the Time between

I HAD WOKEN UP THAT FRIDAY IN MAINE lying on a blow up mattress in the middle of the living room, when Joe’s kid Kevin came running in and plopped on top of me for some early morning snuggles.

As his head rested on my chest, I thought of how precious the moment was. Kevin, being a mostly non-verbal autist, expressed his feelings in non-traditional ways - but this was a sign that he liked and felt comfortable with me. Joe, when he emerged from his room, smiled and gently said Kevin’s name, because Kevin would have to get ready to go to school soon.

The sound of Mr. Chu, the rabbit stirring in his enclosure on the right back corner of the living room swept lazily through the air as Kait woke up and came out into the living room in her hoodie. She offered to make omlettes, and Joe and I went out to grab the ingredients.
I stretched the day out as long as I could, knowing that I would need to return to New Jersey by the next day to try and do “Skitterday” - the once a week creative day my brothers and I were going to have to actually give breath to the skits we have been creating over the last two decades - but wanting to spend the extra time with one of my close friends that I hadn’t seen in at least eight years.

I stretched it out until 2pm, when Joe’s mom came over; we played a game of Munchkin before I left, As i write this, I can’t remember who won - just that it was a fun game.
As i rolled out of the driveway on a middle-of-Maine back road, I contemplated my next move, and where I was going to stay that night. I didn’t know whether I would drive straight through to New Jersey or split the drive in half - make the bulk of the drive during the day and finish up the rest in the morning. To help make the decision, I reached out to my brother, Josiah, who lives in Vermont - which would be a small detour, but not too far out of the way. I decided to grab some fabled Maine Lobster roll as I waited for his reply. About 8 miles from Dexter, I found a place that was off the beaten path. The parking lot was huge and across the street from a wild expanse of woods. The night sky had blanketed the area in a darkness only experienced in these rural areas of the world, where there is very little light pollution and street lamps are a rarity.
Josiah ended up responding to me as soon as I pulled in, but upon looking up his address, I realized that I wouldnt be to him until around 11pm that night and my second question became - what time would he need to got o bed, and how much time would I actually get to spend with him? The answer was not too late, and not very long.. so I decided to try and make the trip back to New Jersey in one fell swoop, and stay in the mid point between my two brothers. I sat down and ordered a lobster roll and two desserts, which in hind sight, was way too much sugar. THe lobster roll, however, was absolutelt fabulous. And then, I was on my way.

I drove about two hours before stopping to refill on gas, and made the decision to call my brother Jason to check and see what time we were going to meet up the following day, but found out that he had picked up an extra shift for Saturday, and Chris ended up high for the first time. As it would turn out, they both thought I was travelling for a week, and would not be back that weekend… which left me too far from Josiah and too far from Joe, with nothing to do the following day. I was in Amesbury, Massachusetts, with a gas pump in my hand, and a glimmer of sleepiness spreading slowly through my system.

It was 10pm at night, and I realized I was in Massachusetts. So was my aunt, and my cousins. I promptly decided I’d pay them a visit, and went to search for a hotel to bed down in that night.
After a debacle, I found one at roughly 1:30am for a price point much higher than I had hoped.
The next morning, I started my drive to Springfield, taking the opportunity to sight see along the way. On the itinerary was H.P Lovecraft’s old girlfriends’ college, where the supposed Necronomicon was buried deep below the surface, and a castle in the middle of a park. Both things were cool in and of themselves.

Upon arrival in the middle of the afternoon- was greeted by my second cousin, Bennie, who hadn’t seen me in so long, he forgot what I looked like. He had grown a decent amount int he six years that had elapsed. His voice had gotten deeper, his height had started to surpass my own, and in the days I would spend with him, I would find his desire for knowledge had grown very far beyond the rambunctious, inattentive nature of his youth.
My Aunt Matt had made a call out to my other cousin, Hope, so that that whole side of the family could all have dinner together, and she revealed to me that we were having lasagna - which is my favorite meal, of which she remembered. Ash, my little cousin, had her two kids over - both of which I had not yet had the opportunity to meet. They took to me relatively quick, and the whole dinner was full of laughter and smiles.

But it was that moment, looking around the table, that I realized, I didn’t realize how much time had passed. Bennie had grown from a six year old into a thirteen year old, Hope had gotten a few degrees in college, Ash had two kids - one of which, had already gone passed the toddler phase that I never saw, and Aunt Matt had quit smoking and begun walking to better her health. When I looked at Ash and Steve, I was no longer looking at Newlyweds, but a married couple who had braved the first six years of marriage already, and was only four years away from a decade.

I would spend the next day and a half there. In that course, I would find that Bennie didn’t know very much about our family. I was the only other Miller he had met, besides his grandmother and mother. he only briefly remembered my father. I felt good that I was able to share with him the things I had learned about the family, and the history I was able to trace back; I was able to show him the family tree of people he had never heard of, or knew existed. I was happy he was interested.

I left for new jersey that afternoon, stopping for the night to bed down at a hotel so that I could explore a little bit of upstate new York or Connecticut. I dined that night at a lebanese place, next to my hote, which served some of the best hummus I had ever had.
The next morning, I headed off to Molten Java, the place where I penned my last entry.

