Train Station

This weekend I spent some time camping in Poland. The four of us stayed at an abandoned train station on the Czech border which had been squatted and reclaimed by a travelling theater about thirty years ago. The station was converted into a rather large house with two floors. On the ground level was a spacious wooden kitchen and attached double shower, a huge living room equipped with a piano and other various instruments as well as a small bar/cafe, a second bathroom, and a cavernous garage full of odd artistic knickknacks and props where a beautiful punching bag hung in dusty glowing light. Above the ground floor were a bunch of private quarters which I did not see.

The land around the station had been repurposed for events and festival work. There was a stage, a small meditation temple, trampolines, swings, a large geodesic dome made of small trees and cut branches, an aerialist's arch, and an assortment of other structures that could accommodate various types of events or parties. A collective of like-minded people lived and worked there as a unit, and a small set of wandering volunteers performed small tasks, offering help in exchange for food and a place to sleep. The station was run by a couple with a few small children. Markus, a tall, broad shouldered, viking looking man with a long ponytail and strong Norwegian beard was responsible for the place. His wife, Vicka, was daughter to a woman who had been a member of the original theater group. We met her as well. The couple running the show were always busy.

Amongst the volunteers were some Poles, a chubby, frizzy-haired hippy girl from Denmark, another one from Czech with red dreadlocks and light blue eyes, and an English guy from Kent. Most of them were pleasant company. Asia, Kasia, Filip and I camped in the woods a short distance from the house and its adjacent structures. Myself and the two ladies set up our tents beside an abandoned caravan sitting near to three hammocks and a fire pit. Perfect placement if I'd ever seen any. Before setting up camp we made ourselves busy with some gardening and painting. Once we'd had our fill of work, beers were had in celebration. The vibe was relaxed and cozy. Conversation floated by on the warm evening air, circulating around the long wooden dinner table in lazy fruit fly formations. We ate hippy food. A meal of foraged mushrooms and things I couldn't easily identify. Later there were pancakes with flowers pressed into them, paired with fresh strawberries.

The next day we were lucky enough to drive through the beautiful Lower Silesian countryside, which bore a shocking resemblance to the hills and valleys of Northern California, to a local market which happens only a few times per year. People sold homemade jams and honeys, Polish pastries, cheeses and meats, coffee and kombucha, vegan textiles and other wares. There were performances for the children, and pizza. In the sun the temperature was scorching, so we made sure to take refuge in the shade when we could. Most of the others from the collective had been there too.

After we left we took a ride to a gorgeous park with a lake nestled in between the mountains. All of the leaves and foliage were vibrant green and a group of children played at the dock where two wooden canoes were tied. Asia's friend worked for the place, so we were able to take the boat out on the water for an hour. I'd never rowed a boat before so I got us lost in the weeds a few times before finally getting the hang of it. The hour rushed by and before we knew it we had to bring the boat back before the service desk closed. It was good fun and all of us were glad to have made the memory.

The next day, on Monday, the trip would end with some time spent swimming in a lake close to the station where, after a swim, we'd sit in the grass and eat avocados and olives while drying off in the sun. Because I'm barely able to swim, most of my time was spent trying to learn how to move my body like a frog in the water. It isn't coordinating the arms that's the hard part, it's the legs. I wonder if my hamstrings and hips are just too tight for the movement to feel natural. Asia gave me warm encouragement. Filip tried to help, too. This moment by the lake is especially memorable to me, perhaps for its novelty. Maybe because I don't often swim - for the reason I mentioned above. Or maybe the combination of the heat, the bit of exercise, the time of day, the feeling of sunlight lifting water from my skin and wet clothes, and lying with Asia glistening in the grass all came together to create a slow rolling euphoria. A dreamy tranquility.

In the days since the trip I've found it difficult to remain motivated at work. I've been reminded of how much simpler life can be. How much more enjoyable, natural. A foolishness pervades the hours spent standing at my desk. The mindlessness necessary to stay committed to the continual performance of meaningless tasks is demented, a deranged drudgery. A different kind of life is calling to me. It has been for some time. Maybe only now I'm beginning to understand instead of just hearing it. Perhaps my move from giant American corporation to less giant American corporation to unknown European startup has been a gradual form of awakening, an acknowledgement that it is not money which determines happiness. Nor, it now seems, is a change of location alone capable of sustaining happiness. It is the cultivation of a healthy outlook, maintaining a balanced perspective, community, meaning; being near to good people, giving and receiving love in the face of fear; integration and interconnectedness. These generate joy. An enduring contentedness can not easily be found in things. This is because joy is not an end to be achieved. You don't just attain it and then get to keep it forever. Instead we should perceive joy as something more akin to balancing on one foot. To get good at it we must constantly train, focus our attention, our intentions.

