LAZARUS

It’s been a while.

But here I am, with more than a handful of life lived between this moment and the last typed entry on this page.

LARGE WINDOWS line the walls of this eggshell white room. A bonsai tree stands, potted, in the corner. The corner in which it sits is not so much a corner, as it is a curve - the wall replaced with thick, cubed glass, starting and rising up to the same heights as the windows surrounding the room. peaceful folk music with enchanting acoustic guitar and raspy vices plays on the radio, as a woman who appears to be in her 20s bounces a baby girl with a bow rapped on her head outside. Light and idle chatter can be heard in the background, and people line the shop drinking coffees and teas.

Outside, the wind blows, and the sun shines, glinting off the tree leaves that offer shade to the multiple consumers sitting outside. There is a lot more greenery in this city than you would expect from an arid environment that evaporates the rain as soon as ti falls, erasing all proof of its’ existence.

I sit at a wooden alcove-esque table across from a woman in red bandana top. She has brown hair, tied back in s bun and is writing on paper while her apple laptop is open. Her mouse pad has VanGoughs starry night on it, which makes me believe that she is interested in abstract art. Her wooden circle earring dangle from her ears as she steals glances in my direction; our laptops positioned like we were in a game of Battleship. I think it’s fitting, as we are likely both, in some capacity, questioning what the other is up to in the marvelous existence that is life.

”I like your VanGogh mousepad”, I say. She smiles, and her youthfulness shines through it.
”Thank you.” she says and comments on how VanGogh is the shit. I tell her about my niece making a chalk drawing of Starry Night, and she becomes impressed, before she takes her laptop and steps out for a meeting.

When she comes back, she asks to see the drawing my niece made, and I happily show her. She adores it and comments about the drawing with such high praise that I ask if I can record a video of her complimenting it, as Nia often doesnt accept my compliments because i’m her Uncle, and she feels I’m obligated to give them.
She lets me record her, and Nia become simpressed I can talk to women. Her name is Madison, a Taurus who enjoys water.

I am in Loki Coffee, Salt lake City, Utah. Salt Lake, as described by one of my Uber drivers, is essentially a bowl that is surrounded by mountains. the reason it gets so humid is because the air and pollution settles down and has nowhere to go. I’ve witnessed this first hand. It’s easy to This is my fourth city I’ve been in since I hit the road July 30th. This particular leg of the journey has been magical. Especially in comparison to last year, and the events that unfolded the last time I was in Utah.

Which brings me to this. The great catch-up.
It’s been silent here for over a year, this page collected dust - with the last entry being written at a coffeehouse in a Victorian manor somewhere in Connecticut. Time has slipped away from me yet again, entering the slip and slide of life and careening down its path.
January 2024 came and passed.
Tinderella and I’s last conversation remained Christmas of 2023. December 30th, 2023 I got drunk on a rooftop at Moxy Hotels in NYC, while using my free nights for a stay to be closer to work I was doing for Vito. It was there, standing near a wooden swing with pink neon heart light that said “The Bradford” against a backdrop of fake ivy, that I grabbed a fake prop rose and snapped a picture displaying my dismay, and continued to write many paragraphs in text to Tinderella expanding on my discontent that she blew me off when we had both planned on me coming down.

The lights of the city twinkled like the stars of a night sky from that rooftop. It wasn’t overly cold that night, but it was brisk, and whether I had known it or not - that night, i sealed the fate on all future communication.

In the absence of Tinderella’s responses, and the feeling of this elaborate Scavenger Hunt going to waste, by February, I had decided to follow my friend Jay’s advice, and create video of it so that I can eventually complete my desire of making scavenger hunts for people and groups full time.

I created my missing items, I began the quest to hire an actress and I rented a car that I would sleep in for the trip back to KC. I ended up with numerous candidates to play “Jess”, some who were very attractive, and all who had a range of talent from none to amazing. Talent, in the end, won me over, when i ended up watching a reading by a girl named Megan who had absolutely all the charm and authenticity I could ever ask for.
She loved puzzles, excelled at improv, and captured the nuances of emotion that I hoped to elicit in those that partook in my hunts. Over the course of 5 days, i was able to revisit the places I had planted the original Jess’s puzzles and create new memories and understanding , while recording a very real impact of a brilliant actress who genuinely was loving and figuring out the adventure.

