 and the train ride was a further 40 minutes. By twelve we made it to our neighborhood. I had previously told our landlords that we would be checking in at 12 but that clearly wasn't going to happen as I immediately got Elizabeth and I lost. I had only ever google mapped our apartment building so I had a great idea where the landmarks were from a bird's eye view. I knew it was right next to Larkhall park. I mean, how hard could it  be to find a large park in London? Apparently, difficult enough that I hadn't the foggiest idea on how to get there. I lead Elizabeth about 20 minutes past the right turn we needed to take. A grievous error as we were both literally dragging at that point. Elizabeth's luggage wheels broke so we were slowly grating the bottom of it into a fine black powder.

All this was exacerbated by my stubborn insistence that flagging down a cab would be a worthless expense. Since, I knew "it was right around here". I began to ask passerby if they knew where the park was and surprisingly every person I stopped and asked was either "not from around here" or "didn't have any idea but it sounded familiar." After the fourth non-answer I took the hint and walked a bit further on where a sales assistant in a local mattress supply store looked up the directions on her IPhone.

Twenty minutes back and a further ten up the road and we found the park and managed to check in at around two.

Roads go ever ever on/ Under cloud and under star,

On the tenth day of September, twenty-five years after I had been born, I stood beside my wife outside the MOV airport in Parkersburg. I was certainly whelmed by the dinky size of it. There was nothing to it really. Might have about ten employees on hand. Our family outnumbered them by at least one. Everyone was there to see us off and it was quite nice to be able to spend some time with them while my brain attempted to crawl down my spinal cord to hide within my stomach.

Oddly enough, my anxiety had next to nothing to do with the actual flying bit. Though the prospect of crashing did lurk the in deeper recesses. I had built up crossing through security as some sort of great and terrible thing. Months prior I would scour news site for horrendous travel stories involving the invasion of privacy and various hoops a traveler would have to leap through to make it onto the plane. This curiosity was driven from an odd personality quirk I had tried to bury from my youth. I was hyper-guilty.

The scenario always played out like this: a teacher, RA, police officer, etc. would speak to a: class, floor, group and accuse an anonymous member of some wrong doing: cheating, shitting on the floor, trespassing and no matter how certain I was of my innocence I would physiologically react as though I was being tortured on the rack. I was always seconds away from blurting out "Yes! It was me! I shit all over the floor!"

So, the thought, and just the thought, of airport security was the worse thing I could think of. I was certain out of the 4 other people on our tiny flight to Cleveland I would look too shifty and would be escorted stage right to a dimly lit back room with a "Hang in there" kitten poster haphazardly hanging on one wall while I was cavity searched thoroughly by a bored security guard.

Luckily, none of that happened. Though I did have to go through the metal detector a few times until it was realized that my new passport holder with a RFID blocker in it was causing the machine to ping off. Having made it through security we were able to board the first leg of our journey. The plane was a small one with twin propellers. It seemed like I was climbing into a sort of antique, or better yet something from an Indiana Jones film. Elizabeth and I tried to wave to our family waiting in the glass enclosed airport but it appeared that the glass was tinted in such a way that prevented them from seeing us.

The plane ride was actually quite smooth and fairly enjoyable. With each gain in altitude it seemed like my anxieties were falling away bit by bit until I was finally exposed to the great mystique and marvel of the whole endeavor. I was flying through the air toward another country.

I was moving 3,000 miles toward the night, toward London, toward the next year.  

Our bags were packed, we were ready to go.

      More than a year ago, when Elizabeth was about to finish her year in AmeriCorps, we began to discuss our options for school and life in general. We came to the conclusion that we both wanted to be as educated as possible. After some failed attempts to find a graduate program on the East Coast we looked again into what was once a pipe dream of moving 3000 miles to London and study at the universities there. Fast forward four or so months, and the bulk of the research was over and we had both applied and were accepted to institutions abroad. 

      I know when I received the offer email I was certainly elated but at the same time couldn't shake the sense of surrealism about the process. In fact, that kind of disconnect with the whole process really colored how I felt about the move until the day we set foot onto the plane. Everything we arranged was done without any real human contact. Sure, we sent emails. Enquiries were answered with surprising promptness despite the five hour time delay. Emails though quickly lost any sort of human touch and I felt adrift in this (at least for me) fully realized digital age. 

