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.