The road after that beautiful Victorian coffee house, both figuratively and literally, has been a roller coaster of sorts. Winding roads led me home that afternoon; I was captivated by the scenery by viola road in Upstate New York, by 202. The architecture of the buildings was old brick, aged and covered moss. It was reminiscent of the old country homes in Ireland, along Connor’s Pass. The churches of old in these parts looked different from those that I had around me. Mausoleums and wrought iron gates decorated them. the steel was twisted into shape, imperfect, but inside that imperfection was beauty; it was a story of old craftsmanship, when things were crafted by the hands of men, rather than the movement of machines.

I kept consistent with sending texts to Tinderella; determined to not allow the same mistake to befall me again - though, this time around it was easy; the days since meeting her stretched off into small bouts of eternity. I felt the weight of the clocks hands as they pushed on. Each minute, each hour; I was no longer outside of times’ grasp. The days were no longer just moments blurred and huddled together, they were separate and disparate. I sometimes felt like I had so much time that I didn’t know what to do with it. Often, I would drift in and out of daydreams of her and I, though, sadly, our conversations seemed short, yet not disinterested.

She sent pictures more willingly. Some days, there were long discussions, The time between returning from Kansas City and Thanksgiving felt like two months, but eventually, it came.

I spent time with John-John the days before, helping him remodel his bathroom, and then the plan was to bounce around to as many Thankgivings as I could. That is the way in which I can say I am lucky. I always have choices on the holidays of where to go; I have plenty of love from my made families,
The day prior, I left for Kerri and jay’s house, in Point Pleasant where I could spend some time with my niece and help them prep for the next day, before I headed off to my step-mothers, to begin the festivities with my brothers, before I set the course for North Jersey to visit and spend time with my Uncle Rich, who would otherwise be spending the holiday alone.

I packed up some food and made the trek, letting him know that I would be arriving around 6pm, but would only be able to stay until around 7:30, because I would be heading off to John-Johns to spend the rest of the night.

I arrived early, with a tray of food that we could split. I had turkey, corn, mashed potatoes and yams. My Uncle Rich greeted me at the door, and the smile stretched wide on both sides of his face, beneath his white bushy mustache.
”You’re 15 minutes early!” he exclaimed, before dispatching his praises for my arrival, and his glee of being able to have a dinner with me on Thanksgiving. I would be his first person he’d have over in quite some time for Thankgiving dinner; he shuffled off without his walker to the kitchen, where he had cleared some space for us to eat, and whipped out his homemade hard cider. He told me he had walked quite a bit that day for physical therapy (which at this point, had been self governed), as he opened the turkey gravy for his food, and we heated up the meals.

The meals were heated up and placed on the table aroun 5:55pm. I took my seat at the table, as Uncle Rich stood over the food. As he was about to sit, he looked up, and I saw concern cross his dark brown eyes for a moment, before he said “That’s not right”, and fell backwards.

The moment was quick and slow all at once. I can remember getting up from the table to try and catch him, blocked by the chair that he grabbed as he went down. With a sickening thud, he fell between his refrigerator and radiator, his head hitting the yellow and denting the yellow wall close to the floor, leaving his neck at a discomforting angle.

I ran over to his limp body, noticing that there was blood now on the arm of his purple plaid shirt, closest to his elbow. I didn’t know if he was live or if he was dead, his eyes were closed. I grabbed his hand and said his name over and over “Uncle Rich, can you hear me? I’m here, Uncle Rich.”

My heart was unnaturally steady. For a brief moment, I hoped he had not died, but the thoughts of keeping me alive didn’t take long to overshadow it. I dialed 9-1-1 on my cell phone, but had no service.
Uncle Rich’s eyes opened, but they were distant, and he was not yet verbally responsive. I asked him the questions I had once been taught to ask. I asked him his name, I asked him if he knew where he was, but he couldnt answer. His grip just tightened on my hand.

“Don’t move your head, uncle Rich. Stay still. I will be back, I need to call the ambulance.” I told him, as I ran into his living room to grab his house phone (this is the very reason I still heavily believe we should always have landlines.) As 9-1-1 was on the phone, I recited my uncles address, while maintaining contact and communication with him. When he began to speak, he was only able to repeat the same question. “Did I fall? That’s no good, I’m not supposed to fall.”

He told me his neck hurt. I knew the importance of not moving his head, but also knew the weight of his body and the position of his neck was not good; the prolonged position of both would bother a healthy 20 year old, let alone, a just fallen and newly injured 94 year old.
I secured his head with one hand, and pulled his body back with another. At the time, 180 pounds did not seem very much. Before the police arrived, I maintained dialogue, trying to assess his mental function, but increasingly more aware that he was concussed. Time and location were confused, He started letting out groans of pain for his neck; I applied pressure on his elbow, that he apparently had minorly scraped on his radiator as he fell. Thankfully, he listened, and remained still, as I reminded him to, over and over.
When the officer arrived, I took the opportunity to call up my uncle’s daughter-in-law to keep them in the loop; they just so happened to be on their way back.

