Huckleberry would not be writing much, this trip. Mobile phone, out of pocket. “MENU”,”NOTES”,”CREATE NEW”, “RECORD”

“Dear Diane,

I have arrived at 6:30 A.M. in Lisboa, Portugal. Pink yogurt blue frosting clouds start pushing the heavy moist blackness. The medium full moon out there beyond the jesus opposite shines down the river Tagus itself unvesting the obsidion and black laquer dream for naked mercury shining reality. Boats barging in. Washing up. The river walk behind Cais de sodre towards Baixa-Chiado. Diane, there will be some updates. Oh yeah, remind me, Diane, never to live far from water, again.”

“Diane,

May I add that the first walnuts I ate we´re absolutely fucking marvelous.  The streetlights of the baixa square just blinked off signaling get set, ready, and sunrise for the malai-zy seagulls.”

“Diane, I´ve just marmeladed into the spirited blue tile and print red housed neighborhood of Belem. Here, they´ve got a place called Pasteis de Belem, and they´ve got a custard cream tart that´ll kill ya. It´s dusted with powdered sugar and cinnamon, and warm from the oven it is the closest to intimacy a gastronomic texture has ever come. There will be no shortage of good bakery on this trip, it seems. Now to find a strong cup of coffee after I check out what appears to be a giant cement homage to the milenia old competetion among men to be he who most pleases god, at the prow of celestial approval we view 16th century characters subtexting: here, we remember the sacrifice of millions.”

“Walking down the riverside, I´m overcome with the urge to ride a bike. Somewhere here, a bike awaits me. Now, I see before me a giant hashtag on the bikepath. As it indicates, up ahead is an old white and grey tower that looks perfect for instagram photos. Surely glorious historical anecdotes relieved in portugese printed parkbenches await me, for wherever roams instagram checkpoints in this world, one finds endless quotes, short poems, and graffiti.”

“Diane,

There are actually two Tower of Belem, which puzzles me to wonder why they´re named in the singular. Like a giant chess game, the Rooks of Belem wait in eternal patience for the master hand behind each to make that rookie manuever. Until then, they wait as idle threats themselves afflicted with a state of constant gaurd and-

Oh My Wordless Rose Petaled Infinite Void of Dante´s Vision!-

A giant wide eyed hairy beast just overcame the black tower! I must be on my way now, my stomach tells me that wild thing is not to be messed with on this day.”

“I´ve escaped the malaisey monstrosity, with utter finesse and ease. Now, I disembark towards Barrio Alto, where I´ll be staying for this fine trip. But first, I might take advantage of the fact that right here, in the sun, a large tree stretches out to lay down a warm bed for my weary 2:30 a.m. busridden bones. Ahh, Diane, nothing beats a good lay in the sun”

“Walking along the highway near the plethora of art museums which I´ll save for a lazy date, I spot a shot boxy sedan coming my way. My rarely these days lens-ed eyes focalate inside the scrap metal world on wheels and spy two freshly shaven men with aviators, military berets, and happless expressions of bland across their pale visagry. Being the dumb bastard that I am, I smiled big teeth at the anomaly, what they were. Turning, I saw what wondered them on – two leagues of horseback police, trotting nothing serious, down the highway giving to their brandished uniforms more exercise it seems than to the cavalrous horses. Wait, Diane,

It seems they are, while holding up highway traffic, heading indirectly and anticlimatically towards the entrance of the gorgeous modernist&minimalist architecture composed ArtMuseumConcertHall fortress. Diane, I´m glad I didn´t go in there on my way over to instagram destination #TowerOfBelem #LisBoaTarde. Surely, they are off to hunt something. Or, perhaps the malazy monster roams this part, and they merely partol where the morning sun alights a spot in the winter shades of green, dark vivaciously intense green, and green that defines the bleak colourful fate of gorgeous Lisboa during January. Poor things, with so much ocean water and lush, verdant plants abundantly strewn about – how ever do they experience the miraculous mystery of deep winter afforded to their northeastern cousins?”

