There is a bull flanking my right shoulder blade. I’ve leveled my plane, having reached the crest of West Bay Drive, now having made the conscious decision to literally and energetically elevate myself to this higher place. His left horn is squared to my right shoulder.  At first his glistening horn, wet from the drizzle, maneuvers its way through my fibrous muscle tissue. He enters off of my central nervous system almost intentionally as if only to make his presence known but not to cause any real damage. But he’s stronger than I am and runs faster which drives his horn down deeper, pinning me still against myself. What was once a white scream of a pinch that feels at first good becomes a swelling unending ache of a growl as my muscles make room and adapt to this foreign, two hundred and seventh bone in my body, one more than my biology was made to handle.

By now my lungs are pink taffy bound in the puller. Running with asthma is always a tight. Running with asthma is always a test.       There’s a lot of thinking I can do to arrive at the same “no” but I know now it’s worth it to follow just one “yes”. By the ninth step my mind re-learns what a rhythm is but my body never forgot. My appreciation delivers a trust in myself, knowing and remembering that my body will continue to carry me miles. I’m proud because I never thought my body would ever be something I could trust.

The airways constrict, more sticky in the puller, in my chest. I reach a point in a feeling of resentment that this is something that has been imposing on me the entire time. Its reality is in me lying motionless, caught in the act of deflation through a pinhole. Asthma is a trickster I don’t want to see. As I move more air and the road moves more me, my taffy pulls a fast one to become brittle, flake, and be blown away by the same wind that keeps the hair out of my face.

Something shifts to become thousands and thousands of shimmers of glass that break in me all at once. They have been massaged to gentle rustles by a hundred years of rumbling in the sea. Their fragility collides and I exhale, blowing them into a fine mist across the space. My material form is let go and blown away to leave a glimmering liquid of urge to be spilled out from the top only to go more upwards. I am golden across the threshold of freedom and beauty. Given to me is the leverage to finally become unstuck from a world without choice. I look and actually point out from the trailing vapor I am moving through to a place over the water. There across the bay is the most welcoming cataclysm to witness: humbling clouds born to move across the spectrum of orange and who boldly proclaim who they are. I follow away, watching myself down the path run on.

Ways down I see a wall in the path. It’s built out of the illusion of distance to a make it appear vertical. I check in. My knees that click and pop when I go up stairs are doing just fine. “This will be tough,” I hear. “Take it easy, take a breath, you’ve worked hard enough.” But my legs churn on, building up my pace ,stretching my stride like they already know the moves of the road. I start on the hill but things flatten out because my legs have known what to do the entire time. My speed slows but my legs keep moving. I’m fighting a resignation to the slant of the road and I keep myself upright and perpendicular to the neutral ground that is somewhere else right now. I keep myself upright like the earth made me to be. So much more than gravity is pulling me down but I bare my trust. Into the white and out of the mist I had set out to find and then found, I land on my porch. And she opens the door.

On the road home there stood an establishment not much more than two shacks flanking a parking lot and a palm tree. The only seating were outdoor plastic benches or curbs and there was a tall sign with a donkey on it that stood high overhead. The frequency one ate at El Burrito Jr., LBJ’s for short, was one consideration for being a local, loc (pronounced loke) for short, of the South Bay. And at almost any time of day or night you could find friends or the friends some of your friends knew who were older and given to questionable standards of rank and worth. Friday afternoons were a habit at this hub. The Special C was two bean and cheese burritos and a drink for $5. It was also the name of an established punk band from the area. Though the menu was large with all the standard variations on standard Mexican dishes, the Special C was the only thing without question to order because their lard was darn tasty and its economy unbeatable. A side of guacamole might make an appearance if one was willing to splurge or, like my friends and I had, had a rotation for whose turn it was to buy the community guac for the group. Five friends meant five Special Cs for a total of ten burritos which was received almost instantly. LBJ’s was well aware of this order’s popularity and in the peak of the day would have a temple ten wide, four high of tinfoil wrapped burritos kept modestly under the prep counter just behind the register.