It took a while for the ambulance to arrive. I watched their every move, I followed my uncles’ sons’ every instruction to answer the questions he paramedics asked, as to his medications and his recent health.
My cousins arrived just before they began to load him off to the hospital. His mind started to recover a bit. I packed up the food so that he could have it at a later time.

I road in the front with someone who seemed to be a novice driver; he took turns roughly in the beginning - and I offered to take up navigation, as he was trying to hold onto his phone and was clumsily riding down the narrow country roads in the darkness of the night.

“Ryan?” Uncle Rich said from the back.
”Yes, Ryan is in the front, he’s right here with you, Your nephew is here.” answered one of the EMTs.

“Good. Hey, Ryan, Hang in there, alright?” he replied, utilising a bit of his humor, At this point, they had given him a bit of fentanyl for the pain - but I was glad to hear his mind seemed to be recovering.

I messaged John to let him know I would not be able to make Thanksgiving, and what had occurred, but asked him if I could crash at his house when I left the hospital. I, however, was there until around 1am. The diagnosis for my uncle was that he had a fractured C2. He was given about six months recovery time.
We sat with him until they gave him a room, but as the hours pressed on, I kept zoning off to the image of him falling over and over, increasingly aware of how close he was to death. I was thankful he was not dead, but the burden of guilt rested on my shoulders. I was upset that I wasn’t fast enough to catch him, and I felt guilty that he had spent the day before staying up entirely too late trying to put together some information about our family for me.

John told me he would leave the door unlocked.

But when arrived close to 2am in the morning, his grandmother in-law had locked the door when she had gotten up. Through the window, I could see the purple light from the newly renovated bathroom, and smirked that he was able to finish it.
Finding a hotel that night was rough. I bounced between two different hotels that were completely sold out, the sleepiness and emotional weight of the evening growing heavy on the lids of my eyes, and close to 2:30am, I found a hotel. The gentleman at the front, Andre, was extremely nice and understanding. He gave me late check out, and left a note for the cleaning staff to not bother me. I laid in bed that night and I cried until I was finally able to drift off to sleep.

I extended my stay the next day, taking the day to myself, but making sure I could call my uncle to check in on him. I let Tinderella know what happened, and was comforted by the fact that she showed care and tenderness for my emotions.

November 28th had arrived, and I alredy knew that i wanted to see her again.

Caped coffee crusaders

IN the town of Bethel, Connecticut, there are many Victorian houses, flaunting their charm unto the passers-by, but inside one such house, once owned by the Dolans, there is a coffee shop named Molton Java, and inside that coffee shop is me. Writing this.
I sit in the far back of one of the back rooms, on a dark wooden bench that appears to be made of cherry wood. Two 2x2 tables are placed butted up against each other in front of me, and next to them on the left of me, is an unplugged flatscreen TV, a music stand at half height, a light mildly-tinted wooden bench, a small red amplifier, and a microphone stand sans microphone. I assume that these are symbols of a place that puts on small scale open mic nights - this assumption can further be accentuated by the multitude of painted guitars that festoon the purple upper shelving of the walls, and every so-often, make a guest appearance on the windows.
This is a vibrant place; it is not one solid color from wall to wall, though the color scheme remains solid throughout. In front of me is an olive green wall, complete with a double-wide doorframe and two small windows - each bordered with purple molding. Beyond that is another polyhedral room that deters from the bland rectangular shapes of most shops (a caveat of older Victorian buildings, that often favored hexagonal shapes in their outer corners). The walls alternate between the olive hue and a pumpkin-esque orange color that enjoys the usage of white frames and borders, over its’ counterparts purple frames, Detached doll parts adorn the pictures on the wall, here, and near each picture, I can make out small tags of the artist from whom these works were created.
An amazing scent of coffee wafts through the air here - it’s likely the best smell of all of the coffee places I have been, and one that reaches your nostrils the moment you approach the front steps. I believe, in part, it must be due to the fact that - unlike many other coffee houses - they roast their own coffee beans in microbatches in this very place, to ensure the quality of their coffee.
Most of the tables are taken up by people on their laptops, typing their way through work and sipping on one of the dozens of coffee concoctions Molton Java makes. I can hear the laughter and animated voices of the owner and the employees in the background; it feels good to be in a spot that you know - by the timbre of their voices alone - that they not only enjoy what they do, but take pride in it. Just moments ago, the owner described how it was that she made a certain dish to a customer at the counter and exclaimed “I love making delicious food! It gives me extreme joy to deliver it and see people enjoying it.” It is a sentiment that I, too, share.

I have two coffees in front of me. One is no more than a chamber of ice, barren of its’ liquid beauty, the other is more than half-full and growing cooler by the minute as I tap these words into existence. I usually don’t double fist at coffee joints, but the entourage of special brews they had left me without much of a choice (to this day, this remains the only coffee place where when they called “Batman”, they were not referring to the name I had given them, but the banana espresso drink I ordered). Their drinks are pun-tastic, and nerd-centric. They have drinks that make reference to many different comic characters, and pay homage to the Star Wars franchise and well-known icons, including such coffee beverages as Princess Slaya, and “Betty White Mocha” that decribes itself as a delicate White Mocha that has “ a hint of Rose” (and yes, the “R’ in “Rose” is capitalized in reference to the Golden Girls character). Each special has its’ own artwork plastered on the wall in front of the counter.
By far, this coffee house has become my favorite waypoint so far.

