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.