“Dear Diane, it´s 10 a.m. and having already eaten two Pasteis de Nata and thrown two cafe com leite down the hatch to nutricize the huckleberry patch of my anti-somnambulate insomnia-impossible oddity of a morning hawk appetite, I already can´t wait for the next delicious cup of coffee. First, up the hills of Lisbon to find the Old Town Hostel. Every electric yellow mini trolley cart moment that struts about the scenic port city gives me ánimo. Great big doses of juicy, olive oil bathing post butter grill cod fish ánimo.

Just a glancing at the streets and tasting eavesdrops here and there make my senses dance wild with the delight that this town is beautiful, old, weird, and full of artsy people. The combination of intelligence and humility marks this place unique on my map of the largely unseen inner experiential carbon copy world I have seen. Diane, remind me to get distracted for a moment.”

“Clouds. Whole miniature forests in walls hatching brittle sketches of 1001 arabian nights- everyday more stories crack to the surface of salt filled mist from nowhere. There are more tiles on buildings, and more rhombus stones covering the heavily traversed ground than are grains of sand on the beaches of all the world. A father and daughter walk dwn the middle of the black rhombus rock laid street beneath the gaze of a life red solid block of color whose roof is trimmed by the sun´s bleaching watch turning the bounds of the building into a rosy pink. An old newsie hatted man hunches up the steep sidewalk at their perpendicular, and behind us all a hair net and baker´s apron wearing jewel of a young woman winds floppily by.”

“Diane, I´m perched up in a plaza, eating dried plums along with almonds and walnuts. Tis a good day to exercise my spirits and bench the sun in the open air of a crowded site for people watching socialites. There´s an old lady vigilating the kiosk terrace plaza thingamajig. She´s got a purple button up sweater, a dark violet shirt, a plaid purple and brown skirt and faded pinkish leggings that indeed mark her location in any random glance. she can´t be missed, and she won´t miss you. She walks to and fro arranging and rearranging unmanned and unwomanned tables and chairs. She is like the benign once evil but now retired evil doer of the upper neighborhood. Her witching hour is over, but one palpably percieves that her potent powers and crafts remain intact – themselves hoping to escape after years locked up in the monotonous turmoil of being the “oh yeah, her? yeah she´s the Ki-Osk La-Dy”.

“Diane I´ve just talked with a friendly couple from southern france. Meeting people from southern france seems to be a theme for me this year. Maybe I should just go there and take the hint already. Their — casually open about their not wanting to look romantic but taking the random pleasure in being incapable of passing 53 seconds without diving at each others face or neck like swans, ducks, or kittens that want to snuggle noses but turn away because their attention span doesn´t quite hang in there to finish off the cuteness, and therefore: all the more cute– is subtly overtaking my meditative almond chewing state. After chatting for a bit, I took one last look around the plazaKioskBarrioAltoHangOut, and noted that everything was in place: the kiosk lady hovering treachously in the corner, Portugese hipsters making love to the sweetness of their own reflections in the sunglasses of their friends across the beer and coffee stained tables, foreigners mapping out where to smile next because hey – what´s not to love bout the extended pleasantry of the old town?, families strolling and old portu-geezers. Yes, it was a good day in the neighborhood. I fare thee welled the french couple pawing each other´s noses, and headed for the public bathrooms stairwelling below the plaza. I couldn´t wait. How good it would be, after all this time from 2:30 a.m., to noon, unconciously waiting for this moment. Looking down the stairs, holy what and the where How Did You Get Down There Kiosk Lady??? She smiled like the devil, “Boa Tarde!” I had to make it quick, Diane, and I paid her a nice shiny metallic tip before leaving the underworld shrine she protected. Who knows, given her age it could just as well be devoted to her ancient spirit. Obrigado, you sneaky, smirking menace you!”