It has definitely become cold here in Connecticut, as is expected, as the beginning of December starts to rear its’ head, ushering in the Holiday madness. I’ve officially begun the process of layering like an onion to keep myself warm. As it stands, I am currently wearing the eccentric maroon jacket my adopted brother gave me after his dog tore up my aviator jacket, a hoodie my niece gave me temporarily in exchange for my Nintendo hoodie (which is almost a bargaining chip to guarantee my return to her - though, one that will never be needed), an old Advil Relief in Action Campaign t-shirt from 2013, and a Neon colored Batman long-sleeve I found in the Kids section of Walmart many a year ago (that actually fits me). Two out of four of those layers are fresh and clean, while the jacket is something I’ve worn now for three days, and hoodie is slowly but surely loosing the faint smell of Malboro Reds it gained in Maine, when visiting my friend Joe that no one had seen in 9 years five days ago.
But, such is the life of a nomad, You don’t always have access to a washer and a dryer, and currently, a majority of my clothes are in a desperate need of a wash. Luckily, I can’t say the same of me. I am fresh and squeaky clean.

I fit a lot into these last six days. even though part of me had felt that I hadn’t done quite enough. Wednesday of last week, I traveled out from Point Pleasant, in the south central part of New Jersey - where I had spent some time with my niece - to Clinton, in the North West part of New Jersey, where I visited my very close friend John for a few hours. Clinton served as the resting point of the night, about 30 minutes out from Bloomsbury, where my uncle Rich resides.
I had made up my mind a few days prior that I would be making the trip to Maine - it had been two years since I had first spoken to Joe again. Then, I was residing in the Florida Keys during the pandemic, face to face with a lump of cPTSD left after continuous tragedy; I was partially abandoned, and building a miniature golf mostly solo. At that time, no one had seen or talked to Joe in many years, but at the behest of my friend Kitlasz who urged me to use the “Miller powers”, and a strong desire to finally break that silence, I went through his mother on Facebook, obtained his number - and reached out to the bastard. Not long after, we had a group of us that hadn’t been together in more than a decade continuing a twenty-two year old DnD campaign we had started as teenagers online, and at least a few of them realizing that we all cared about and loved each other.

I guess that sentiment was the driving force (literally) behind the decision to go see Joe. Back in Highschool, things were easier. We were all in the same town, and during those times it was Max who used to bring all of us together. Since Max passed in 2009, many of us have moved out of our hometown - some of us to different states - and in a twist of irony, the one who seems to suck at communication the most (me) has become the common tether of communication between the distances, tasked with the quest of delivering the care in person (by none other than myself).
I can’t say Joe had left on the best terms. When he left Johns house in Glen Gardner, he left a broken promise to his little sister to return, which he never did. John never saw him after that, though he had simply moved back to our home town in South Plainfield. When he left Mike’s house almost a decade back, he left for Maine to be with his mom, after his step-father had passed, and in turn, left with debts unpaid and junk left behind. But, time has done its’ diligence in silencing those begrudgments, and as of me leaving Johns on Tuesday - I was carrying both the blessings and love of Mike and John to be delivered to Joe. Mike, in fact, had tasked me with something even greater than Kitlasz had; he had tasked me to gather the crew together in a year for a boffer fight in Cotton Street park - like we had when we were younger.
My pit stop after a nights’ rest in Clinton, was to my Uncle Rich, where I spent a few hours with him, helping him sort things, talking about family, and cheering him on during physical therapy. I hit the road around 2pm.
A lot of the drive was straight-forward, with a few stops in-between the 500+ mile trip to Dexter. It served as a testament to the odd things that happen to people in their 30s. My shoulder started to cramp, my hand started to seize, and my ass, on more than a few occassions, went numb. I drove most of the distance in a day, taking non-toll roads through the backstreets of increasingly dark rural areas that forced me to slow down due to sharp turns, and the unpredictable deer before I decided to abandon the choice in favor of a better-lit, less deer-ridden, and straighter highway that I knew I could go at least 5 miles per hour faster than the speed limit.
I ate that night in Newburgh, NY, at a place called North Plank Road Tavern, which served the best chicken I have ever had via the hands of the kind waitress, Julie.
The Tavern was pitched as fine dining experience, but I found the prices reasonable. I ate in the dimly lit setting of the old speak-easy that was built as a house in 1801. The walls were painted in a style that gave an illusion of wood, and the doors still had skeleton keyholes. here, they called me “Sir”, and walked with their hands behind their backs. They carried silverware on plates, and lit cadles. I remember as I ate, wishing to mention that they could call me “Ryan.” I’ve never been much for the high class treatment of being called “Sir”; we all stand on the same level. It reminded me of riding first class back from new Mexico, and the flight attendants called me by the same, and kissed my ass a little too much, not knowing or caring that this ass is a dirty ass that has seen the bathrooms of a public restroom in a park, and much prefers sleeping in the back the car during travel, as opposed to the giant beds of lavish hotel rooms that often have wasted amenities.
I rested that night at 1:30am, about 3 hours from Joe’s place, partially sickened by the 220 dollar price point of the hotel room, and wishing that my car was clean enough to park at a Walmart for the night. I woke at 8am, and chugged along straight to Joe’s.