Once you realize you have all the skills necessary to secure your happiness, you have to ask yourself: well, what else are you waiting for?

FUNgivores

I know I'm way behind. I owe you a post about the rest of our trip to Catalonia, but today you will get the ramblings of another kind of trip. On Saturday Asia and I decided we would sample some home grown mushrooms. We were to try our luck with an entirely different diet, one far more biologically ecological - by rejecting the animal kingdom and plant kingdom alike, we would become fungivores. Emphasis on the fun. Naturally, as we talked this over while returning from a nearby bike shop where I was told it would cost me 150€ to install rear brakes, tighten my spokes, and attach a freewheel cog, I addressed the situation with mild apprehension. Asia and I had never taken psychedelics together; well, short of lots of pot gummies in Barcelona and the occasional joint, bong, or CBD oil in Poland. Mushrooms was the big leagues. Anyone who's ever done mushrooms can tell you this. There's no hiding from your demons while silly psilocybin mucks around in your mind. Thoughts and feelings can quickly become frightening fun house mirrors full of distorted proportions and tall terrors. Now, to be frank, I am not an inexperienced consumer of fungus. All of you know that. My middle name is fungus.

However.

Because I am not new to the mind-bendingly magical world of mind-altering substances, I know how strange things can become. Shit can go from zero to sixty real fast. On perhaps more than one occasion I have damaged a relationship due to careless use of hallucinogens - notably my last one. This time I was to take the journey more seriously. Immediately deeper contemplation produced a sense of swelling dread and foreboding. Shadows inside my skull swirled. Anxiety had me humming like a bell.

"What are you worried about, my love?" Asia asked me as we walked towards my apartment.

"Everything."

"I don't think you need to be," she said, taking my hand.

"Maybe you're right. What better hands could I be in? You have experience working with people who are mentally ill; this should be a walk in the park," I said.

"Exactly!"

"But what if I get weird?"

"Weird how?" she asked.

"Like, I dunno, quiet and overwhelmed. What if I want to be alone?"

"That's fine."

...

"And anyway, the experience is only temporary," she added.

"True. Let's see how I feel."

So we went home and packed the necessary items: water, snacks, games, a blanket, sunscreen, bluetooth speaker and most importantly, the mushies. At Asia's request, we didn't take the amount I initially suggested, which was about half a gram each. Given we don't know the potency, she reasoned, it might be better to start with less and increase the dose if needed. Right. So we each munched on a mushroom and I placed the rest inside a small bag in my pocket. Off we went. It didn't take long for things to start transitioning. As we lay in the grass at Hasenheide Park, a group of about eight or ten girls stood in a circle humming harmonies. Hippies. This was a good place to be. They were hugging and eating watermelon. All was right.

"How do you feel?" Asia asked.

"Hmm," I said, taking inventory of my senses, "a bit shroomy." My head felt light, but also heavy. So did my limbs. Moving them around produced a very pleasant sensation. Music was softer, fuller. The thin layer of sweat on my skin took on new dimensionality. Asia seemed to be feeling these feelings too.

"I think I have to pee," she added.

"You just pissed before we left, no?"

"Yeah, but I drank a lot of mate."

"You want to go back to my place and use the bathroom? I can give you the key if you want," I said.

"Nah, maybe I'll go right there in that bush," Asia said, pointing. When I followed her finger to see which bush she was referencing, I found a small shrub beside a park bench where a seedy looking drug addict sat. Just beyond the bench, on the other side of the bush, were some small children picnicking with their families. It looked like a birthday party. There were balloons. I imagined Asia crouched down, a demented, mirthful smile on her face as yellow piss spritzed out of her like an overturned lawn sprinkler for the whole family to see. Maybe the guy on the bench would try to drink it.

"That bush?"

"Yeah."

"Next to the sketchy guy on the bench?"

"Yeah."

"Near the children celebrating their 4th birthdays?"

Yeah."

"There's a bathroom at the beer garden my love, it's only a few minutes away."

"Okay," she said.

"Let's walk."

We packed up our things. As soon as I stood up I could feel the world was a little off balance. I thought I had accidentally stepped foot into a swamp, but when I looked down at my feet I realised they were sweating profusely and soggying up my socks. It was hot out. The hottest day of the year so far. The air cooled us a little as we walked. After a brief stroll through a blooming rose garden, we arrived at the bathroom and relieved ourselves. I waited for Asia and the music playing through the portable speaker sounded more seductive. My muscles moved with the rhythm. The sonic texture of the melody became more liquid, wetter, slipperier. She caught me dancing when she returned. We danced together for a minute and then wandered through the park to an open field. It was raised on either side, creating the feeling of being in a kind of bowl. We set down the blanket and ate some guacamole and chips as waves of psychedelia washed over us. The trees danced a slow dance with the wind. Asia and I got up and danced to The Dire Straits "So Far Away."