“Dear Diane I´ve just finished checking into the hostal after eating a fantastically grilled slab of salmon the size of my face alongside a phalanx of lemon butter sauced potates garlic cooked spinach and fresh tomatoe slices. Two beers washed down my indulgently savoured accidental gluttony. The conversational superwoman that cooked my food told me to take a train to Sintra if I had a chance. My friend and colleague and world traveler extraordinaire mentioned I should go there. Unlike living with a southern french girl, befriending two other southern french girls, randomly meeting sourthern french people at every publically transported opportunity and plaza exhibition, no one would have to drop another hint: I decided to go to Sintra rain or shine.

I´m now currently on a train at the Rossoi station bound for Sintra. I´m currently seated next to a french man and his daughter. I currently don´t need to ask if they´re from the south of france, I´m just taking the continued hints in stride as I ride out another rail laid down by fate. I have no idea what´s up ahead in Sintra, but I´ve got the rest of the day to find out.”

 

for Part 2, click here:

 

“But Andrew, do you really think we can do anything about it. I think we are fucked.”

During an exercise to get the students to workshop vocabulary concerning climate change and the environment we have left, Huckleberry got all sorts of interesting fatalistic comments. More so from the adults than the youth of the classes, but the already defeated so what choice do we have kinda opinion gets thrown out with alarming frequency.

“Well, with an attitude like that, you´re absolutely right” Huckleberry reacted hoping not to sound preachy to the grown man stage right. Huck was only here to offer linguistic help, not presume authority he did not have.

“What would you do to make it better?” Cornered him from the corner, a girl studying education at the local university. “Hypothetically, or personally, as in what would i  do?” He quizzed back.

“Jyes. What would you do? If you were the government?” She sincered to him, with that uncommon look gracing the sad eyes of the few who actually, really care about the state of things in this luckywearetohaveit world. This time, Huckleberry had no choice but to share his opinion, in fact he owed it to her. Hopefully it was worthwile to hear.

Most of the time, entering the realm of bagatelles was tricky business in the classroom, but outside of those bounds Huck had no problem pickin´ those ripe, low hangin apples from the orchard of engagements that extend for months on end.  Like a good acupuncture bringing toxins out of the body, friendly bagatelles.

“and, you know where you´re going next year? Germany? France?” Max tossed into the air a lofty set.

Hucklberry had to kneel to bump the ball back, “Not quite, those two countries require a B2 level in their language to do this type of program, and there was no way to conquer that anthill in time for the application. And you? How goes planning for school´s end?”

The volleyball skimmed net´s top before zooming towards the couch where optimistic Max was chilling.

Popping the ball back into a float, “I´ve got the idea of teaching geography, mathematics, or kids with disabilities in german primary schools. Still not certain what will come first, the market for those jobs isn´t necessarily good or bad, so – we´ll see.” Max´s body language didn´t contain any certainty, but neither was there any anxiety. Having essentially already finished his education degree in Germany, he was enjoying himself by taking classes of sports and athletics there at the univeristy in Cáceres through a study abroad program. “Andrés,” changing themes,”you know, this girl, every time the appropriate time arrives to talk about things – she hides away and shuts up. Then, when I get home, I find a bajillion stormy mixed text messages waiting for me.

From one blond haired blue eyed 25 young man to another, Huckleberry completely understood Max´s predicament. And so the imaginary volleyball of the convo drifted to the floor as Huckleberry realized a response was ´coming up.´

Max didn´t need any time, “I wish she knew that she didn´t have to weigh her words. She doesn´t have to make life difficult: a simple yes or no, I have no interest in putting her in a tough spot or making her life complicated.” This was the marvellous Max, the kinda guy who can wake up with wrenching hangover and a smile on his face as well as a laugh in his eyes saying, “no, no I don´t want any pills. I did this, I can take responsibility for it.” Like an old man bringing a boat back from the sea, swordfish mangled but beloved. It would be his chosen hangover. (Who were we to impose bad spirits on him anyway? Kid was positive about everything, accepting what came for better or not so bad really.) As such, he was feeling a little sick and exhausted from the melodrama thown onto his shoulders, but had his chin up as always.