On a road up a hill, Joe stood in his driveway.
He had grown a Abraham Lincoln on his chin and had lost a bit of weight since I had saw him last.
I rolled down the window “How’d you know that it was me who drove passed you? The license plate?”
”Yep” he stated.
I opened the door and greeted him with a giant hug.
The years of not seeing one another melted away in an instant, and the process of catching up began.

I met his fiancé, Kaitlyn first. She stood about the same height as Joe - near 6ft, but she had long black hair and a kind smile. it immediately became evident that Kate was a force of creativity - she imbued intelligence, and her words danced playfully in the playground of all of my nonsequitors and absurdist bits. I couldn’t help but to have an appreciation for her and Joe finding one another, as it was evident that Joe was not only happy, but stimulated through her existence.
Kate made a living working for herself, crocheting and creating with a speed and efficiency unlike any I had seen before; during casual conversation she crocheted about four 3D alien creatures in an hour. Joe worked for Dunkin as a baker, taking the night shift, but sacrificed sleep to be a present and caring father in the life of his children.
Joes kids were giants for their age, standing nearly 3 foot tall at the age of 5, and nearing that size at the age of 3. Both of them were autistic and mostly non verbal, yet they had an abundance of energy and heart, that they undoubtably received from their parents.

The day i arrived, Joe and I went out for lunch, where I tried a red hot dog for the first time, and got to see places and things that over the years that Joe had spent up there, had become staples for him - solidifying into static moments that though passed, exist forever in the ether of the area. I saw his old apartment, heard stories of the hauntings he experienced, saw the lakes he stood by, learned of the trails he traveled along, and even got to see the house of Stephen King, where he and his fiance had seen many a Halloween.
That night, we spoke of spirituality, energies, art, and existence while staring at the clear night sky full of stars in the cool Maine night air; the crab Nebula visible in close proximity to the North Star. I was invited to crash for the night, and Joe and I took a small adventure to the local Walmart for a blow-up mattress, and made a sidequest to the giant lake nearby his home, where the history of an old railroad track stood just barely visible along the neighboring trail.
I told him that this journey served dual purpose, and in this regard, I am much like Nick Fury, assembling the Avengers.

During the drive up, Mikes request of getting everyone together for a boffer fight evolved into my desire for a Thanksgiving meal with all of the old friends - and Joe became the first that I asked.
Joe said yes. And so it had begun; a new quest was born.
The first relay of that message was planted about an hour ago, in a Facebook message to Mike.

That night, many nights ago, however, it was still gestating. Before I bedded down in Joes house, many miles from “home”, I found that we could Airbnb a mansion that could fit us all, and now it is in progress to an actuality.

Unfortuantely, actuality can sometimes be a bitch.
I am still sitting in Molten Java - it has been three hours since I first sat down and began to write, Most of the people who were here when I arrived have been replaced by other people in this waypoint. One couple seems to be talking about travel, and as my laptop reminds me that it not a product of infinite battery, my ass has begun to numb, piss has accumated in my bladder, and the coffee-less iced coffee of my Batman drink has melted mostly into water, like sand falling into the bottom of an hourglass - I am reminded that it is just about time to go.
There are three hours that lay between me and my destination of Johns’ house, and a battle with Google maps that I still must take to avoid crossing through NYC, the George Washington Bridge, or the once toll-less Tappan-Zee bridge (now named after Governor Cuomo).
So alas, I bid thee, my undoubtedly low count reader base, adieu for now.
Stay tuned for the continuation.
And fuck perfect endings.

LATE NIGHTS LOST IN THOUGHT

I am in Bridgewater, New Jersey. It’s an hour passed 12am, and the sound from the moving cars and trucks still driving down the highway seesaw in and out of my eardrums; the subtle smell of wood saunters through the air - likely from the spot just beyond my laptop, where for 36 hours a heated pot sat, cooking vacuum-sealed pork at 140 degrees. To my left are clusters of clothes that aren’t mine, and just beyond the screen of my laptop is a half-finished Coca-Cola. One solitary green plant rests on the oak wood desk, its leaves rising over my computer, casting a faint shadow on the white blinds covering the window. They all serve as subtle reminders of this ever-moving story we call life, and its’ bookmarks.
I will likely never know the Alabama man who owns these grey-brown slippers with white fleece insides, and brought along this giant book titled “Fredericksburg! Fredericksburg!” by George R. Raoble. This man from Alabama, who rented a room from my friend on Airbnb and had to leave on a family emergency, may just-as-well never know that a man named Ryan stared at his slippers and contemplated slipping his socked feet inside for a moment to test out their comfort. Yet, in this intricate overlap of stories, this moment exists. In his absence, I now fill this space. As he goes through this potentially crucial moment in his life, I too, face this odd road ahead.