I held so much complexity in my head during the time. I had to film things out of order due to time constraints and location availability, while simultaneously only giving Meg excerpts of the script to keep answers hidden and spoilers from being had. I crafted pieces of the puzzle at night, and found out how to change certain aspects of the original hunt to be more fitting for Meg and the film. Simultaneously, for the more magical elements, I thought of ways that I could accomplish them in real life, practically. I pondered how to have videos sent to phones upon certain discoveries to give the illusion of magical and mystical consciousness. At the end of my trip in mid February, I recorded a video expressing how transformative and enlightening the experience was. I was able to see the world through an uncommon and different lens. I was able to see value and impact of my creativity, and more-so - I was inspired to make that particular style and journey into a product.
When I got home, I was gung-ho on editing, but quickly realized that KineMaster was much too small on my phone and that i needed more footage to truly continue. Megan ended up busy, and some footage wasn’t delivered, and per usual, i ended up derailed and jumping on another path. the footage is still waiting for me to edit, and within me, there still is the desire to do so.

By April 2024, I no longer had contact with Jess (Tinderella). She had blocked me. My messages, though sparse, remained unread and unsent. She had taken up a new relationship, according to her Facebook page, and had heavily entwined herself in festival life.

In May 2024, I ended up auditioning for my first live play since before COVID. The stage felt like an old friend, patiently waiting for my return.

Five years had passed in a blink, jammed-packed full of events that clustered, expanded, rippled and shattered all at once. 2019 saw me in a play called Government Inspector, where I played a Russian Serf named Osip. This took place not long after the passing of my best friend, Max’s, sister - and little did I know - at the beginning of the fracture point of my life.
His sister, who I called ‘Apa’ was like a sister to me. Only three months before Government Inspector began, I sat with Apa in a hospital while she lay in a coma, dying from cirhossis of the liver, and bleeding out of every orifice. The vacancy she left when she drifted off this plane was one that reverberated loudly in my heart and soul.
As a spiritual individual, I spoke to her when her words couldn’t. I meditated on her and had a conversation with her soul. I felt her energy. I transposed her body onto my own, and I felt every failure, every bit of toxin, and every cold spot in her body that wasnt receiving proper circulation, as if it were my own. I helped her vitals raised, but I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of damage within her body. To this day, I cannot properly describe knowing the feeling of failing organs, poisoned blood, and cold limbs and appendages.
I was called from the lunchroom with her father on that fateful day in 2019, by something that told me to return to her. When I arrived at her door and peeked my head inside, she flatlined.
Her family being Muslim, I was not allowed to be in the room with her, so I sat outside the wall of her room in the hallway and I wept loudly. Uncontrollably. My body shook.
The next three months that year, I spent a lot of time with her mother, helping her through grief and attempting to superglue the broken pieces back together. She had lost two children.
I fell into debt. I slept in subway station to try and escape into Improv with my improv team (who were so highly supportive), and I dove into conventions as my now well-established Operations Team (unknowingly) experienced our last successful year.
When 2019s Government Inspector finally hit the stage, my improv team leader made a three hour trip from connecticut to come see it, and my two Operations team members, Rein and Jakal also made the trip to support me.
Six months later, in 2020, COVID would enter the picture, my outlets would become closed off like blockades streets, and all of the trauma that I was working so hard to escape and heal through would finally get congested inside me and begin my mental deterioration, manifesting itself as CPTSD.

