Leave Me Alonw, Earnie

 

v - The First Night of Sleep, Wrestle with Earnie

viii - The Hotel, its Garden, and My Mavica

xiii - Departure from Palermo

xiv - Copenhagen Again

xv - The Return Home and the Culmination of My Insomnia

(v.) - The First Night of Sleep, Wrestle with Earnie

In silent wonder, I roamed down the tight street corridors of Palermo with April back to her apartment. I had humored her by indulging in some sweet drink I can't remember the name of, and my lurid mind was such that I couldn't differentiate between the alcohol and my sleep deprivation. April quietly guided me through the various rooms of her home, whispering bits of trivia like a proud museum curator. I was given the laws of the house: don't drink the faucet water, wear slippers, watch out for pigeons, shower quickly (that last one was the most difficult). I stowed away carefully into my bedroom and exchanged unassuming goodnights with April. There was no wifi so I laid in bed and attempted to read, but the weight of sleep was too much, and I quickly abandoned that idea.

In resignation, I shut off the lamp next to me and was covered in a shroud of pitch black so thick that I could shut my eyes and find no distinction in opening or closing them. I knew that to my left was a high window that touched the ceiling, but it gazed out at another apartment wall packed tightly to ours. I stared in vain towards the direction I perceived to be the window in hopes that my eyes might eventually adjust to its dim light, but in a quiet village corner such as this no light could reach me. Deprived of my senses, I was first aware of the deafening ringing in my ears, at first quaint, then almost unbearable, until its insistent existence eventually faded entirely from my mind. I was intrigued by this nothingness of my vision and lay awake for a good while, staring at nothing in particular, watching the residual, imprinted light dart around my retina. I perceived pulsating energy that flowed about the imagined space of the room at random, but through repeated observations, a pattern seemed to emerge. This energy was to me moving in waves, beginning from the edges of my periphery and converging onto a singular locus, at which point it would form the silhouette of a circle before dissipating. This cycle repeated itself rapidly as I was made aware of it, and I found that I could direct it with my gaze to various corners of the room. It was then after multiple iterations that the circles would distort and take on other shapes, more detailed and more human. My naive curiosity was soon tainted by a slow-creeping dread; I watched in horror as the silhouettes formed figures looming over my bed, and with each successive wave of energy, they were shifting in the room like the pulsating lines of radar revealing a moving target. I shut my eyes, and to my despair, I realized that my action was meaningless in this black tar; opened or closed, it made no difference. My illusion was not tied to the physical space of the room, but to my mind. I sought to sedate myself instead of hide my gaze, and I shifted in bed as if to turn away from the silhouettes. I can't honestly say if I whispered a prayer to myself. I might very well have in that dark cell with its high ceiling stretching upwards like a cathedral.

When the entrancing grasp of sleep did eventually overtake me, I received little relief, and was tormented by fits of restlessness, waking sporadically in the early hours before dawn. Indeed, the figures continued to hover about my bed, and it was as if they conspired to tether my mind and its dreams to this singular space. I struggled in a sort of hypnagogic limbo, neither awake nor asleep, unable to be fully reticent, but also unable to unshackle my mind and escape to fantasy. I was helpless, severed from my thoughts, struggling against a lurid hallucination to think coherently. I was seized by one figure in particular, and it was only in struggling with this creature atop my sheets that I guessed it to be a demon of some kind. I knew its name was Earnie, and by the logic of my dream, I had the strength to cast it out in some form, and indeed I felt powerful in this decision, finally unafraid. I began taunting it in our confrontation to no avail, although I was surprised at my own continued survival. Something inside of me screamed to seek the written word and that only by putting my commands to text would they be solidified. Desperately, I reached out for my phone and opened my notes, typing with furious focus and intent, knowing that it was in the quality and not the quantity of commands that I would succeed. Slowly, the demon appeared to cower, slinking back into an ethereal shadow. A part of me doubted that he had moved beyond the room and was still lingering about the bed, but my command garbed me in some royal armor that couldn't be pierced.

I drifted awake in the early hours of morning, knowing that I had to adjust to the time difference. Dim light now gently poured in through the high window, and I craned my neck back to gaze at the ceiling that towered over me. It was here that my call to adventure was at its weakest, and it bothered me deeply that I acutely understood the importance of expanding beyond one's comfort, of forgoing stagnation and accepting a vocation to live and not exist, and yet now it was most difficult to see it desirable. I was struggling to find a justification for my introversion, but I knew I was a vain hypocrite who could not practice his own philosophy.

I momentarily neglected these thoughts and browsed my phone as a dam of memory was breached and I recalled the events of the night before. I scrolled senselessly out of habit, but stopped, staring in shock at a line of text misspelled in haste on my phone. Below the margins of my daily notes was written "Leave me alonw, Earnie". A feeble note of defiance that only then made it clear the reality of my dream. I laid there in astonishment, laughing at the absurdity of the command. More so however, I felt euphoric in uncovering this breakthrough. It was as if I had stumbled upon a note slipped from a cellmate, one who had occupied the other side of my wall for years, speculated but never confirmed. And now here, I held on my phone a point of contact, when the shell of the dream was breached and its arm extended to my waking mind. I wondered fondly at all the dreams I had stood in, aware of the illusion, hoping with all my willpower that I could transfer something from my fantasy to the living world. I reclined there for several minutes, astonished and touched at receiving these words of comfort from a dead companion. But my burden of unrest was such that I could not maintain this train of thought, and I eventually sank back unaware into a peaceful and dreamless sleep.