Kansas is five days ago, which is an odd thing to write. The time between then and now feels like an eternity. These minutes and hours way heavily on me, as if I can feel their passing much more than I could before. Up until just a moment ago, I didn’t realize it had been less than a week. Perhaps this dilation of time is sewn into the heart with a moment held inside the loud boom of a ventricle, leaving space between the passing moments I grab on to. Perhaps, in the oft-blurred landscape of my life’s events, I can finally feel the space between the atoms, hoping that there’s a chance someone joins in - like a train slowing around a bend, just long enough for the adventurous wanderer to climb aboard. But with a heart in suspense, I wonder if she will.
The road to love is a tender, poetic, chaotic and ruthless path that we hope is worth it by the time we arrive. There will never be a part of me that believes that when incapsulated in those solitary moments we share with those special people we contemplate taking that path with, we are not tapping in to some secret to life. Every juncture punctuated with the palpable energy of two souls, sharing a promising convergence has had, within its’ grip, the uncanny ability to still time for me. When I finally met Tinderella the day before I departed from Kansas, time once again fell silent.

She walked towards me in a pink hoodie, as I adorned the white gazebo I had chosen to meet at with googly eyes. Beneath her shades, her beautiful brown eyes smiled; the pierced dimples of her cheeks rose as her mouth followed suit and she handed me my water. We walked the park a few times, some of it littered with her tale of discontent for a comedian she saw, and some with a horrendous retelling of my trip to Ireland, where I felt like I experienced magic in my adult life for the first time (a point I’m not sure was ever able to land). When she tired of the walk, and wished to sit, we chose a picnic table underneath an awning by a small playground where, more than a few times, a child screeched into the air. It was there that she took her sunglasses off, and I was finally able to bask in the warmth of her unhindered gaze. In those moments, as I sat in front of her and the words poured from our lips, I fell into a trance of calm where I could swear the cogs of the clock slowed, and the idiosyncratic motions of modern dating culture collapsed. Fighting against every impulse in me that wanted to hold her hand, slip over to the other side of the bench and cuddle her up to me, or find the silent moment to slip my lips onto hers was this greater desire to take the time to come to love her.

The fear of losing out in that moment vanished. And while, still, somewhere in me, I wished to be exploring her, paving the way forward through our love language of touch, the need for it to be that moment, vanished. I cared only about exploring her and the possibilities of us in extended moments brimming with beautiful probabilties. A quantum cloud of daydreams that we can marinate in time and swoon into actuality. It was a notion that I had been removed from when I departed from my adolescence, reprogrammed by the rapid movement of desire along paths seeking dopamine release, and the want to arrive at intimacy without laying the proper groundwork for a resilient symbiotic structure. The vapid exchanges of dating culture whose condensation wet our appetite for love like the artificial flickering of an electronic candle contents our want of flame, had been bartered for the silence of the fear of being alone for too long. But in the stillness of that moment, they finally paused.

We met for dinner that night and ate crappy Greek food. We joked, and laughed, and then, when it was time to say goodbye, we stood outside with anticipation in the air. Undeniably, I feel she wanted me to kiss her, and as much as I would have loved to, I felt it was a pull towards habit rather than that special moment in which nothing else would feel more perfect. We made plans to get donuts in the morning; she said she’d try to get to bed early. I walked home, drenched in the song of her existence, as my mind sorted out all of the words that I had only hours before, been able to slightly speak through poetry. I swore that the following day, I would hold her hands and tell her the truth of how she helped time stand still, and perhaps, take the moment to kiss her. The thought in and of itself, did something peculiar within me. It was like a beautiful electricity shot through my being (a feeling that I still feel now). I remember the first in the chain of thoughts coming into my head, that I felt that feelin would occur within me the moment that we actually did. I don’t think I have ever been that genuinely excited or impassioned for a kiss before, and if I was, it is so far in the past that I can’t remember.

My alarm was set for 7am, and I snoozed it for the next two hours, checking every time I woke to see if she had sent a text. I finally rolled out of bed at 9am, when my Uncle Rich called wondering when I would be coming to see him.

I waited around until 11:30am, before I decided to get in my rental and head to Blackhole Bakery, shooting a text to her before I went. She had just woke up while I was on the road, and I was due at the rental place by the latest 1:30p. As time crept on, all the moments that had dissipated the day before started to creep into my mind and body, solidifying themselves into every nook and cranny of my system. The awareness that the moment I had thought about the night before was likely not to happen mockingly began to waltz about in the open expanse of my thoughts. I came to fear that I had fucked up.
Blackhole was closed. They had run out of product by the time I had arrived. She wrote back to me “Well, I guess you’ll have to come back.” I expressed my wish that I had kissed her, and she teased “ Again… guess you’ll have to come back.” I boarded the flight, and as the distance grew between us, so too, did my understanding of the statistics stacked against me.