Huckleberry was reminded then of his conversation with Jamie, getting a woman´s perspective on things (actually, on womanizers) outside on the terrace of a downtown watering hole where you can get all the patatera and morcilla you want with your caña, café or cup of what have you. A sunny day on the Cánovas strip. “Its like a strung kite,” She related. “They get your confidence up, string you around and you think you´re flying. Once they get a girl up there they´ll cut the string whenever they feel like it.”

“And the kite falls to the ground?” anticipated Huckleberry.

“No. Not all of them. Some plummet head first, some drift in strange patterns, others capriciously tease the nature of gravity, and others stay up there.”

Huckleberry imagined CutStringKites transforming into birds.

Then a gypsy came along trying to sell red and blue bic pens. Huck and Jamie politely declined and attempted to pick up conversation. After a solid uncomfortable moment of his uncharming salesman worthy persistence, Huck decided to reflect to the man just how ugly his socially abusive intrusion was with a polite, “Get lost”

“Get lost? You get lost! Back to your country!” and so he left.

“Agreed” Huck agreed. Unfortunately, the pen pusher would just have to sit tight until June came round for that desire to be met.

Picking up from no where and on to a new topic, “I am suddenly and viscerally reminded of an intrusiveness similar to jealous eyes peering into your bedroom; which reminds me – I´ve been looking around town for Tarot cards, but I haven´t had any luck yet.”

“ya don´t say? Well, I know where a few hippy-like shops are. I can show you if you´d like,” offered Huck. Perhaps, they only thing he could assume authority over was the knowledge of hippy shops in every town he lived in. It wasn´t too hard a thing to master, really. All you need is a keen nose.

The smell of grass is a funny thing.

More so, for Huckleberry, it was the smell of dirt and grass and leaves and strange bizzarro wares of garbage strewn about the hill near the fenced in horses on The Mountain of Cáceres. It came on the wind. It laid him down, and suddenly

there he was-

looking up into the white wisps beyond the blue.

He heard Cindy pause, ”          ” and then, “Where are you going?”

“Not sure exactly,” he fared, “it´s kind of a pilgrimage. Spain´s not the ultimate destination, nor is anywhere per se. However, it was the first step. <“The first step sometimes starts with a thousand miles” he mused> And you? Where are you going?” he strummed.

“not sure.”

“ideally”

“Entonces I´d like to work for the Red Cross, or some organization like that but you know they have really difficult nursing requirements to meet and you gotta know lots´a languages.” She sounded enthusiastic, her heart was smiling. What a delightful sound makes a smiling heart. She paused, ”       “, “Do you think you´re gonna die soon?”

“No.”

”   ”

“but one time, my brother told me he saw a movie, and there was this idealist teenager as the principal character who, after finally becoming exhausted with the stupifyingly (seemingly) unaware society around, decides to venture out and live in the wilderness of Alaska. He dies in the end. Brian said that the character reminded him of me.”

“That´s understandable. You know, sometimes I feel shame and intense embarrassment for being a human – considering all of the horrible things we doandorare. Its unforgiveable, and incomprehensible”

“yeah, i get that. but you know what? despite la puta mierda that we are – deep down i´ve got nothing but love for them all.”

“You´re weird, you know that?”

The sky paused, and the earth exhaled anticipating nightfall.

The humid smell woke him from his bagatellic memories and called to attention the garbanzo beans and potatoes Huck was cooking in a cazuela. Preparing a little-something-nothing to cap off the evening. Perhaps he´d grab a glass of wine, and practice writing.

CHAPTER 6, click here

Bored.

“Boredom is, after all, THE problem” – Alan Watts

Finally joining in on the chat, Huckleberry types “Infinity:Cancer.”

This was a typical situation, not unlike daily conversation. 1.) He says something honest, from the depths of his mindheart to the tips of his lips. 2.) No one gets it. That or Huck´s just really, really stupid and no one has the heart to tell him. 3.) Huck temporarily gives up on soul satisfying communication and settles on the soup d´jour, remaining a husk of a potentially present Huckleberry.