(viii.) - The Hotel, its Garden, and My Mavica

We eventually relocated to a hotel resort overlooking the coast. It was here that we spent most of our trip, April's apartment acting as the bookends. I was admittedly uncomfortable with the luxury of the location, having a mixed feeling of insecurity and pride in my contrasting lack of wealth (I wouldn't go as far as to say my "poverty", but comparatively speaking it felt as such): an insecurity because I was distinctly out of place in this environment, and a pride because I coveted my perceived "poverty", thinking it validated my artistic merit. Shamefully, I would have much rather viewed myself as the starving artist than accept these displays of wealth.

Since this batch of photographs is a noticeable dip in quality, I should mention my Sony Mavica, which became my preferred camera to use during the trip. The Mavica was a short-lived gimmick of the 90s that stored its photographs on floppy disks, which meant it was very limited in space and resolution. I had discovered the camera online through the Vaporwave community, and had later received it as a gift. However, I only managed to make it functional after replacing several batteries, but given it was more than 20 years old, it worked terrifically. I also used a CAT B100 Cell Phone, similarly poor in camera quality, but I'll discuss that another time.

The Mavica was much less cumbersome to use than my professional equipment, and its photographs had a certain pixelated charm that boded well with my growing interests in Liminal Space aesthetics. It also had clear limitations: limited number of photographs, almost no way of adjusting exposure, and generally just a lack of versatility. However, these faults became a challenge of which I could struggle with, and the Mavica became vastly more engaging to use than my Sony Mirrorless, which was unlimited in its capabilities and thus more boring. The concept of placing boundaries in art is something I and many artists (even the most liberal and esoteric) generally agree with as a principle because it fosters a specific creativity in problem solving, forcing you to focus your craft rather than leaving you overwhelmed with potentiality.

The Mavica harmonized beautifully with the manicured gardens of the hotel. I was in an environment so removed from anything familiar to me, and yet, echoing the hills of my home so that I thought that I had stumbled into a dream; a realm conjured by the flittings of my mind, mingling memories and speculations. I had to stoop in humility to walk under the low-hanging boughs of the gnarled olive trees. Cramped beneath their short stature, I felt like a giant wandering through forests of folklore as house cats darted to and fro about my feet and giant orbs of radiant light lay planted in the short-trimmed grass like solar pumpkins of juvenile stars. I narrowly dodged roaming wasps that inspected me with curiosity. Eagerly in these gardens did I stalk about with my Mavica, especially at night when the families dispersed to their evening events and animals retreated into dark corners, watching me with suspicion as I stood transfixed at the orbs.

(xiii.) - Departure from Palermo

For a brief period of time, I lost all connection in thought to California and my responsibilities. I felt liberated from my job as the accrued weariness of my body healed in the warm sun. I did not consider the state of my health or the status of my relationships; I was truly in a juvenile paradise. But the joy of nonthought was only there for a moment, and soon, I became restless in longing for Sam, and I dreaded the return flight.

I watched in envy as Sunny and the boys left for a relatively shorter trip to England, and Andrew followed suit to the States. I was left alone with my sister, and we enjoyed a quiet, fleeting company as we had for a little while when I first arrived. We wandered the streets and shared stories. I hesitantly showed her my music after she had insisted without pause to hear it-- she was undisturbed and intrigued by its strangeness. We lounged in the warmth of her bedroom and spoke of art and writing. It was perhaps the most I had talked about myself with her during the whole trip, and it felt insufficient in the time I had left. I sat nervously waiting for Massimo to arrive with the taxi, pulled between my impatience to return home and the companionship of my sister, which seemed to reveal itself even more so in these last moments, much too late.

I said my goodbyes to April and parted ways, alone in a strange country, taking innumerable steps to reclaim the comfort of my old life. I sat quietly in the car with Massimo, who understood my shyness and let me be, preoccupied with calls from his sister and from other drivers. We shared brief, rudimentary remarks at the beauty of the Italian landscape. I wondered if I would ever see this place again; it was already beginning to feel like a dream fading with the gentle nudging of consciousness.

(xiv.) - Copenhagen Again

Some of my nervousness for flying returned on my journey home, which meant I could not sleep or even begin to relax. I contorted myself into every position imaginable in variations of neck pillow, blanket, ear plug, and impromptu sleep mask; all with little success. Even my music did little to fight off fits of boredom as I tortuously teetered just on the verge of sleep before lightning bolts would shoot through my nerves and I would be ripped from daydreaming. This sequence repeated itself endlessly. I medicated for a while with movies, which dulled my senses and pulled me from my body. In the dense air traffic of Europe, planes darted underneath our keel, intersecting our path as we climbed north and they passed east and west.