A woman statistically needs to only like three men on Tinder to find a match, while a man needs to swipe over 50. Women receive copious amounts of messages a day, while your typical man can easily keep up with his inbox throughout the week. I am over 1,200 miles away for the majority of the year, whereas there are many more local choices. if she continues to talk to the men who show an interest in her, there is a statistical likelihood that she will go on another date, and that date will follow the modern day dating module. That module will heighten the dopamine levels found in the expeditious exploits of sensuality, and within those, I may lose the possibility of her. The date may be more eventful, and in that, I may lose the possibility of her.
The moment I landed until this moment I write, a lot has occurred.
The days are long, I can feel every minute, The stillness she brought to me has stayed to show the impetus of the chasms time has wrought and importance of the moments I carelessly jumped between. I try my damndest to try and keep communication going, but have found my first full day since my return without a text.

Someone said to me once that in our lives, we will experience many lasts that are, and are without warning. When I think of that conversation, I think to Toy Story and the last time Andy played with Woody. There’s always something so prominent about that visual representation of something picked up, and placed down one final time as time marches mercilessly on. You see it with rusting shells of cars, left in the woods from a bygone era; names etched in trees and then forgotten as the tree carries the mark for its’ lifetime. The last day you speak to someone, or see someone. The last time you change your nieces diaper; the last time your kid asks you to tuck them in. The last time you say I love you to your great uncle, or the last time someone you see promise in sees promise in you. i don’t believe there will ever be a day, where to some degree, I don’t feel the weight of that fear of unknowingly stumbling across a last bearing down on me. I hope today isn’t the day.

There lies two tunnels at the end of a dirt path, and covered by grass, somewhere in Westportal, New Jersey. They were once important, as tunnels that brought travelers from WestPortal to Allentown, but today, you’d be more likely to drive passed them without ever knowing they were there. The tunnel built in 1878 became to small to be used, and in 1923, a second tunnel was built - the electric work done in it by my great grandfather, Arthur. Their barren passages are rich with a history that time threatens to erase, trekked only by the adventurous few who dare to traverse the damp, lightless depths that my great grandfather was once responsible for bringing to life. its been 100 years since the newest one was built, and since it has seen its’ last Allentown-bound traveler, and my great grandfather has seen his last light.
Not far from there is a giant green house, on Norton Church Road, where my great grandmother, Pearl Edna was born to her father and mother Jacob and Mary Esther. The building still stands, but there was a day that saw her leave for the last time; a day that saw Jacob push his last barrel of hay.
As I sat in the back of my little brothers’ white Honda, separated by my brother Jason by my Uncle Rich’s walker, my uncle Rich sat in the front seat, pointing to a collapsed barn next to a museum that was just a house.
”Go around and check the back of that barn,” he said “Tell me if there is still hay piled up on that second floor. If it is, i put it there as a child.”
We had already went by a tree that lay in the woods decaying at the very spot he said it would be, that he and his brother, my Great Uncle Jake had chopped down as teenagers, more than 70 years prior. I had though then, that it wouldn’t have been very outlandish.
It was a brilliant and melancholy thought, that imbedded there, was the last hay ever loaded into that barn, and that I could connect it witht he man who sat just a sea tin front of me.
The back of the barn was caved in, however. There were only a few pieces of jutting metal visible beyond the rotting wooden planks of its’ wall and roofing. The support beams for the second floor itself were termite infested, and looked highly unstable. Still, I took the time to treasure the moment that we were able to be told this history. To be able to see the roots of this 94 year old man, who has since gone and travelled the world and can now tell me the roads to take and the tings to see whenever I get to where I am going.
That was the day after I arrived back home from Kansas.
Sunday, November 5th.
We ended that day at Clinton Diner, where we laughed of Uncle Rich stealing fries and coleslaw from my oblivious brother, Jason. I spent the night in a hotel, after Jason brought me to pick up my car at Metropark Station. While I am happy that that day was able to happen, there sits a part of me still, that wishes my trip in Kansas was longer, so that in the midst of learning our family history, I could possibly tell my Uncle Rich of Tinderella and the daydreams we could’ve maybe solidified into reality.

On Monday, I went and saw one of my best friends, Wes and his fiance, Jess. Tuesday I stayed over his place yet again. We learned about different types of batteries that are able to be created at home, and the mechanics behind engines. I began, once again, to work on my comic, and for the first time in a while - in this prolonged stillness of time, I began to think seriously about my future and how to acheive it.
The promotional jobs I usually work have been scarce lately, quieter than usual. I feel disconnected from this world I once was on the inside of, and I still don’t wish to compromise my ability to travel and work.

On Wednesday, I saw my friend Mike that I had not seen in close to two years. The baby I saw at his parents house was walking and talking now. As teenagers, we grew up together. Every so often, I would sleep in his car or his parents house when I didnt feel like goin home, or I was actually homeless. We had a lot of adventures, in those days - and that kind of bond formed a kinship. His daughter, who was just a baby when I last saw her, took a liking to me almost immediately. Like I had been an ever present uncle, she latched onto me at the dinner table and said “ I love you,” and planted a small kiss on my arm.