A list of numbers appear on the screen. They could be times for an encounter. They could be ratios. They could be messaging in secretly established code to cut ahead on the stock market.

8:00, 7:57, 8:26…a host of digits flow on until 8:69 rages adolescently through the list. “Well, I can vomit the first thing that comes to mind, too.” Huck glances.

“Infinity:Cancer” Step 1., complete. “sorry, don’t know what that means dude.” they replied. Step 2., complete. “Lets meet up at 8:30” Huck conceded. Step 3., complete.

It´s not always like that, though, as made evident by recent farewells to good friends. Tis the season, mind you, for here my erasmus study abroad housemates are starting to leave for their respective homelands. The first to go is Svetoslav. An extremely sociable bulgarian lad, Svetoslav was a fantastic housemate and it was a pleasure for Huck to accompany him on his way to that strange and mysterious land of transitions: the Bus Station. He had a wheeled baggage and a lead filled bag which Huck carried, no doubt filled with lead books, a computer made entirely of lead, and other aleatoric lead objects.

There was a 6:30 “afternoon snackaroo” Huckleberry agreed to attend, so he had just enough time to escort Svetoslav to the first step on his reverse journey through the jangly fabric cultural identity and moderately complex venture in time at 5:30 for the 6:00 bus.

The kid had everything, even his cell phone charger, which could very well postpone the apocalypse these days it seems! He even left equipped with a broad smile. That, my friends can be difficult. Here we have a young man sadly, and perhaps slightly apprehensively, embarking on a one way adventure of re-integration. Facing the transition with a bittersweet smile surely must have been a beautiful moment of growth for the kid. Solid steps and a healthy attitude can keep you going even when gas runs out. S´gonna be rough, but he’ll be better for it.

En route between saying goodbye to Svetoslav and the merry merienda at 6:30, Huckleberry hit up the old “fare thee well” circuits he had not used for several months. The buzzed and hummed with nostalgic excitements painful and pleasurable. Farewells are an absolutely enigmatic human invention. Their revelations and repercussions are often prismatic in diffusion. Their one way journey revolving door has a way of marking our trunks with age rings. If you take a good look inside someone you´ll see just how many farewells they’ve seen and just how varied the impressions are that they left. It takes a long, and patient look.

On his way out of the bus station towards the post office, his destination to meet up with a friend on the way to the evenings birth, it started to drizzle outside.

Winter drizzles and plenty of sunshine in the deep country of Extremadura means January asparagus. An improbable image considering winter back home: jeans boots one sweater sleeves rolled up dry stem of long grass in teeth or behind the ear wide smile under the all day sun surrounded by green, pickin´asparagus. Damn good slice of heaven. In the hills near montanchez classic whitebluegreygreen moss-forest covered since we created god old mighty stones lay ´round emanating subtle pulsing “welcome”´s – like stones in shallow water painting the view with perfect ripples echoing nothing but admiration and recognition in all directions.  A place whose humidity allows every branch on the most insignificant tree to house a mini-ecosystem of its own with wondrous variety of fungus, moss, and other mild-life.

At every turn -Contrasts Abrupt-, reposing shadows, resting fleets of weary children playing tag with the sun. Said young shadows lean against rocks, and small divots whose angle against the low january sun allows them to stretch legs out even farther than normal, because at its purchase the merry bright eye can’t pick them out as easily. No reason to make a run for it, could be brilliantly fatal.

Making a stop at the little castle atop the town of Montanchez, Huck enjoyed the company of his good friends talking, of all things, how one might want to be buried. Bringing to mind Dave Matthew´s “Gravedigger, when you dig my grave, could you make it shallow, so I can feel the rain?” and bringing to mind the maple tree planted with Polly´s ashes, Huckleberry looks out into the vast expanse of Extremadura and feels the wind tease his mind into thinking, “Here we are all placed, in the middle of nowhere. No one tells you how beautiful being nowhere really is. It´s a learnityourself kind of experience. I think, one day, it would be nice to write a whole series of Learn It Yourself books.”