I arrived again in Copenhagen, not realizing that at midnight the stores were closed. I had held off eating until my arrival, assuming I could find some dinner later. I scoured the vast facility, finding one remaining store that sold me Danish ibuprofen and a can of pringles. I had also purchased some nuts, but its smell eventually became too repulsive for me to eat. That didn't stop its contents from spilling out into my bag and coating all of my belongings with a sick cashew fragrance. I snacked on the pringles, which were neither nutritious nor filling on an empty stomach. In vain, I wandered the halls in search of sleep until I found a hidden cove of passengers who lay resting on luggage, nestled in their jackets. In this quiet abode, far removed from the dwindling commotion of late flights, the lights were dimmed and traffic was seldom apart from the roaming maintenance carts. I lay down to sleep in triumph until my morning flight, but the benches had seemingly anticipated my arrival and bent themselves into shapes that dug into my back. Intermittently, the peaceful stillness of this sanctuary was interrupted by a jarring automated announcement that warned of unattended luggage. With this unholy union, more tortuous than on my flight, my weariness was still nearly enough to overpower the discomfort of my bed. But drifting slowly into dreams, the speakers would interject loudly so that I would be forced to start the process again. I made eager calls to loved ones to pass the time. I moved to sleep on the hard floor since the bench was too unbearable, but after three hours awake in stillness, I accepted my doom to lay eternally unrested. I was resigned to forgo the attempt and instead wander the hidden liminal spaces that greeted me in my delirium.

I found as I pushed further into the corners of the airport, I discovered halls that were completely abandoned, and my footsteps echoed loudly on the glistening tile. I assumed my presence here was allowed: is an airport ever truly closed? And yet, I still held my breath hearing the chirp of walkie talkies as two security guards strolled down the hallway, wrapped in conversation. I must admit that the strangeness of finding far-reaching rooms infinitely alone in this sleeping airport held me in enchantment even in my insomnia. I dragged the burden of my luggage about, admiring the alcoves of waiting rooms decorated with fern, the layers of catwalks intersecting above my head. I moved up and down stairs, peering into obstructed floors closed until morning. Fenced off with a sheen of clean glass were arranged hotel rooms and office spaces, available to purchase for the wealthy who desired to sleep in comfort. What I stood in now was no longer an airport but a collective hive, a functional city dug into the earth to shelter from fallout, providing the amenities of modernity to comfort the stranded people and for posterity in remembrance of what once was.

I resolved to meander about until the restaurants opened at six in the morning, and I came across a Lego store which would open around the same time. I felt that I was owed some form of compensation for my ill fate so I made camp at its entrance. There were several Lego locations within this airport due to Lego being Denmark's biggest toy export, but I had selected this particular store for a Star Wars set I marked peering through the barred windows. Promptly at six o'clock, a young cashier dutifully lifted the mall doors and rolled display stands across the aisle, propping the shop in presentation for customers. I was a little ashamed to so immediately invade her store just as she was counting tills, but I made an effort to artificially delay myself so as to buy her some time to complete her morning duties. Once I had purchased my plastic pleasure, the next thought was food, which probably should have been my first priority.

I gorged on a little breakfast meal and spoke briefly again with Ted, who gave me encouraging words to complete my journey. Ironically, I wandered eventually to a section of the airport dedicated to assisting elderly passengers, and here I found flat benches with soft cushions that nestled my body gently. However, I was nearing my flight time and the ceiling above me was glass so that the light of the early afternoon struck my eyes; it was impossible now for me to rest completely. I made my way eventually through customs and back to the quiet edges of the airport I had arrived at a week ago.

(xv.) - The Return Home and the Culmination of My Insomnia

On my arriving flight to Italy, I experienced an intense anxiety that conveniently sedated me. However, returning home, I was no longer dreading an unknown fate in a foreign country but rather I was arrested in an anxious anticipation, tediously counting down the hours until my landing in San Francisco. My fear of flight spiked my thoughts so that every inch of distance covered was a desperate sprint against a pursuing cloud of death. From my monitor screen I could cycle through live feed cameras of the plane's belly and fins, and I watched the landing tires protract to greet the approaching runway. In the stress and turbulence, I almost laughed at the absurdity of dying right before touching the ground after such a long journey.

The immensity of relief that washed over my frame as I landed was indescribable. I stepped out of the baggage claim doors into the cool Pacific air that washed over my weary skin. The warm sun was clear and gentle and the air free of humidity. I stood mesmerized in the weather of my home before Nathan, who had waited patiently, arrived to take me home. I took little note of the time difference; at this point, the weight of insomnia was lost in the adrenaline of my return, and I endeavored to stay awake and sleep at the proper hour. I regaled tales at length to Nathan of my journey knowing well this would be the first of many times I'd have to repeat these stories. I hope for this to be the last, though it is by no means the most exhaustive account of the trip.

