The Ending, Or Maybe Somewhere Else

They exploded into the promise of dawn with bleary eyed anticipation. It was a raw March morning, and the wind was crashing into their path with jocular derision. The car sped north with the top down - the biting air gave them a rush of life and a feeling in their hearts which falls into a gap of language. The cardboard cut-out towns rolled by, each with their unique expectancy if viewed close enough. They didn't look close enough. They hurtled through the docile panorama, indifferent to its disquiet charm. An old R.E.M. CD carved its subtle melody in the background. Finally, Claire broke the rapid stillness with a predictably quirky question.

If you could be a piece of candy, what would you be?

After a darting smile, Londen answered,

I'd be a butterfinger.

Why a butterfinger?

They're gross. I don't think anyone would eat me. How 'bout you?

I'd be a jolly rancher.

Go on...

Well, I like the idea of simultaneous tartness and sweetness.

If there was a way to respond to that without insulting you, I'd definitely do it.

Smartass.

Procrastination/free-association was the name of the drive. Though there lingered that constant in Londen's mind. Escape was futile. There would be a confrontation with himself soon. The campy prattle with Claire was the perfect palate cleanser.

Their car crept further through the playful hills, and the terrain became more enticingly violent. When they were sufficiently engulfed by the fantastic maw of wilderness, they stopped the car and began walking. The unspoiled beauty was a bit of a shock to Londen and he felt a certain admiration and fear for the natural earth. There was a thought of profound intertwinement, though a feeling of being a foreigner in a strange land. Claire ran ahead, and Londen followed. They began climbing just as the sun was touching the peaks with its late morning passion. Neither of them spoke. They scrambled up the range. Visions began darting in and out of Londen's mind. Suddenly, Claire stopped and spoke to him with a look of rare earnestness.

It's strange, isn't it?

Londen didn't question her, only nodded. He felt a singular tenderness for her just then. He knew they were both thinking of the ineluctable expanse - the mysterious, beautiful and strange life that blossomed and struggled all around them and in their souls. They silently walked back to the car as if speaking would disrupt that rare wavelength emitting to and from each other.

The gracious benefactor night returned as they drove home. It came with all its profane magnitude. As men sleep in their glib sentimentality of moonlight, his inner light was lighted disproportionately to the sun. The tide of lunar influence flowed to him like the Nile. Now, he decided what he must do. Bags were to be packed. He must leave and make a life for himself as all men do. Alone.

Cont...

They stretched themselves over the formidable dark canvas, painting in short strokes of banter as they walked. Londen could already tell this wasn't a night he wanted company, as his mind drifted again into his own echo chamber. He thought of his place in this histrionic universe. He felt uprooted. His strongest bond to the native earth had been tragically severed many years ago. It happened through a final gasp and cold, shut eyes. Ever since, he felt homeless - like a star without a constellation. These less than desirable circumstances did carry one benefit, however: unbridled opportunity. There was no comfort to wrap himself in against the coldness of the world; there were no roots pulling him in against the winds of fortune. There were choices, damnit. Everything to gain, nothing to lose

He abruptly broke his trance by telling his friends he was going home. They were puzzled by the way he was acting from the first they saw of him that night. He covered his tracks by telling them he had planned a trip up north for the following day. Just that moment, he decided he would head north into the mountains. After all, he needed to get out of his own mind for a while. He asked the group if any of them felt like going for a ride and joining him. Gaar and Fred replied that they had planned to drink beer and watch basketball the next day. He completely understood. Claire, to his surprise, told him that she'd like to go. Londen told her that he'd call her early the next morning, and that she better be up, because he meant early. They parted ways.

He tossed and turned more than usual that night. It was all the more frustrating because he planned a game of pantomime with the sun. Sleep eventually beat him into submission, as was custom. He dreamed wild dreams that night - of being locked in a bakery as bakers bombarded him with stale muffins and cupcakes. When he woke to the first signs of light stealthily peering in his room, he thought, Holy shit. I need to start this day and get into some impulsive, wholesome fun. He took a shower, dressed and called Claire.

The Aspirational Vicissitudes of Londen Culkin Cont...

He escaped the silence of the moon and was immediately touched with the dew drop of a familiar voice. The voice was coming from the stage, toward the back of the cafe. It was the first time he'd seen her anywhere other than her subway stage, where she'd croon over the rattle and hum of the red subway trains. Londen lost himself in the precocious melody, as time became the hapless victim of luminescent youth. When the song ended he realized he was standing alone amidst the serene atmosphere of jaunty conversationalists. He looked around for a table and was struck with the sight of a welcome oasis.

This oasis was a group of three people who Londen became friends with while frequenting the various readings and performances of the cafe. Londen would often make his way to this particular cafe during his sleepless nights. It was the sort of detached respite he longed for. One night while poring over a book he brought, Claire introduced herself and her two friends, Gaar and Fred. Over the next month their paths crossed more frequently - they skimmed their respective contents and responded with complaisant satisfaction to the gibes of each other over their latest conquests. You see, they all became friends in short order.

This particular evening, Londen made his way to their table, flashing his fiery eyes and speaking a tad more feverishly than was his wont. He was still enthralled by that voice, and their eager agreement did nothing to quell his fervor. He pulled up a chair and ordered a tazo. The siren song resumed and talk amongst the four of them encompassed the usual game of word magic.

Conditions are fundamentally sound he heard Gaar say. What the fuck does that mean? he thought, as his mind played merry go 'round with her song, the conversation, and that damn restless beast in his mind's dark cavern. Perfunctorily, he caught stream of a question from Claire. It had something to do with her place and a hookah.

You bet! he blurted, only half-paying attention. After all, there were some damn big questions that had to be answered. He'd give his attention some other time. Not tonight.

They slowly got out of their chairs and headed for the door to leave.

to be continued...

The Aspirational Vicissitudes of Londen Culkin

The night was of a hallucinatory character, with lights streaming, people bustling and noises cascading in an orgasm of celebratory chaos. This was where Londen felt most comfortable. Darkness, or so Londen thought, was the tablet for adventure, moonlight and intrigue. Daylight, with its artless allure of bubble gum and roller blades, was merely to be tolerated. Londen stood admiring the whirpool of possibilies out of his apartment window. The city took hold of Londen's romantic egotism and beckoned with all of its pomp and attraction.

Ripped jeans, a v-neck sweater and bargain basement shoes would have to do. Londen shot out the door as if the hypnotic bedlam was coming to an end. He had a slow gait with an easy confidence. Smoke distended from his unnerving mouth in all its merciless gore. Londen walked. There was really no purpose to this prance, other than to kill the restless beast residing in a dark cavern of Londen's mind. Destination? Unknown. Itinerary? None. But in all the confidence of his unspoken genius, Londen anticipated an interesting script. He walked and thought.

Londen could focus on nothing for an extended period because of his desire to consume the entire motherfucking galaxy. He was determined to decide on his next move within the rubric of a nocturnal jigsaw. Visions of unencumbered travel, domestic domesticity, corporate whorishness, do gooding do goodishness, a budding practice, writing all flowed through his head like a spiraling gaggle of famished crows.

In the midst of arguing with himself, he came by a familiar haunt, stamped the faltering cigarette and opened the door.

to be continued...