Just yesterday, I arrived at my friend Ron’s house to stay inside of his vacant Airbnb room full of the Albamaians stuff , and since I have whirled in barrage of thoughts connecting this moment tot he next. My brain wonders about what is next for me, and how it is that i can build the future I want; I plan my trip up the east coast to see those I havent seen in some time, and I wonder how to show my care and worth and remain relevant to a woman in Kansas City, who I sincerely hope has not seen promise for the last time in me.

And finally, I think, somewhere, beneath the surface, a new adventure most definitely brims.

caffeinated and clueless

A fragrant aroma of coffee wafted through the air when I first entered through these doors three hours ago, but my nose has since become blinded to it. A now empty cup of joe sits next to me, the residue at the bottom reminding me of times’ passage and the transference of things. The liquid I extracted has become a light energy in my system, fueling me through the process of creating this blog site…. this waypoint - a crossroad in the digital space that I hope will one day connect me to the people outside of it.
I always end up in these places that I so pleasantly refer to as the intersections of humanity. I find it fascinating that there seem to be just as many unique takes on a coffee house as there is drab iterations. The atmosphere in these places usually brims with a undercurrent of creativity and forward progression, like electrons jumping between valence shells, in a subtle yet meaningful manner. My gaze often darts from person to person, spotting the animated conversations between friends, and the soft, quick tapping of keys on a keyboard. The menu is dotted with imaginative concoctions containing the variations of this universally roasted bean, and in the ambiance of ambiguous conversations, music finds my eardrums. As the rhythm finds its way into the place, it blankets everyone in these places with something often unnoticed - a shared moment.

These moments move me. The stories circle around me, unknown in nature, yet tangible in feeling. I wonder, who are these people? Where will they be in a day, a month, a year, a decade? Is the moment in time that we are sharing a pivotal one? Are the conversations erupting around me catalysts for turning points in their stories trajectory? Will I run into any of these people again, or will they run into someone I know? Will we ripple somehow into the infrastructure of their existence?
How many of these silent tappers creating pitter patters on their keyboards stabbing in the dark for something to hold on to - how many are punching seconds into a clock they despise; how many are shaping hope with their fingertips and keystroking into a passion that is beginning its’ journey into being or solidifying its purpose? Am I one of them?

I’m in Overland Park, Kansas at a coffee shop called Summer Moon caught in the sweeping desire to write of my experiences on this gifted laptop and not waste the very limited time I have here in Kansas, with a 120.00 Rental car that I’ve only used once to drive one mile. My tongue stays silent with the truth of why I am here, while my hands stay restless in expressing this duality of thought of being both inspired by the life around me and disappointed by the unfulfilled desires that reside as daydreams instead of actualities. A Tinder match from my time here during tour brought me back here from my home state of New Jersey.
By all means, our conversations were incredible and diverse. Her smile shone to me through her pictures, and her little white doggo seemed like he would be an awesome little pup to meet. I, however, am notoriously horrible with time, and didn’t realize five days had elapsed between our messages. In that time, the interest fizzled - and even though I had stated that I had a booked flight out to Kansas City, the lack of communication led to her thinking that something had come up, and now instead of having a coffee date - I’ve only had a date with coffee. Granted, she was under the impression that I was coming here for work and that she was just a bonus in actuality - it was the opposite. I was coming here to meet her because I’m a damned hopeless romantic who throws his all into things he believes in, and work was a bonus.

Alas, there isn’t any work. There isn’t even any conventions. And, from my moment of departure in New Jersey up until about 12;30pm this afternoon - I have had quite the case of the Murphys.
For those of you not aware of Murphys Law - it is a law that states anything that can go wrong will go wrong, and my family and I have lived with it for quite possibly generations. (I’m not sure what voodoo has caused it, and which relative it started with). It started with a flight delay that was unannouced in Newark Airport, followed by a snowstorm in Chicago that delayed the flight even more when we needed to stop and get the wings of the plane de-iced. By the time I arrived at Kansas City airport at roughly 5;30pm, I was already 30 minutes late to pick up my rental car in Gladstone, and by the time I got in the Uber and arrived at the rental place, I was 2 minutes passed their closing time.

Thankfully, my Uber didn’t leave, but regrettably, I ended up paying 60 dollars in an Uber to my VRBO, 40 dollars more than I was expecting to pay and then spent the night trying to figure out a new rental, with a possible courtsey coffee date with the Tinder girl slated for the following day. When I arrived at 12:30p the next day at the rental place to pick up the rental car, however, they told me that there were no more cars. The process that ensued caused a delay in the coffee date, and eventually, the procurement of a rental car at a different agency about an hour too late for her schedule.

That night, I had half frozen sushi up the road from me, and drank two beers while watching Donnie Darko, falling asleep suddenly and unexpectedly somewhere in the beginning of it. I woke at 4am with obscure dreams clinging onto their fading memory. I moved myself into the bedroom, where I fell back asleep, and then I woke up in the morning with digestive problems, After those issues had passed, and conversations with Tinderella seemed to not be promising for a meet-up today, I jumped in the rented Ionic and ended up here, where now, I am slowly coming to the realization that I have not had an adequate amount of food or water in my system.

And while I know I should probably get on that, I also know that this blog post needs and ending, and truth be told, I’m clueless as to where that ending is. Perhaps it’s here.