The other factor that honed my personal sword of Damocles, was the slipperiness of the time involved.It seemed we were always rushing to complete something just so we could wait for months, or at least weeks to find the next step. Like some sort of hellish scavenger hunt. Of course, time soldiered on. Generally oblivious to my pathetic fallacy. The move went from being far off in the future to next week, and tomorrow. All too quick really. Especially toward the end. Far too quick. 

Despite all the existential angst and emotional difficulty we did find our way over the pond and into a flat. Those details i'll post tomorrow. 

It is impossible for me to harm or by omission of action, allow to be harmed, a human being.

Nothing Earth shattering today, although I did write a little bit of doggerel last night that might find its way online sometime soon. This is more of a status report to explain my lack of updates.

This past weekend I, with the aid of five extraordinary people, finished about five or so long term projects. These projects were all DIY nightmares really. Things that I could never have accomplished without their help and support.

The projects:
Building two porches,
putting in two exterior doors,
cleaning out the backwoods,
light deforestation,
severe landscaping involving a bobcat (a great image but in reality slightly dull{I mean in relation to having a wildcat do it. The machine itself was quite exhilarating. It was just like Aliens.[In that the controls mimicked the powerloader that Ripley used to defeat the Alien Queen]})

and gutting a closet.

Without the help of Rick and Maggie Martin, Calvin Grubb, my dear father Shawn, and the love of my life, there is no way I could have fixed up the house we are staying at. It has been an invaluable experience. One that I hope to put to good use in the future.

The distant, jetback wearing, future.

Short Post is

Big changes coming up in the future.
Got my passport the other day but that's a post for later.

Small changes happening all the time.

I replaced the toilet and put down some new linoleum in our bathroom last night with my mother-in-law. The renovation went surprisingly smoothly until it came down to removing the last bolt on the toilet. The nut had rusted so completely that no amount of wrenching, twisting, or swearing would loosen it.

Finding no way to remove the bolt I did the next reasonable thing and smashed the toilet with a hammer.

Learned a valuable lesson. Sometimes blunt force can achieve the same results as finesse.

Rum Diary

Having remained elusive for many day, I managed to track down the Rum Diaries at a local Red Box. Initial reviews painted a bleak picture. As though a massive wave of apathy and discontent rose up. On the Red Box website you can still see the high water mark where people had cared for Johnny Depp and the works of Thompson.

"It's too boring." "Nothing happens." And similar complaints. These people though don't understand the point of the film. Depp is not trying to play a swishing sun-addled pirate nor is the film about the Fear, Loathing, and mountains of drugs a serious habit can help you obtain. It is in there but that is not the point or the time period the film tries to capture. 

There is something magical about Depp's portrayal of Hunter and something about Hunter's tracts that burrow deep within the mind. Following the wrinkles in the brain like an Innerspace Perseus carrying a string of such scintillating thought that it generates a mild mania within. 

A calling to go out there and find the Dream. 

The novel evokes stinging salt, ever present sand, and the kind of depression you can only find in a paradise.

I had started to read the book before a trip to North Carolina. With twenty of my closest friends we set off on the staple collegiate escape to the beach. 

On that small isthmus, looking out into the steel grey horizon I realized I couldn't finish the book. The ink had started to seep into my skin and i could feel Hunter 's presence creep up behind the eyes. I needed rum and sterner stuff. I craved something larger and larger.

And when the warm winds blow. I feel those same stirrings. 

The cravings. 

Full Moon Musings

Growing up I got really into vampire mythology. My fascination didn't lead to bloodletting though as I was like the Jehovah's Witness of Goths. My interest was slightly more highbrow. I craved immortality and still do in all honesty. So, I backed the undead ticket. Nowadays expressing interest in vampires can lead to excruciating conversations about lovelorn vegetarian vampires and their fascination with Mary Sue character archetypes. Thus, my interest has gone to ground if you'll pardon the phrase. My interest in the undying is now a deep dark secret (if it ever was that secret). Recently, I have found myself switching teams and becoming more and more interested with werewolves.