Later that evening they feasted on found asparagi in the shape and form of a mozz top tomato bottom pizza. “This is the perfect moment for Chevre, where has it gone off to?” He munches into the asparagus pizza with bitter satisfaction as his heart searches the airwaves for signs of chevre.

Getting out into the countryside was a healthy change of air, equaled by the later to follow change of bedroom. Now that Svetoslav is out of the flat, Huckleberry can move on up the ladder from his closet plus dresser sized refrigerator wannabe bedroom to the spacious natural light  and breathable habitat 3 meters closer to the morning sun. Change was good. To inaugurate the flip of attitude Huck lit some ceremonial incense and gave a nod to Sabi, the little purple plastic buddha that´s been travelling with him for several years. Sabi looked somehow more pleased than usual. Perhaps he enjoyed a bit more sun, too.

He´s been changing the air not just around him but also in his lungs these days. The long of it is this: Ever since Huck was a child, or for as long as he could  remember, his singing was always met with reproach until a certain age he decided perhaps it was best not to sing – it´s too much a hassle to deal with the strange pestering pleads against his vocalizations. The reach of the these reactions was deep and kept Huck from singing sincerely for a very, very long time. The past year leading to present events in this story, however, was filled with plenty of singing and now, Huckleberry ventures to do something he would previously have been too cool, or too artsy, or too serious to do – sing folk songs while merely strumming chords. This unbelievable humility-stretch of the ego may seem infantile and facile at first dear readers, but keep in mind the intense seriousness of Huckleberry´s attitude towards the integrity of his artistic identity. (yes, you may laugh at him, no one will stop you!) A marvelously humbling gesture if my eyes ever laid upon one.

Perhaps the nail in the coffin for Huckleberry´s singing was precisely his manner of receiving music. He clearly remembered becoming aware of the fact that other people didn’t hear the tops and bottoms of pitches like he did. To hear one, was like a ribbon of sound running through your hand. There were changing borders, a plasticity and flexibility of mass between them, and a very articulate sense of movement. Chords were a whole different world. Once he relayed his sensation to his brother, but it was clearly a crazy comment (step1) and probably taken as such (2). Huckleberry learned to ignore his silly finding, too (step3), thanks to the beautiful grinding machine of education slimming down the cells of our response center so as to make said brain more palatable among the throng. After all, his perceptions were not relevant to the rest of the communal reality, and “every one has made sacrifices around here kid.”

The base of his aural understanding remained, however, more or less unadulterated. Or shall we say hindered his capacity to synchronize his vocal chords with solfege which, experientially, made no sense to him. Sounds weren’t synonymous with syllables (other sounds), there were autonomous constructs that, like organic compounds, aligned together in beautiful arrangement however they ended up overlapping, slapping, thwacking, or zapping along together in their melodious parody of time. Nevertheless, he worked had, appreciated, and learned said method when it came his way in life although he would never really become a natural solfegger. Just as well. Or better, show him a sculpture or a lithograph rather than ask him to associate seemingly arbitrary syllables to sounds of another structural nature, how about a nature like ceramics?

As all human beings should feel comfortable to do, at least now he was singing.

Singing folk songs, pop songs, jazz songs, christmas carols, singing whatever. Singing simple simplicities he wouldn’t have been caught dead singing in the homeland. Given the absence of a computer at home doubled by the absence of an iPod, this Fall Huckleberry enjoyed the fantastic self experiment of, “If you want music, you´re gonna have to make it!”

He had probably never sang so much in one single period of his entire life. Perhaps when the world ended, and this one began in 2012, Huckleberry subconsciously abandoned his chains for reins and is finally getting a handle on them.

Singing has so many benefits, a conclusion to which he would – experientially – arrive to a late understanding. One of those benefits was that gentle reminder that every pitch carried, “this sound is you – you have no choice but to be true to yourself in its production. You have no choice but indiscreet naked honesty.” All the better, because Huckleberry is a terrible liar.