Many journeys would branch off from that point, I would end up in a hospital, emotionless, and signed up to b euthanized outside of the country. Afterwards, i would end up living at my best friend John-John’s parents house, where his sister, Heather, and her husband, Rich, would slowly help me redevelop some semblance of feeling, while I chopped wood by hand during the day and had online therapy by night.
All of my Operations crew, except for two, abandoned me due to my new mental state and took the side of one of the other crew members who had, unintentionally, brought me further into my trauma by finding anger in my inability to process, understand or infer the meaning of the things that they said - which made me feel defective, unwanted, and burdensome to a point that I just couldn’t feel.
Beyond that, I ended up living in my first apartment under my name in Key Largo, Florida, under the guise of helping pay off the financing of, and help develop creatively, an Escape Room with Jakal - a pursuit, that ultimately, fell apart and became a testament of survival and success with myself, as I pushed to build a minigolf (mostly) alone, and made new, and amazing friends.
2021 saw me in a ZOOM play by an old director, and many virtual improv shows with my team “Eye Speaks”.
2022 saw me in my first 9 - 5 job since Nordstrom in 2012, in an attempt to save my roommate and I in key Largo from being homeless, as my 25,000 savings had depleted from the course of trying to build the scavenger hunt and golf course.
2023 saw me on tour for State Farm with Moises, in its first year.

And finally, 2024 saw me in Check Please, dusting off my acting pants and nervously shedding the years that had passed as I stepped back on stage, making new friends and finding new moments.

I played multiple parts in the play - all people on their first date - something that i had hoped would help me cope with the 17 years of being single and the failed dates of the years inbetween. I played Brandon - a gay man who was trying to method act being straight for the role of Stanley in a Streetcar Named Desire. I played a guy dressed in a garbage bag. And I played the fan favorite, Alex - a socially unaware pirate.
A director saw me in the play and invited me to play the part of Jack Drikell in Kongs Night Out, without an audition. He also recruited two of my cast mates, Betty and Cisco.

The play of Kongs night Out, was difficult, as Michael, the director, searched for the perfect version of Jack. I played him about 5 different ways, before, finally, in the end, I settled on a version that was all versions, and became yet another crowd favorite.
I received numerous compliments. Some called me the hype man of the play - bringing everyones energy up the moment I stepped in. others told me that they hadnt seen my kind of performance in decades. Betty’s daughters laughed and chortled loud enough int he audience that they caused a chain effect. They recorded my performances and made GIF out of them. By the plays conclusion, I had found a solid group of people i absolutely adored, new DnD mates and rediscovered my love of live stage. Another director approached me and asked me to be in yet another play, but with State Farm’s new season upcoming, I had to reject the offer, knowing I’d be back on the road.

Check Please, in May 2024, would also mark a turbulent era in my life, as I struggled with my directors direction, and the pangs of singledom. One night, after play practice, I would stay at cheap motel and wander off to a bar called Bar Louie, where I would draw the attention of a cute bartender named Mango.

She and I connected over DnD, dice and nerd culture. We exchanged instagrams and she invited me back to show her my bag of dice, all while maintaining a flirtatious attitude. A month later, during my second play, I’d finally take her up on the offer, and we’d talk about going on a date to the movies.

Only a week later, George, my mothers boyfriend, would pass away, and the date would get pushed off so that my older brother and I could console her.
When our date finally came around, the aftermath was explosive. It took an eternity for me to hold her hand in the movie theater, but once I did, fire ignited between the both of us. the heat rose off our skin.
When we had to say goodbye, we spent a prolonged period of time together in her car following the chemistry like mad scientists.
The next day was May 15th, 2024 - a day that marked 15 years that my Max had been gone, and the 5th year I would have to tend to Apa’s grave. Searching for a hotel that night, I found the one I had booked was closed, and Mango invited me back to her place to stay. Her place was only 10 minutes from Max’s grave site, so I graciously accepted, though I pushed off some of her advances to go further into the laboratory of exploration.
When the morning came, I kissed Mango goodbye and left with her touch lingering on my skin like a cardigan. The ghosts of her fingertips and lips buzzed on my flesh, and I carried them to the grave with me, where, for the first time in a great while, I cleaned the graves alone.

I rejected Mango’s desire for me to come back once I was done; i was caked in dirt and feelings. My heart was open and vulnerable, and I did not want to bury myself in the bedsheets of distraction, where I knew I could possibly lose myself to urges I was best to suppress.