At that moment when I was finally able to rest, my mind was beginning to lose its sense of time, and I found myself rotating about my room in a fever dream, forgetting when I moved and for how long I had been standing in thought, teleporting from one point of space to another. I felt heavy, not just in my eyelids, but in my motion and my vision, almost drunk, inebriated with such sluggish sloth that I was incapable of doing anything. At last, in sweet surrender, I lay in my soft bed sheets and shut my eyes, embraced by a sleep so deep and so loving as to be felt forever in my memory.

 

Italy

July 31st to August 8th, 2022

i - Drive to San Francisco International Airport

ii - Layover in Copenhagen, Denmark

iii - Flight to Palermo and Taxi Ride with April

iv - First Evening with April

vi - Of Palermo and its Geography and Wildlife

vii - Of My Wanderlust and Of Andrew's

ix - Sunny and the Boys

x - Of the Eating Habits, and the Night Life

xi - Of the Beaches of Sicily and the Bunker

xii - The Boat Ride

(i.) - Drive to San Francisco International Airport

I woke up to the gentle serenade of my alarm, not one minute too early or too late. If I ignored its pleas and my weighted eyes receded back into dreams, I would be awoken in panic, late for my flight. Even worse, if in an anxious, restless sleep, I awoke of my own volition before the alarm sounded, and refusing to rest, I was forced to lay awake, I would be faced with the even more terrifying prospect of tense anticipation in waiting. In those liminal hours when I might have packed and eaten, and I would be left to sit, holding no will at all to maintain another task or hobby in distraction, and the anxiety that I already knew to accumulate later would be made exponentially worse.

And so I balanced my sleep on a thin rope, and awoke as promptly in time as I could manage to ready myself. I sat in the passenger seat of my own car as Sam, patiently reigning the steering wheel, guided me down the highway to my dreaded destination. No music could soothe me, no joke could humor me; in Sam's quiet presence alone could I find any remedy. At the drop off, we shared a gentle goodbye, brief at first in a rush to depart and continue our segmented obligations but soon prolonged in realization of our separation. This tenderness clung to me, and I felt frustrated that now more than ever I desired not to leave. In the days leading up to this trip, I had a lingering anxiety and a feeble desire cowering behind it that I would come down with an illness, perhaps COVID, and be regretfully freed from the obligation of this trip. I thought of the dismaying prospect of notifying April that I had to decline her generous invitation. This fear progressively worsened as the hour drew closer to that fateful day, in which the chance of this misfortune would become more brutal the more last-minute it arrived.

In a trance, I wandered the halls of the airport, enamored with the growing collection of faces, hued in many shades of earth as I crossed over into the terminals of international flights. In a dream, I was sitting by my gate, and then finally wandering down the tight walkways of the flight cabin, the neat rows of cushioned seats like coffins that the lost souls around me reposed themselves within. I seated myself in my own assigned grave, the tension of the journey building into a fierce fit that climbed up my body, resigning itself in my chest. I reached for my phone and typed a few humble farewells to my family, and again to Sam. I stared at what I had just written, and I was punctured with grief. My frame heaved in a restrained state of hyperventilation as tears welled in my eyes. Soon, overwhelmed, I wept in great fear and sadness, as if I had just said a final goodbye and was now wavering on the threshold of death's door. The suppressed tension of the months leading here overcame my composure, and I cried with difficulty, hoping that my mask was enough to hide my state from those around me. In slow resignation, I recomposed myself, and endured the long journey in silence and in a daze as if already dead.

(ii.) - Layover in Copenhagen, Denmark

As the hours of accrued wakefulness encumbered me into a state of lurid hallucination, I half-stumbled onto the carpeted floor of the Copenhagen airport and found an uncomfortable seat near an outlet. I was delighted to see that my adapter was working, and I sat inattentively in the searing light of day. I did not think myself ready for bed or adjusted to an early morning. I sat in a strange Scandinavian afterlife outside of time where daylight perpetually streamed through these large glass windows. Owing to a dreadful habit of insomnia, I found no moment to sleep on my flight. I stared at the messages flooding my phone as my friends recounted the events of yesterday. This was perhaps the most disorienting aspect of my jet lag. Despite the restless hours on the plane, time had fused together into a brief period of sludgy nonthought; a dark plane of infinity robbed of reflection. To be ejected from this limbo only to see friends speak of those unrecounted hours as if a few days had passed was a bit unnerving, like I had blinked for a moment and let slip precious years of my life. In a desperate plea to my body for rest, I wandered aimlessly to a quiet corner of the airport and reposed on a bench. I couldn't call what I did sleeping or even napping, but the moment of recline was enough for me to drift off and convince myself that I had recuperated. I was interrupted occasionally by encouraging words from loved ones; Ted and April in particular guiding me through to the next markers of my journey. My fatigue was such that I didn't in any way feel overwhelmed by the foreign nature of where I stood; I couldn't even begin to comprehend the distance I had just traveled, and I felt a strange companionship with the people around me, despite their differences.