I will touch briefly on the Vampire vs Werewolf phenomenon that has exploded with the Twilight scene as the two creatures are tied together in myth and critical understanding in a few ways. All of my readers (perhaps a whole four!) know that Twilight was not the first to put these beasts together to make the sweet horror reese's cup tweens crave, though nor was Underworld the progenitor of this monster mash. No, the peanut butter to vampire's chocolate has been werewolves for centuries. As a personal anecdote, the first time I saw the two sides fight was in an episode of The Real Ghostbusters  "No One Comes to Lupusville."

Slimer spoke a language similar to Nibbler from Futurama
and was way more annoying.

In some ways I've always been slightly interested in werewolves for some time. I'll watch The Howling if its on and I recently bought American Werewolf in London. Which if you haven't seen it, you should go out right now and find a copy because it's special effects have aged better than its cgi filled sequel An American Werewolf in Paris. But, my new found passion for lycanthorpes comes from two sources. One, the excellent book The Last Werewolf and two, from what I think is a maturation on my part.

The Last Werewolf is the first book of Duncan's I read but the second one I've written about. While in some embarrassing ways I enjoyed I, Lucifer, I adored Werewolf. It paints the werewolf as erudite and as interesting as the vampire; and it does so logically. If every so often you Hulked out and went on a killing rampage you would begin to learn to hide it or you would wind up a rug on some hunter's floor. Duncan's protagonist hides his actions making his killings look like regular 'ole murders and probably by shaving regularly. I can't tell you how many times (particularly in film) the werewolf was always the scruffy looking dude with the five o' clock shawdow or beard.

A werewolf from the Netherlands

By creating a werewolf with some degree of intelligence and a longer life than most werewolves in fiction or cinema Duncan allows the creature to get some of its dignity and respect back. I could care less about the dignity bit though. I was once again pulled to the long life aspect. 

My second reason for the increased interest with werewolves becomes slightly more personal. Back in high school at the height of my vampire obsession I, perhaps unsurprisingly wasn't getting laid.

Hahaha just kidding I got mad pussy.

My sexual encounters were limited and strangely related to vampric lore. Lots of biting, making out and soulful looks but not a whole lot else. Now I'm married and much more worldly so when my passion runs hot I feel more like a beast. 

A sexy, sexy beast.

But, does this newest interest mean my love life will dry up? It's hard to say. I am married now so it's almost like I'm contractually obligated to get some. Although my wife does raise the valid point.Who would want to fuck a werewolf?

Truth

Things recently have felt unreal, truth be told. This unreality might have something to do with the time of year. It is supposed to be cloudy, grey, and overbearing. I'm supposed to lose myself in the stark harsh mistress of winter, truth be told. Bury my self in her white cloak while my breath escapes through the angel my body left in the ground.

Except, there hasn't been any real snow. It's been a protracted Fall bleeding into what will be a early Spring. Groundhog be damned! Truth be told, I miss the Winter. It gets a bum rap. Anyone old enough to work views it as a hazard or pain. Others see it only as the long dark before spring; a mirthless time. I don't disagree with them. Not outwardly at least. A part of me does miss it though. The sharp sting to the skin. A burning in my asthmatic lungs.

When I thought no one was looking i'd walk out into those frozen nights of years past and sit down by the river reveling in the reflection of light off the Ohio's murky, disgusting waters. On those frigid nights with the water moving along like tar I would fantasize about wading out as far as I could go.  I knew i would probably freeze so I stayed firmly planted on the bench by the gazebo where I would propose.

Those were funny nights. Truth be told.

I fear my life will be like a dandelion, shockingly bright, only to blow away. 

Wayward Hair

I was in love with,

my wayward hair then,

and so was he.

I would think,

looking in the mirror,

I am the Earth Mother.

“Oh damn,

I’ve got pillowface.”

I’d often remark.

I don’t care,

what face it is,

as long as it’s yours.

What if I had

the face of the walrus?

I’d ask him next.

I would be your

Koo koo ka choo

Or your carpenter.

As long as you don’t hammer

in the morning or at suppertime.

Really, anytime it’s inconvenient.

Dearest, you know

I’d bang you anytime

day or night.