LBJ’s tip jar was a small wooden box with the word “TIPS” crudely inked on the side. The same workers were there every day and knew people’s faces and we knew when there was new staff, rare as it was. One time Dillon was caught stealing from the tip jar. That day Dillon proclaimed that there was nothing holy and there was no respect, no honorable exchange, just me and mine and those trapped in the shack. He was caught by the man behind him in line who then forced him to empty the remainder of his wallet into the box for initial reparations. His mom found out later.

The older ones who kept to the shadows as much as they did to the sunlight were closer to the workers behind the counter. They must have understood or cared some bit that helped make eating at this place as significant as it was. It was rumored that a deposit and leap of $20 in the box, by one’s own volition that is, would have you walking away with a Special C free of charge not just that once and not time and again but time to time because if that risk was taken and the offering was accepted, it was understood one would enter a place that those behind you in the same line could not find.

The ground rules, they established, were just that they weren’t going to drug him. Beyond just that everything else could be considered fair game with the bendable, overarching appreciation for consent. Following this ground rule worked easily enough because if one of them lost their head in a passion fit, the other of the two could bring them back to a workable rationale. To date, this dynamic had always worked but the concern still lingered in the backs of their minds that if the day came when both felt too captured by their own moaning siren song like Medusa’s own reflection, caught in the whirlwind of their own ploys, things would get quick and bad. 

More of a pressing concern than going too far was actually starting to go anywhere and doing something that wasn’t only nailed to the walls of their imaginative minds. They needed to learn how to fish and start dropping hints like lines in the water. Using bait seemed too insidious because instead of trapping him out of his own obliviousness, they’d rather him come by his own volition, swim up to some reflective lure and be shown the way in. Rubbing legs under the desks in school and inviting him out when he’s alone to get him away from his friends were all things they’d already initiated with the hope of sending a message in a bottle down a stream of the juices they wanted so badly to get flowing.

Even though they’d only known him for less than two months, they had big plans, even though they’d only be seeing him for a few more weeks until the start of summer. Who comes to a new school in April anyway? How can someone like that give the blessing of their presence to a group of unfamiliar folks for not even a dozen weeks? It, their fantasy and planning, was all rather innocent but no less pungent than the noticeable shits their heated lusting had caused in the pheromonal smells found not deep into their armpits.

The closing of the door to my posterior and the first breathe to implode in me a vibrant new world is the first reminder of every crashing new day in this cul-de-sac . And there’s no rest and there’s no breathe to take that will hold me down in the way that I want it to. And the last hum of the sunrise dissipates itself as a gift to the clouds en masse.

Going to school, going on my bike, on bike fully chilled, my head bobs to the power trip substantiated in the canonized lyrics of the Wu-Tang or the fat power punk of Titus Andronicus still sounding true. Legs can float and bikes float faster.

My starting gate is the entire neighborhood because it is inconveniently partitioned by the deep ravine that separates us from the going to anywhere. It isolates a whole neighborhood, dooming it to a diagram featuring the characterizing “NO OUTLET” signs of the place. With one way both in and out, I nuzzle the familiarity of the starting gate.

The trees here are mangy and sick looking, the ones that are built strong and impenetrable but in asking too little have forgotten their own claim to lush homeland. It’s like the settling of this neighborhood was a colonization that introduced things unholy in an unnatural evolution, like houseloads of students. The malleable binaries are not enough that blend the natural and the implanted. Streets ride to dirt in subtle transitions sure enough but this only raises the question of intention or interest.

Now I have my landmarks here in my starting gate: the stone statue of a hound by the mailbox that is not stone, the fenced garden lined with prayer flags, the interior porch of the red house that used to hold an upturned bicycle but now just storage boxes into which I cannot see, the detached  garage I watched being built by two for the four weeks of December: rocks, cement, frame, and one day it materialized into existence. In fall there was the man who walked the biggest dog. At least as frequently as every other day, I saw him in never the same place. There was the familiarity between nods, but that landmark has since gone and left the tiny residual sadness of those nice things that are not very important but leave you missing them nonetheless because some small part of your cumulative happiness was shallowly burrowed there.