(iii.) - Flight to Palermo and Taxi Ride with April

In the final stages of flight, I entered a state of post-awareness, exiting the catwalk as the cabin air cycled out and my skin was flushed with a damp humidity and gentle boiling heat. I had stepped back into a memory of my tired journey to New York in the summer, greeted by a similar disposition of weather. The crowds of families dispersed down unknown corridors and I stood nearly alone. The airport hallways felt smaller and dim under the weak fluorescent lighting. I did not know if my taxi driver was waiting for me or if some other step was necessary. I sauntered down revolving doors and found myself once again among people, my sister waiting patiently amidst the assemblage. She insisted on lugging my bags down the final stretch and I obliged, realizing later that their straps had dug ruthlessly into my bruised skin. She jokingly reprimanded me for wearing a mask, and in my feverish daze, I realized that I was the only remaining passenger who bothered to wear one, the transition between masked and unmasked made slow as the cultures of COVID shifted during my journey. It had been what felt like years since I had last seen April, and we made restrained small talk; I tried my best to seem courteous and April was light on the dialogue, perhaps aware that the stress of the trip rendered me a vacant shell.

We absconded with our taxi driver, Massimo, who seemed to have developed a loving kinship with April, although I would soon come to realize that this was just the general attitude of the region. Of course, April, in her affable and stoic Western beauty, could always manage to attract the warmth of the Italian men. I apologized that I wasn't particularly chatty, suspecting that there was an interest in my opinion of the trip so far, and I joked that Andrew would offer much more to say when he arrived. After all, I couldn't see much of anything in the late night, apart from the looming silhouettes of the nearby mountain ranges. Even in the dark, I could make out their jagged, rocky peaks. In truth, my mind was nearly empty, and I scrambled to think of anything of substance to say to my sister. April and Massimo launched into some banter with April wryly translating his rants to me before falling into a fit of coughing, which she blamed on the air conditioning. I was reminded of the night my family drove us from the airport to our new home in New York, and I lay on the car seat, ill with motion sickness, clenching my stomach in discomfort as I gazed wearily up at the dark windows. Then and now, I had been completely disoriented and unaware of my geography. I may as well have circled in my flight and landed right back home, or worse, landed in some hellish underground colony after reposing for the final time in my cabin coffin.

(iv.) - First Evening with April

Here now, I will speak more loosely of my general trip with a few notable stories. My first of many nights with April was painted as with the rest in musings and poetic discussion about family, life, and country, fueled by good food and wine. Of course, I abstained from the wine, much to the dismay of April and Andrew who seemed slightly insulted by my disinterest. In shame, I must admit now that one of my lesser anxieties that plagued me leading up to the trip was a fear of confrontation with my sister, who had a sharp intelligence that could disarm and cut through pleasantries, never shying away from contentious topics. Being the younger sibling with a much less formative relationship to April growing up, I feared that I would be caught flustered in some argument with her that might wound my ego. This was more a vulnerable and selfish point of pride in my own intellect than it was a judgment of April, as I deeply admired her wit and especially her opinion of me, even in disagreement, seeing in her a kindred spirit of art and thought.

And so, though daydreaming after nearly a day and a half with no sleep, the bustling nightlife of April's small town courtyard revived my senses, and I foolishly held a vigilant attentiveness to every point of dialogue as we sat outside a restaurant. April guessed me to be disengaged in my insomnia, but I was very much focused on what we were discussing. Over the course of our dinner, I naively felt my anxieties confirmed, as I was often at a loss for words, frustrated that I was so unable to articulate myself in front of her. However, April was only comforting in what she spoke to me, a hint of further reflection hidden behind her watchful gaze, which seemed to follow and analyze me in those moments of silence. I desperately anticipated the arrival of Andrew, when the attention could be diverted from me onto someone more desiring of it.

In perhaps the greatest gift of this journey, I would come to slowly disarm myself in the presence of April, attempting to forgo my own ego and love my sister wholeheartedly as she deserved. I saw in her a desire to know us, an unnurtured love propagated by years apart in distance and time that she had hoped to renew in Andrew and I with this trip. In these quiet and unassuming days of relaxation, when the bruises and responsibilities of my job faded into obscurity and I was tethered only by the bitter longing for Sam, the three of us shared a companionship that seemed to echo a distant memory back in childhood days when Andrew and I were smaller, chauffeured in April's steed as she revealed to us her taste in art and her skill in stories.

(v.) - The following chapter details my first night of sleep in Palermo and the strange sleep paralysis I endured. It will be included in “Leave Me Alonw, Earnie”.

(vi.) - Of Palermo and its Geography and Wildlife

When I awoke for the final time, I was surprised to find that April had already returned with Andrew despite my insistence on joining her in the morning and acclimating to the time difference. However, it was a pleasant relief that for the remainder of the trip my rhythm of sleep merged speedily with the hours of Italy, and I was blessed with peaceful nights, no longer haunted by fell terrors.