On the 17th, Mango would call me with the dire news that her friend had overdosed and ask for my company. I showed up with compassion and hesitation, where she probably needed distraction and connection to lose herself in. We spent time by the rolling waves of the shore while a light drizzle misted around us, and I wrapped her in a jacket and a blanket, her head resting on my shoulder, and her eyes drifting into a small nap. I lent her the jacket I had bought with Heather back when I was healing in 2019, with promise of getting it back on our next date.
However, this closeness would come to push Mango away, as she began to spiral out more into many nights of sweat and dopamine with strangers. Our connection eventually fizzled as she ghosted me, before eventually revealing that our moments felt ‘too real, too quick’ and she wasn’t ready for a relationship, though she really enjoyed my company. She expressed this through tears.
I never received my jacket back.

I went back on tour in July 2024 for State Farm as a floating field market manager.
My first event was in Provo, Utah for Provo Freedom Festival - which lasted four days. At its’ conclusion, I moved to Park City Hostel in Park City, Utah to explore finally explore Utah. As I sat down in the local pizzeria and grabbed some local beers for me to enjoy, I received one of the worst messages I had ever received in my life.

An old friend, Jessica, had hit me up on Facebook Messenger, asking me if I had heard the news about my childhood best friend, Maxwell.

Maxwell and I knew each other from the age of 5. When i was in pre-first, his special needs class worked with my class. We idolized Mick Foley, dreamed of being wrestlers, and wrestled wrestling dolls outside during recess. We did flips off of the giant caterpillar on the playground.
We were outcasts; the weirdos. Him, our friend Jared and i sat alone in the lunchroom during lunchtime, taking turns helping the lunchlady clean up after lunch in exchange for ice cream and pretzels. That bonded concreted itself over the years, that bubble was unbreakable and kept us sane. In fourth grade, Maxwell went off to a different school and I was left almost alone.

We reunited in 6th grade, and everything was just as it had been, albeit Max had changed just a bit. His attitude was a bit more rough; the influence for Jared and Jared’s family had caused an effect on him. It took a few years for Max to start and mellow out again.
By the time high school came around, Maxwell was known by our peers as Fat Max. He was heavily into meditation and enjoyed playing acoustic guitar. I frequented his house so much that his mother saw me and our friend Jim as adopted sons. We spent our time skating and talking about life. Max and i reflected on our past and laughed hours into the night. We slapped bologna on my wall. We looked out for one another.
Towards later years of high school, I was more absent due to depression and bad relationships. he came under the influence of Jared again, and once again, became a little rough around the edges, which unfortunately landed him in some trouble. I became homeless, and he snuck me in through his window and gave a travel bag.
After high school, he ended up in jail for drug possession. he got out, and then ended up back in for the same thing, as well as possession of a firearm.
I was on his visitor list and kept touch with him through jail e-mail. I visited him once, and we gave each other a huge hug - though I could feel my heart break clean in half seeing him in there.

when he finally got out, we had plans to meet up. His first call was to me via Facebook messenger, I felt so elated i was speechless and cried afterwards.

But on that day in July 5th, 2024, in a pizza shop in Park City, Utah - I found out Maxwell had killed himself after he had killed someone else. A few days later I would find out he had killed and dismembered someone and burned their body parts in a barrel. I cried for weeks. I cried myself to sleep. I cried when I woke up. My mind kept drifting off to the memories of us. I kept thinking of all the ways I failed him. i kept wishing I could have been there for him.
I found out he had developed schizophrenia, and he was unmedicated for it. To say my heart was broken deeply is an understatement. Even as i write this, I feel the depths of the loss echoing through the mountains that surround me, and settling in this valley.
I felt Max’s presence around me long after.