So emblematic of elementary school were the agendas given to each and every student. They came out of the shrink wrap complete with a plastic spiral binding and a really neat holographic cover with an image of frog or some other specimen fidgeting across it. In the third grade the particular agenda that had been decided on for the who knows how many third graders across the country had one generally unexciting fact printed for each week. They were like a reward given to us eight year olds for pluggin’ though another week at the mill. In the system of rewards and punishments that seems to be the underpinning of primary education, this insulting compensation of a singular fact per week was the closest thing we ever saw to a reward. It was a big joke, I thought. And how could they give us only one fact a week and not think we wouldn’t ruin their whole game by just reading through them all, week after week, in the course of one average afternoon, as we surely did? Well somebody decided on one fact a week, maybe fearing one a day might inspire us kids too  much with a curiosity for the world.

One fact has remained in my memory because of its sheer ridiculousness and what I perceived then as its sinister nature. Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia is the fear of long words. It was printed next to a cartoon of a purple hippopotamus sitting at a desk. It wasn’t so much that I was amazed that this was a real thing because I cannot deny people their righteous fears and there are stranger thing after all. What struck me was that such a word could, would exist. It is clearly made up. And don’t lecture at me that all words are made up. We all know that. But any coherent Latin roots have been overlooked for the un-whimsical novelty of this word. Hippopotamuses have no business here. Hippopotamus is not even that long of a word and its five syllables are only moderately impressive for it be elected as the most identifiable part of this Frankenstein monster. I found it to be in low taste.

My second part of contention is the villainy that must have been involved in its genesis. As if having a phobia as uncanny as this wasn’t embarrassing enough, the inability to pronounce it because its name surely falls past its defining threshold must add miles to the emotional scarring. The lesson it this: if you have an extremely uncommon ailment, prepare to be mocked and used to fool eight year olds.

A room needs to be lived in to survive. Etymologies aside, most especially is this the case with the living room. It is the modern hearth of the house where we keep our living shrines: the television, the fireplace, the family photos, the company of loved ones.

The living room in my house is dark and quiet now. It sits just to the right of the front door but lies distant and crippled, resigned because of us. We don’t use this room anymore. In fact, it was the same person who once inspired life in this room also came, however unintentionally, to stamp our its smoldering potential as a hub of our disjointed house. 

She first moved in as a subletter of an upstairs bedroom. Well actually all of the bedrooms are upstairs. But with her, among the many other things (things!) she brought that found a home of their own in the garage, came a cushy love seat, the kind that almost east you up entirely. It’s so over stuffed that in my mind I am a kitten and it is a bear.  She also brought a few hours of unanimous motivation that swept through our bodies and rooms to actually take pride in the shape of this house. In other words, we cleaned. We arranged and rearranged. Ship-shaping. 

And so our living room came together and swelled with people and joy. This room alive, so too it seemed was the entire house and its residents. 

Returning from Winter Break, I found what looked like a blanket fort for adults that had colonized the back corners of the living room. In an architectural amputation of sorts, the living room was split in two. The housemate-on-hiatus had returned and Ms. Subletter began occupation in the blanket lair with nails freshly hammered into the plaster.

Half of the living room remains but it has not been the same. Half of a room. Not the same. To do what it does, a room relies so dependently on its space and the peoples’ relationship to it. 

What was once just blooming became so cold and so barren almost overnight. Neglect found a home. Us residents found seclusion in the sterility of our own rooms where there is now flow from you to me.

A room lies silent in our house, maybe only to find a wandering soul now and again. But for what? Our living room is dead.