I lay for a long while in my bed, pondering the events I endured, surveying the room that seemed so much duller and less threatening to me. I looked again out at that dim window, and I could hear the debating churtle and cooing of pigeons in discussion. I stood tall on the ends of my toes in an attempt to peer over the high windowsill and look outside, but even elevated, there was nothing of interest to see. Just inches apart on the other side stood the adjacent apartment wall creating what must have been an impossibly condensed and suffocating alleyway. I remarked to April about its narrowness, and asked if there was even any way to reach this space between the walls, remembering that her street held no such alleyway entrance. She said the city housed many such unreachable corners, architectural oddities carved into the mazes of uneven cobblestone roads. The "Sicilian Defense" was the affectionate term given to its elaborateness: a chess move in which the defender creates a false opening for the opponent to move into.

As a result, this labyrinthian design made Palermo appear insular and secretive, filled with dead ends. I asked April if there was much crime, and she refuted in admiration, and truly, even in a strange place such as this, I walked at night a little less afraid of the people around me than I ever had in America, though not completely unguarded given my paranoia. I don't think I spotted a single impoverished individual during my visit, nor anyone that warranted pity. I can't say if where I stayed had an effect on this perception, but April insisted that this was representative of all of Sicily. Instead, I was pierced with a different fear of loneliness and homesickness, especially wandering Palermo during midday, when the quiet streets lay abandoned. Residents closeted themselves inside from the brutal heat while I'd roam sometimes with April and sometimes with Andrew, always alone but never outside the watchful gaze of the city. I felt at any moment, the doors would burst forth with people in an ambush, if only I would speak the proper passphrase.

I wandered the town with April on one such Sunday afternoon when the lethargic haze hung most potent in the stiff humidity, and the glaring sun beat down on our leathered necks. We walked by ornate temples of worship and heard the chanting of congregations inside. We tightened our noses in disgust at the putrid stench of a mauled cat on the pavement, its corpse baking in the heat. April told me not to look, but the sight was so horrible and the smell so arresting that I couldn't help but give a passing glance. The animals of Sicily were more akin to fellow inhabitants of the city rather than sheltered companions. Cats and dogs alike roamed the streets as collarless vagabonds, perhaps the only homeless residents I could perceive, though April insisted they made due with scavenging and the kindness of strangers. This specific trait of Italy bothered the suburban sensibilities of Andrew and I greatly.

A great church bell echoed in the empty afternoon streets as pigeons nestled in the building crevices and swallows darted in search of prey. April had a particular vendetta against the rock doves, who festered in great numbers on her roof, procreating, excreting, and making general discord above her apartment. According to her, any loving instinct she felt towards these creatures had been slowly chipped away, left only with a resignation to their eradication, which she enacted with the help of an exterminator. And now, her shelter held its own deterrents so that she was fortified against any further assaults. I did my best to empathize with her predicament, despite my sympathy for the creatures. However, it didn't stop me from admiring their plumage, the strange and exciting foreign birds becoming one of my primary interests during the trip.

Stumbling downhill, we came across a street of vacant apartments in disrepair. Their abandoned exteriors were difficult to distinguish surrounded by other ancient stone architecture, but peering inside through doorways drooping off rusty hinges, I surmised the decaying remedies of a modern life amidst the trash: a fridge left opened, bottles of Gatorade, tin cans, a discarded broom. The floor was littered with rubble that had peeled off over time from ceilings and walls like cracked flour dough turned dry. From these exposed patches, one could make out the supportive beams of the roof. In some places, the second floor was completely caved in, and stairs became cliffs leading to sheer drops. I felt like a dog tugging on my collar; I desperately wanted to step inside these dank, moist rooms, but I was held back by my obligation to April, who I guessed did not have such an interest. I also feared the likely presence of loitering residents, but I was blocked lastly by a rusty lock at the door, easy as it might have been to overcome.

On the other side of this street could be heard the trickle of water on stone, and we stopped to read a plaque summarizing the life of this particular aqueduct, whose years drew back into mythology so distant in time it was incomprehensible to me. I marveled at the history of this city, and all of Europe: how vast and ancient it seemed compared to anything in the states, how difficult it was to even perceive it as being that old, and especially how integrated it was with the daily lives of those who lived here. Here, the hideouts of loitering teenagers were shared with that of the Romans, Arabs, and Normans. April marveled with me, though she also added that people who lived here were often unaware of this privilege, and perhaps even flippant about it at times.

(vii.) - Of My Wanderlust and Of Andrew's

Even taken in with this wanderlust, I came to realize that I wasn't alienated by Palermo's foreignness. I remembered Ted expressing his cultural shock upon leaving America, but even amongst the novelties of this place, I felt a strange familiarity with the landscape of Italy. It was in many ways not too dissimilar from the west coast, though the exact nature of this connection is hard to articulate. Its golden hills rolled along a coastline of water admittedly more blue than anything I had seen in California, and its mountains more romantically sharp and jagged than the towering walls of Mt. Umunhum. The state of timeless limbo that I sat in during my flight's duration made the distance between me and home seem smaller than it should have felt. I knew I was "far" in an abstract sense, but no further than New York perhaps, which I could more accurately judge since my family had driven that length of the country. In truth, the world as a whole seemed smaller to me, less grandiose and infinite. I felt that I had merely stumbled upon a section of California unexplored, and at any moment, I could sit for a few hours in a plane and return home. I dissuaded myself from lingering on this feeling. I was grateful to be here and to experience this difference of culture through my sister. Sparked in me was an excitement in exploration and adventure and a chance to learn more tangibly a foreign people. In one way only was any cynicism successful in poisoning me, and that was culling my interest to photograph. I'll speak more of this in my second email when I discuss my floppy disk camera.