I wandered broken, only tethered together by distractions, work and Max’s ex - who was part of the very small support system I had when navigating the aftermath of such a tragedy. We didn’t know all of the details right away of the incident; we had at first only known that he was in a couple hour long stand off in a house in Toms River with some crazy woman that he had taken up as his Bonnie in this Bonnie and Clyde scenario, and that he had likely killed a woman who had prior and unsavory involvement with him. At that time, I was in communication with his family about a burial/cremation service that would be extremely limited, so that we could pay respects to the person we loved.
Over the course of a week and a half, we would find out more information. We find out that the the landlord of the house he was holed up in went missing. We would find out that Max and a group of four other people had killed him. We would find out that the body was dismembered and burned. We would find out there were pictures. And from the sheer horror of the happenings, his family would back out of holding a service of any kind, and his mother would come to disown him.
That support group became much smaller afterwards. It became more difficult to talk about. I was already out of Utah by the time the rest of the news dropped, struggling with my own mortality and morality.
Did it make me a horrible person to still love someone who had committed such heinous acts? To not see the same monster everyone else did? Could I have stopped it if I was just MORE AWARE of time, and made it out to him? Did I fail him as a friend? Did he know I loved him? Did he know I was there?
The questions would fall from my eyes, dragging pieces of my will with it, but his ex would help me suture it back to my skin. His daughter remained reason for me to try and keep myself together.
If let this feeling of grief destroy me, who would be around to help her know the light of who her father was? To tell her the tales of when he was young and the brilliant, selfless, and loving person he was? Who will help her know that she is progeny of an amazing individual that had both light and dark hues to his soul? That he isn’t the monster the news articles leave behind? That is how he died, but not the sum of who he was.

Between Mango and Max, I sought that in which I hadnt in a long time. My energies felt out of place. I felt blocked. So I went to a psychic in Somerville, during one of the brief breaks in my State Farm schedule.
Sylvia, and older lady, sat studying me in her room. reading me and picking out just about everything that she could. And it seemed all just about right. From my travel, to my hardships, to my relationship issues. She noticed the alignment being off in my chakras. She knew 3 years prior I had a reading by someone (which I did, at Genesis). She knew about life events that had sent me to her, and she knew about my gifts.
I paid for a more in—depth reading. I paid for a chakra re-alignment.

In her predictions. she told me that I would travel more, and she told me that “She is what you think she is, you’re not crazy. But there will be two women you are going to have in your life. One will be temporary, but promising, and you will have to let her go. The other is your soulmate, and you will know her. The relationship will be very important.”
I felt a good connection to Mango. I felt like if we didn’t have all the BS in the way, we’d be on great footing. But they were in their whirlwind, and I was a leaf in the wind. Perhaps, i thought, it was Mango she spoke of.

The alignment felt like complete tomfoolery. She gave me bathsalts to lay in, oils to use, and a stone to meditate on, so that she could connect with me. She had me pray that i would allow her to heal me and do work on me from afar. She said it was her and a group of others. I wanted so badly for what Sylvia had originally promised to be what we did - which was in-person energy work.
My bathsalts got confiscated by TSA. My work hours were so robust that I couldn’t find a lot of time to sit and meditate. Every time I was back home, she was busy.

She finally admitted that my energy was intense, and that things were taking longer than she had expected because there was much more to things than she had thought. Apparently, not only could my energy shape my own fate, but it also affected others, and she said that she had to make sure to keep herself safe.
Months later, i still felt I wasnt healed.

I spent 3 weeks in Dallas to finish up the tour. There, I would be lying if I said I didnt connect with everyone in an inutitive way that I hadnt felt in some time. I intrinsically seemed to know their needs. I looked out for them.
Though my chakra didnt feel fully aligned, it felt like it was getting better.