Now, patient friends, let’s not get into the wrong signification. Shall I rephrase? Huckleberry learned as a child that one of his worst characteristics was a horrendous inability to create a good lie. Where a normal, real person could get away with a socially appropriate white lie, Huckleberry fumbled and flipped and awkwarded out into the spotlight obviating any need for interrogation with his unsightly performance. The kid can´t hide shit.

“Well shit,” he hums, “if you can’t beat em, blunt em.” And so his character developed other traits to deal with his blatant honesty. For example, silence. If you can’t say what you want to say, or need to say, don’t say anything at all. That would become Huck´s virtue (step 3). Later rather than sooner, Huckleberry learned that it is actually always best to get that silent, tacit truth off your chest in words. Otherwise, you just might explode. He went from accepting the indoctrination from those around him that his opinions-thoughts-reactions were irrelevant and unnecessarily expressed to knowing the difference between “knowing not to speak” and “knowing when to speak”. At this point, he is quite comfortable with his incapacity to pass a lie, and he´s blanded his bluntness with discipline making his fault into a trusty point forte. If he´s got something to say, he´ll inevitably say it – add a little tact and a little spice, and suddenly expressing your deluge of admiration for someone isn’t so bad.

There are times when that system fails, and Huck reverts to his conditioning and retains his words in exchange for silence. Almost invariably things go wretchedly wrong. Sometime in 2012, young Huck had the remarkable infinity of chances to simply tell his friend Polly, “I know that I’m not quite ready for anything right now, and I know that you’re still recovering from a several year haul of a now defunct relationship, but I need you to know that in a small and perhaps insignificant way you mean the world to me right now, and getting to know you has given me hope for which I will always be thankful.” There never was a chance for any prolonged romance between Polly and Huckleberry, but of all the things friends do share a little bit of temporary awkwardness wouldn’t have been the worst thing.

It´s those sort of things, that, having taken root in your heart of memories, have the potential of all of a sudden awakening one day to find that the counterpart sun from which they synthesized emotion will never rise again, and the withering of that entire world becomes a pain in your chest that your body recognizes absolutely beyond a doubt as death. Parts of you go, rotting.

The links and chains that tamed the once wild unkempt spirits rip out from you, their tormentor, following the mind and heart to which they truly belong as that soul travels to a new world, having no longer a place in this one. This, actually, could just about be the worst thing two friends could share.

So, there he was in the drizzle, humming very quietly. Warming up his vocal chords to face the music and grow a little. “My hair and the rain don´t quite mix well.” she responded to the now raining midnight.

“Well, I’ve got an umbrella for that.” Huck inflated the punctured umbrella above them. It would hang in there just enough time, he thought, and they both knew that its pointless expansion was more of a ritualistic referral to the mutual understanding that had been made. Even so, all rituals lead somewhere. Some things simply had to be said before the candle inside burned out at both ends between stomach and mind leaving the heart in a sticky situation. As they said goodbye near her flat, “Wait”.

Trying to avoid being intrusive while still getting the floor under his feet he gave a tug on her jacket. “Wait”

“What.” she shot back not necessarily in the mood to hear the necessary.

Closing his umbrella, feeling that nice drizzle, “It´s just that I like you immensely.”

“Yep. I´m not available.”

“Yeah, that´s what I wanted to know. Well, careful with the hair on your way up to the flat” he tongue and cheeked.

“Good night! I hope this doesn’t change our friendship.”

“Of course not”

Now, these are the sorts of things that friends can share. They’re actually quite beautiful and for whatever uncomfortability they might momentarily bring, there is the promise of a moment shared, already fulfilled.

It would be returning from these types of moments where afterwards Huckleberry would look at his desktop sitting companion, Sabi, and feel that that knowing, playful smile pierce his heart. This time, in response to Sabi´s knowing-all-along cheeky fucker grin, all Huckleberry could do was smile, agree, and laugh a solid belly laugh. There´s a buddha in everybody, where they put it in this world is a whole ´nother story.

to read Chapter 5, click here