Much of the joy I experienced in Italy was vicariously through Andrew, who was more smitten with wanderlust than I had anticipated, though it shouldn't have come as a surprise to me. At times, he spoke with increasing passion of moving to Italy, of being engrossed in its nightlife and valuing the familial kinship of its people. With the women especially, he seemed spellbound by their alien beauty, and I admired his courage and perseverance in somehow managing to make friends in a foreign country despite not knowing the language. He listened enamored to April's observations of Sicilian disposition. I was also in admiration of the country, but even more so, I enjoyed seeing April's own enthusiasm for a place she connected with so intimately. Those that I encountered were as warm and jovial as she often described, though the Italians' fierce loyalty that bound their relationships to each other I thought bordered on the excessive. As April herself expressed in her own encounters, their love for each other was passionate but also possessive, jealous even if fostered with insecurity. It was a way of loving that I couldn't connect with, at least not the envious kind, even if it was grand and operatic like some Hollywood romance. At its best though, it could be direct and confrontational in its tenderness, which was refreshing for someone like me or Andrew, who dealt often in passivity and tempered, unspoken feelings.

(ix.) -  Sunny and the Boys

Andrew and I were accompanied on our trip by Sunny, April's fiancé, and his two children, Keeyan and Kamren. We both had previous experience with Sunny, who was immensely charismatic, and very quickly became engulfed in the family despite his brief visits. He was a tall, chiseled figure with a dry British wit, and he was ebulliently in love with my sister. He sometimes felt unreal in his brilliance like a lover leaping from the pages of a Romance novel, but there was no hint of deceit or any suspicion to be had, for despite his ruggedness, he was a very kind and patient man.

His sons were both deep-set in their teenage years and fairly temperamental, though never unpleasant to be around. Comparatively speaking, to the timid men of our family, they had a liveliness similar to their father. This fluctuation between their seeming indifference and invested joy was disorienting to Andrew and I. At moments, they appeared aloof and annoyed, completely rejecting the trip, but within hours, they would eagerly remark to their father that this had been their favorite vacation. April had learned to adjust to their moods, and managed it fairly harmoniously.

Their English sensibilities were very amusing to Andrew and I as I'm sure our American traits were to them. At the point when we were comfortable with one another, we often traded expressions and habits of our respective cultures, laughing in jest at each other's absurdities. However, it took them a bit to get acclimated to the dynamic of the trip, and Andrew and I went about defusing their guard in different ways. I was strategically closed to the boys because I interpreted their reticence as being unimpressed or uninterested in us. I hoped that by being relaxed and only revealing myself when necessary that they would open up to me in their own time. Andrew, on the other hand, was more eager to be friendly. I couldn't help but feel some level of embarrassment in his attempts to joke with them, assuming the worst in their perception of us. I even expressed as much to Andrew, who, no surprise, was slightly insulted by my suggestion to tone things down. Either way, with enough time, the boys grew to be more friendly, much to our joy. They were as charming and funny as their father, given enough energy.

(x.) - Of the Eating Habits, and the Night Life

The night life was one cultural distinction that I never quite adjusted to in all my time visiting Italy. I had vaguely heard of Europe's contrasting eating habits beforehand, but much of my own knowledge of Italy was what April relayed to us, taken at face value. However, the Italian's particular habit of eating small meals throughout the day before indulging in dinner very late in the evening was something I noticed almost immediately.

During my first night, I was immediately aware of how many children were up so late. At the time, it was about a quarter to eleven at night, but the atmosphere of the town made it seem earlier around six or seven. There was no indication of things winding down, no child seemed at all lethargic or moody. In fact, their supervision in general was extremely loose. April's assertion that the people had no fear of crime comparable to the intensity in America felt like a sharp contrast to the events I experienced at the Fourth of July lake party, when the unaddressed presence of mass shootings that day plagued the hidden anxieties of the crowd. The children here were given a level of agency to roam freely with the assumption that they would find their way back. It was distinctly old-fashioned in a manner that made the city feel even more ancient despite its modern draping.

The light day meals were easily manageable in spite of my usual appetite, mostly because my eating schedule was so thrown off due to the time jump that I never felt hungry at the appropriate hours. The food was also familiar enough in sensibility that I was never repulsed by anything, to use such a strong word. The late evening dinners also felt suited to my late eating habits at home.