Jesse gets out in 17 days. More than a head taller than me and twice as wide, at first glance he’s an intimidating figure. But even then he’s surprising subtle, easily falls to the background of a room . His lisp and glossy big eyes help put people at ease. He draws and makes beautiful color designs with pen and highlighter. He skates and has broken more than a few bones (and is going to the doctor this week to see about his recovering shoulder that still pops when it moves.) Despite being so big he can do a headstand as part of his yoga routine. I’ve been volunteering with incarcerated youth for about ten weeks and before Jessie, never had I met one of the youth so driven for their future or open about their past. Even though much of his adolescence has been taken by foster homes and correctional institutions, Jessie isn’t resentful, he’s just done, hanging on for 17 more days.

The group home where he’s spending the last of his sentence houses other incarcerated youth nearing the end of their sentences. The group home has special privileges like the absence of a uniform and the ability to leave during the day so they can actually get a job and earn more than the 50 cents an hour wages in the prisons. Residency here is awarded for good behavior. But even still, there’s a constant in and out of residents. Many get sent back to the prison. Some get caught with contraband, usually a bit of marijuana. Some just run away. One can only imagine the seasons why, so close to getting out. It’s like a whole new level of self harm and deprecation so common in this part of life, maybe. Within the penal system or not, one finds a way with the means they have. 

Jessie and I spend our Wednesday nights playing Magic The Gathering. It’s reminiscent for me, a regular enjoyment for him. Other kids sometimes wander over and mess with our scorekeeping dice or ask answerless questions just to see what will happen. Jessie is gracious though. He asks if they want to play though he knows they really couldn’t care. Jessie doesn’t get upset about kids trying to denounce a “nerd game” that he collects. He’s seen it before. He’s done with this. 

Having not asked at all, as one is supposed to do in order to respect boundaries, Jessie is incredibly open with me. But I know it’s more because of him than it is me. I over hear him telling other people too. It would be easy to make the judgment that a guy who’s been in and out of institutions his whole life, been locked up, is just pining for some attention. But still, there’s something in his eyes that fountain authenticity. It’s almost like he’s doing me a favor and yet his pride is still yet to be seen.

Jessie is a great people person but that’s really all I know about him. I don’t know if he’ll do the  things he holds for his future and carry himself on his own or not. I believe he will but how can I really know the mind of another?

The cobblestone  and brick-laid roads were the first thing I noticed that gave me the feeling I was now participating in an adventure. They felt real, not like some easily distinguishable recreated town in Disneyland but a real tangibility felt in the chilled air and my disorientation. Tattoo parlors, record stores, and bars seemed to be the only establishments harboring life inside, apparently each with their own dress code. Google Maps seemed only to get me more lost in these hills, through damp alleys and sharp hairpin turns. Getting to the bus station was proving more difficult than my phone could communicate.

Had I been there in the daytime, the cold, consumer-industrial façade of this place would not have been able to hide under the cover of darkness; I would not have been so enchanted that my excitement drove me past my fear. (I would later come to see this town for what it was with its highway overpasses and immense interior shopping centers that actually served as named roads and a throughway for pedestrians.) Fortunately I was shielded from those concrete images and able to maintain my magical air and wide-eyed ardor.

“Do you know where the 538 bus comes?” I asked a unassociated (dissociated) string of locals, one after another as each one in the shuffling procession left me with no more than a shrug as they disappeared into a smoke cloud pluming from their own blue mouths.

I had made it, after navigating throngs of these northern denizens on one of the microcosmic road-malls with many quadruplets of suzzball teens, finally to the station. But I was too late and had missed the last and only bus to my country-road destination. In a moment of divine deliberation I was just able to board the second-best that would at least (or really, at most) take me halfway to where I needed to go.

I got off at the correct stop after more than a few moments of apprehensive uncertainty regarding my location. I knew not where I was, but my direction was clear: eight miles down the road. Boots were made for walking.

Winter time in England is the land of lonesome darkness, or just a four o’clock sunset, depending on your mood. Though it was only six-thirty, I might as well have been paused in a void of night. Down the road I walked, with its muddy banks and thorny trees with eyelevel branches waiting for a union. My dinky headlight set to flash when I saw the faraway country drivers careening over the hills of this hair-width country road. Otherwise: lost in the stillness, the darkness, the stars, the chills, and the thought. Found in the land unknown.