I loved him

our morning routine

and my wayward hair.

When bad plots happen

Scientists have created

a trust potion,

an advertising promotion.

“Just smile, because

you know,

they’re making love.”

No, fuck you.

I know what they’re

up to. And to be honest,

without being rude, they’re

trying to control when and with

whom, we can be nude.

Odd but true, think of

the economic situation

of a monogamous relation.

What you’re thinking is correct,

we do love cheesy endings. They

should be a choice though

and not the way.

We don’t need no Number 9.

Now and forever we don’t need

no thought control.

In sickness and in health,

take your stimulus package

And rock the recession. With our one

and only weapon left, emotion.

Seasonal Affect

When it rains precipitation is at

100% and it pours though

not exactly pouring weekly as

sprinkling, drizzling, and misting daily.

It’s scattered storms and partly cloudy.

Dark with a chance of light.

My average highs have become

record lows and there’s

a small chance, 30% or so, of

good weather and sunny feelings,

a 75% chance of stormy thoughts,

dark imagery, and gallows humor as

things are no longer light and

variable. There is a severe chance

of  thunder and a flash of lightening.

Soon the local on the eights

will show my head blowing

N by NW at 108 miles per hour.

Keep The Lights On

    

I.

Tesla refused to have sex his entire life.

His sexual frustration

powering new discoveries.

His human chemistry replaced

by a body sung electric.

His high potential charging

in between the gates that separate

the coiled recesses of his mind

                        II.

Edison approaching the deadline

tries out design after design.

He knows it’s coming down to

the wire his desire to stay current

resists his  resignation at his lack

of innovation.

                        III.

As he slumps in his chair

a flash of lightening  illuminates

the child’s toy bobbing and weaving

like a butterfly about to be stung by a bee.

Promethean Franklin sparks new ideas

using the right key and filament he can 

pass the torch to the next,

he becomes the fuse for future

generations to stick their two cents in

completing the circuit.

                        IV.

Gilbert Hackathorne pockets the pennies

he finds. It insulates him from the power,

he keeps going and going surging through

life even though a fuse and man, can

burn out after extended use. After plugging in

the future, monitor lights up with the Electrician

at Corning.That same night a colorblind

technician  chains lightening together

with gray wires, frustration, and spare change.

Old Poetry finds a home.

I'm going to post some things I wrote a few years back for class. Perhaps seeing them online, (hopefully with constructive comments), will boost my creativity.

Libationer

Around my house where the Canadian Mist settles

and the Grey Goose flies Daniel tests Beam’s mettle,

set against the evening sky.

We set out a glass where an Old Crow can talk

with the Green Fairy and reveal all he knows

about Samuel Adams walk set

at Woodstone Creek.

We set out a glass where Kentucky

Gentleman sing this song of a

Bufflo Trace by a set of Four Roses

set on Black maple hill where the

heir apparent Crown Royal

of the White Horse

keeled over after drinkin’

too much Feckin Irish Whisky.

WIP Poem

A little something i'm working on.

Ode to Brachininae

Of all the species on this great Earth,

there’s one my mind often grows envious of

while watching political debates.

A lowly ground beetle, carapace shiny black,

body shaped as a violin. These maestros

are consummate diplomats.

How I wish that it could be up on stage

forleg tibiae fiddling with its miniscule bowtie.

It would hold its own in the first round.

It’s hard on pests and has a firm Not In My Backyard platform

But in the second round it comes under attack for

some recent bombings against unarmed civilians

 and retorts with a mixture of  shock, surprise,

hydroquinone and hydrogen peroxide.

The discourse dissolves into debilitated debaters.

I, Reader

I, Lucifer, Fallen Angel, Prince of Darkness, Bringer of Light, Ruler of Hell, Lord of the Flies, Father of Lies, Apostate Supreme, Tempter of Mankind, Old Serpent, Prince of This World, Seducer, Accuser, Tormentor, Blasphemer, and without doubt Best Fuck in the Seen and Unseen Universe (ask Eve, that minx)...