However, exhausted as I was by the trip, the intense level of social interaction during the night was the most difficult for me to endure. It didn't help on the occasions when we would enjoy the night life at outdoor club venues especially where the music taste was too divergent and the people filled with endless levels of energy that I couldn't even begin to compete with. Of course, Andrew was exuberant to find a cultural disposition that matched his own, but even he had his limits. I got the sense that April, fully entrenched in the Italian lifestyle, was disappointed in my damper attitude, but this is a disappointment I have learned to begrudgingly resign myself to with anyone who wishes to go out with me at night. I had a particular encounter with a friend of April's who watched puzzled as I lay attempting to sleep amidst the crowd at a nightclub. April playfully teased that I didn't drink and I didn't dance, and she then acted as a translator to our exchange. Her friend looked at me with bewilderment and asked something in Italian.

April translated "then what do you do?"

I was taken aback by the question, as if there wasn't anything else to enjoy in life besides drinking and dancing. In an embarrassed search to find something that I did in fact do, I ran through my list of hobbies before replying with "I read", which I instantly regretted knowing how it would make me look given the situation. April grinned in amusement, perhaps knowing the outcome and translated my reply. Her friend raised an eyebrow and looked at April and then at me in complete disbelief.

"I don't think I've read a book in years," she said, translated with even more amusement by April.

My head ran through a slew of insults to bitterly bite back with, but it was perhaps best that because of the language barrier and the lateness of the hour and my own habit of non-confrontation that I didn't dare say anything. I merely smiled at my own inadequacy according to this woman with the small and selfish victory that this would be a funny story to tell my friends.

(xi.) - Of the Beaches of Sicily and the Bunker

I had an intense but justified paranoia of sunburn in Italy because of my pale skin. This fear was further insisted relentlessly by April as well as Sunny, who ironically did not like the sun. Collectively, we lathered ourselves with layers upon layers of sunblock, sunscreen, and all other manners of snake oil; my eyes would often stream tears from the secreting juices that would leak and sting them with irritation. During our visits to the beach, I sheltered beneath the assigned umbrella canopies littering the shores and sketched the landscape poorly or read some Tolkien. I'm a very sensitive reader so I only ever managed a few lines of text per session amidst the noise of the beach. April and Andrew were both very disappointed at what they perceived in me to be a lack of enthusiasm for the beach, but I never quite had the urge to wade in the water. However, I greatly enjoyed the unscheduled time relaxing. April gave me an old book of Italian fairy tales and even read a chapter to us about an ape who dressed in a dead lady's clothes and was insultingly mistaken for her, among other stories. I did sit briefly at the foot of the shore and let the waves lap the trunks of my swimsuit. The water here was warm, almost curated intentionally for people on vacation. And it was incredibly blue, a pearly sky blue with occasional hints of green and teal. At times, it perfectly mirrored the sky: a rich dark cobalt of sea sheets. Other times, it was transparent, like pure crystal or clean glass looking down onto the sandy dunes below.

I was tempted enough on one occasion to leave the beach umbrella and explore the nearby cliffs, which housed what looked like military bunkers from the war. A good chunk of my photographs towards the end of the album are set during this exploration. I came across a tunnel opening that was camouflaged in the rocky crevices of the hill. Its dark portal was like an optical illusion, only visible when standing directly in front of its frame. The entrance appeared improvised, the remnants of a long corridor that perhaps jutted out from the hill, but was sliced short, leaving a gaping stub of a hallway. I trekked inside, finding myself in complete darkness only a few inches from the first sharp turn of the corridor. The path was short lived, for it only moved down a second hallway before ending at another bunker with an opening back to the cliffside. Inside was littered refuse, mats and bottles and other less recognizable trinkets. It was strange to think this place was reduced to a homeless encampment or a teenage hideaway given what history it might hold. I returned later with Andrew to show him my discovery. Trudging back to our umbrella in the heat, I watched my feet tread on the rocky shores, the stone debris becoming more and more granulated until, reaching the grasp of the crashing waves, it was reduced to a fine pebble powder. Here though, the rocks were so large and flat that it almost felt like smoothed pavement on a cobblestone road, and we both walked back without difficulty.

(xii.) - The Boat Ride

On one occasion, we perused the coast on the sails of a small boat, stopping intermittently to snorkel. This was when Kamren triumphantly claimed, despite having a fever, that this was one of his best days ever. I didn't join myself, but I enjoyed the scene, though I knew all too well that I would become seasick within an hour, and I did, much to my own foreseen sadness. Luckily, Ted had purchased Dramamine for me in anticipation of the plane ride, and I was so well-versed at this point in the routine of this ailment that I firmly rooted myself in my seat, swallowed my pill, and sat staring at the horizon while chewing a piece of mint gum. I never vomited, though the captain eyed me nervously and motioned "vomit?" to me with his hands. I politely shook my head, but I must have appeared near death's door being already so pale. This was a calculated risk when I heard we would go sailing, and I'm proud to say that I put up with the suffering as best as I could. I waxed philosophical in my thoughts as I sat staring at the horizon, focusing on the exact nature of my discomfort, thinking about suffering and the experience of pain more abstractly.

To be concluded in “Leave Me Alonw, Earnie”