I was brought onto a holoday caravan tour not long after, where I was honored to play Santa again (it was my first time since 2016).
Apparently the day i showed up, I smelled like absolute shit. I dont know if it was my clothes that I didnt get the chance to wash (I jumped from one thing to another, and was going for close to 22 hours straight), the shower I didnt get to take, or the teeth I didnt get to brush. I was slotted as the driver and Santa for the NorthEast team - but I quickly confessed that I had never driven a 26ft box truck before and i felt it would be unwise for me to do so in a notoriously cold and icy market.
I was switched to the midwest market, where I was paired with a short, long-haired, meaty and bespectacled guy named Jason, a tall and athletically built guy named Sergio, and another tall gentleman with a buzzcut named Shane. All of them laughed at the notion that I, a skinny guy with muttonchops, would be their Santa.
Sergio, sitting in a chair, looked at me, unamused, and said: “Your our Santa? Santa’s jolly. You aint even Jolly.”
We traveled out after a week of training, and had five days to make it into market from Wisconsin.
Jason talked shit about me just about the entire time. He insinuated that I was unqualified, and called me a liar every time I tried to mention my accomplishments - telling me I didn’t have to prove anything. he belittled me. He pissed me off. Yet I kept trying to make it through, so I could make it to market. We had one night out, during the Mike Tyson and Jake Paul fight in Chicago, where I tried Malork for the first time and cowered at its vile taste.
At our first event, we all met in a parking lot outside of a pizzeria. We loaded out, and when it was time to go get ready, I looked at Shane and everyone else and said: “alright guys, I’ll see you during wrap. Let’s get jolly, motherfuckers.”
Shane in response, repeated the later part and shook his head. “This is our Santa” he said.
Five weeks painted itself across our midwest trail. Jason broke my middle finger by dropping a throne on it, dropped a it on my feet, and loaded that same throne on the liftgate, where the pallet jack tire hung off the edge. For most of the 5 weeks, he talked shit. When I had finally decided to stand my ground and I went off on him, I lost much of my chance to drive the truck (which seemed to be a mark against me in what I found out would be a trial period). But, some of the most beautiful experiences happened , too.
I watched as time and time again, Santa brought the light and magic back into people’s eyes - both young and old. I heard him say things that only he could know. He called a woman by her name, when I had never heard it. He asked for cookies that he knew a little girls’ grandmother had a secret recipe for. He gave an elderly woman her favorite Coca Cola product, without me knowing which it was, and helped her remember a special Christmas memory. He gave his love and joy to those who were disabled, ill, grieving, and in need of being reminded that magic exists.
In Kansas City, an elderly woman sat with Santa and told him about losing her husband.
”Dear, you haven’t lost him”, Santa said “He can always be found in you, and I can tell you take him wherever you go - because he’s right here.” he finished, pointing to her sternum, where she produced a necklace containing his ashes. She cried then, looked in Santa’s eyes, and gave one of the warmest hugs a human could ever know that told the tale of love, grief, understanding, and magic all at once.
”I know he is. And Santa, I want you to know - I will always believe in you.”
These experiences collected and unfolded along the road; my crew stopped calling Santa “Ryan” and started recognizing that something else occurred when he stepped out. No stores’ manager knew who’s body was the vessel, even though they had met me. No BA knew who Ryan was when I came in, even though they had met Santa. And by the third week, we sat outside of McDonalds headquarters, where a “professional” Santa was hired and I was, only briefly, the Coca Cola Polar Bear. Shane turned to me with anger in his eyes and said in a hilariously awe-inspiring moment “THAT GUY AIN’T SANTA. He may look like Santa, but he ain’t Santa, Ryan. You’re my Santa, man. You are Santa.”
And Sergio, in a period of rest, stepped over to me and said “Ryan, we all have our gifts. You’re the swiss army knife of this group. You can do it all, and fit in anywhere, man. It’s been great to work with you, see you work, and watch the Jolly Man out there.”
5 weeks concluded in Iowa.
Santa kept a journal about his experiences. All of the cards without return addresses ended up in my luggage as did all of the drawings that were made for Santa, serving as a reminder of the magic, should I ever forget.
On our last day, Shane and Sergio were teary as I said, for the last time, “I’ll see you guys at load out,” and Santa got prepped to step out for the last time.
When it was time for him to go, Sergio was transferring things from the semi-truck to the box truck.
”Is it already that time, Santa?” he paused and said.
”I’m afraid it is, Sergio.”Santa replied.
”I’m going to miss you, big guy.” Sergio began
”Thank you for everything. You’ve taught me a lot, and I’ll miss our convos. tell Ryan I said Thank You for bringing you to us.” he continued, and stretched out his hand.
”I’ll miss you too, Sergio. But I’m not ever going to be too far. Remember that. And I’ll let Ryan know. I’ll send him back for you.” Santa responded, grabbing Sergio’s hand in a full clasp of a handshake.
We loaded out that night for the last time, and began the trip back to Wisconsin. i think all of us, a bit changed.
Jason and I left on better terms.
Shane and Sergio no longer thought they had the weakest Santa, but felt they had the real deal.
And I was re-inspired and reconnected.

Because, once again, I felt the Jolly Man take me over, and push Ryan to the far back of consciousness as a mere observer. And what a magical, magical gift to be given.

Stay TUNED for Pt II

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.