— Lucifer

I tracked down this book after reading Duncan’s newer work, The Last Werewolf.  I was struck by Duncan’s ability to fully use the diary format and his incredibly bizarre grammatical constructions. Also the book about werewolves made me cry. So, there’s that.  Anyway, I became slightly obsessed with the book and wanted to read some of his other novels.

I, Lucifer seemed to be the next logical choice as I’ve always loved stories that feature Old Scratch as a character or protagonist. By the blurb on the back it appears as another story about Satan’s fall and teases that the devil “finds himself understanding what it’s like to be us.”

Yes, that’s what I need! I must know Lucifer’s side of things. Something I haven’t read before in: Paradise Lost, Memnoch the Devil, Letters from the Earth, or played as Demon: The Fallen and In Nomine. Snark aside, there are some archetypes that I never get tired of. Instead I usually check out new interpretations of the same story to see what’s different, new, rehashed, deconstructed, and so on.

The plot follows Lucifer in his month spent on Earth wearing a suicidal writer’s body like a cheap suit. Lucifer himself reveals the story to us. In this capacity he’s the best unreliable narrator and the best user of stream of consciousness I’ve read recently. The stream of consciousness is as disjointed as one might expect for an alien immortal consciousness that was present at the creation of all things to be squashed down into a human mind. This physical joy ride comes on the behalf of God who offers the Devil a deal. Live like a chaste human, die, and then come to heave no questions asked to be reinstated as a minor angel; a reverse Faustian pact essentially where the Trickster will give up all his immortal powers for a much longer judgment period.

Lucifer scoffs at the whole idea of salvation and sees the reinstatement as an angel as a slight jab at his “well known pride.” He does however; enjoy the prospect of getting away from the normal torturous duties of hell.  He mucks about in the body doing Hunter S. Thompson level of drugs and generally anything else he can to drive the body he’s in directly six feet under.  For being the devil he does seem to have some limitations for the suffering he brings into the world.  For instance, there is one (of many) disturbing passages where Lucifer wonders what it would be like to commit a rape.  For several paragraphs, like Declan’s body, we are unable to think about anything other than stalking a poor woman back to her apartment and when things are about to get incredibly uncomfortable a few angels show up to tell him to knock it off.  He can be self-indulgent just not commit any mortal sins that will stick to Gunn’s soul.

When I started to read the book I really felt sorry for the meat sack that Lucifer was using. Declan Gunn started out as a schlub who had one hit book, became an insufferable ass, and alienated everyone.  He decides to take one final bath and winds up worse than dead, undead possessed by the devil.

Lucifer’s story arc does tip toe toward the idea that anyone can repent but it seems heavily inferred that when something goes according to plan, particularly God’s plan, you either are saved or doomed to a predestined outcome seen only by the creator and relayed by his winged messengers.

The book held my attention easy enough and provided me with some neat new ideas. For instance, even though Lucifer is a fallen angel that does stop him from suffering from the evil in the world because at the base of his existence he still is part of the angelic host.

 I really enjoyed most of the book but as a caveat, some of the content in the book made me quite embarrassed to be reading it. I can’t really recommend it to anyone for this reason. Although, if you happen to be around it you should thumb through it.

As an interesting side note, Glen Duncan lived with a musician, Stephen Coates of The Real Tuesday Weld, when he was writing the book. Coates made an accompanying album as a sort of soundtrack to the book. The Real Tuesday Weld album I, Lucifer  has an odd feel to it. Not one I would have immediately thought of either as Coates describes his music as "antique beat" a blending of jazzy dance hall numbers and electronica dance.

We return now to our adventure already in progress...

With little fanfare, fireworks, and fritatas I have returned to this Blog in an attempt to write more. I've never been more resolute before but this has nothing to do with a new calendar year and more to do with a little self-improvement. So without further ado, allow me to reintroduce myself to the world.

Hello, My name is Donhnall. I'm 24, happily married, and almost completely lost.

"Lost?" you might ask.

Yes. Dear Mysterious Phantom Reader I am lost. Scuttling across the floor without so much as a silent "C". I know full well where my silent haitch is. Stuck firmly between two hard "N's".

"Well that reference was a little obvious and pretentious Don. Can I call you Don? Good."

Thanks for noticing Dear Reader.

The important thing to take away from this rambling mess is I'm back.