"This song is so good!" she said.

It was. But when I looked around I noticed we were catching the attention of those around us. People who had no music of their own. I felt a feeling of resentment from them. Because they weren't feeling free, they didn't want us feeling free either. Maybe they were people who hated music. I could sense their resentment turning into contempt. Then I felt the bag of mushrooms in my pocket dancing, too. I turned to Asia who, while I was distracted, bent town and picked up a wooden paddle which she had transformed into a ukulele. She was dancing, playing lead guitar and drums at the same time. It was impressive. Now even more people were looking at us. A small dog had emerged and he too stopped and began to stare. I think I saw a cop up in a tree holding binoculars. Suddenly I realized there was a solitary portapotty in the middle of the field. Surely this wasn't a public toilet. We had just come from the public toilets. No. This wasn't a toilet at all. It was a surveillance station. Who would put a portapotty in the middle of a field? It didn't make any sense.

"Hey, my love," I said to her, "I think we should walk somewhere."

"Oh yeah," she asked, looking at me a little funny, "am I being too crazy?"

"No," I said, sweating, looking again for the cop hidden in the trees, "I just think it might be fun to explore more of the park."

Just then I spotted the cop, who, instead of watching from the tree with his binoculars, was now trying to conceal himself behind the portapotty. And the dog was with him, too. Never trust a fucking dog. You see, that's why I like cats. A cat will never turn out to be a cop. Okay, we had to get out of here. They were moving in on us.

"Okay, babe," I started to say, but when I turned to her I saw that she had wrapped herself up completely in the blue blanket and was dancing around like a reanimated mummy. Jesus, I thought, there goes plausible deniability. It's easily 100 degrees outside. There isn't anything more conspicuous you could do than cover your entire body in a blanket and start dancing. She might as well have made a sign that says we're on drugs. When she spun around I saw that she had written a sign that said we're high on life. Man, it was too nice to go to jail today.

"Hey, my love," I began to say.

"Mmm mm ngah urgghh ufff! Ahh mm a barrghhttahh!" she screamed from under the blanket.

"What?" I asked, starting to panic.

She thrust her head out through the blanket and said, "I am not your love, I am a burrito!"

I didn't know what to say.

"Got any...gwah KA MO' LAYYYY?!"

I started to run. She picked up the speaker and my Sonny and the Sunsets bag and chased after me. I ran into the toilets we had been to earlier. I started to piss when I heard the music approaching outside. Bill Withers "You Got the Stuff" was playing. Was everyone trying to get me arrested today? Et tu, Billte?

"My love, are you in there?" Asia asked.

"Yeah, I'm pissing."

"Come on out, or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow the house down!"

"Not. By. The. Hair. On. My. Chinny. Chin. Chin!" I screamed back.

"Can you please come out? There's a nice police officer who wants to speak to you."

Fuck. "Oh, sure, one second!!" I said, as calmly as I could. Quickly I snatched the bag of mushrooms from my pocket. "Just a moment." I shook the contents of the bag into the toilet. "I get a little shy sometimes when I know people are listening." I hammered on the handle to flush the bowl but nothing was happening. Again. Nothing. Again.

"Are you okay, my love?" Asia asked, sounding anxious. The music stopped.

"Yeah, I'm okay, I umm, one sec." I began kicking madly at the handle. Bruce Lee roundhouse kicking the handle. Nothing. Chuck Norris flying kicking the handle. In vain. I looked up and saw the sign that said Achtung! Dein Schwanz ist klein! Fuck! I think that means the toilet is out of order. Of course it is. There wasn't any water in the bowl - it was all piss. Well, I guess I was out of options. My only chance was to play stupid. Obviously they weren't my mushrooms. So I threw the empty baggy on the floor, prepared my soberest smile, and exited the toilet.

"Why are you smiling like that?" Asia asked, laughing.

"Like what?" I said, smiling and looking around for the cop. "Where's the cop?"

"What cop?" she asked.

"You just told me there was a cop out here."

"Ohh," she said, laughing harder than before, "I'm sorry, I was kidding. Why would there be a random cop who wants to talk to you?!"

...

"What are you, high?!"

...

"Oh. You are."

...

"You flushed the mushrooms, didn't you?"

...

"I didn't hear the toilet flush though."

...

"They're floating in a pile of piss aren't they?"

"...yes."

We walked across the park and laid in the shade of a tree where two guys played Spanish guitar. The wind ran its fingers over the grass like it was petting a big dog. Trees swayed happily on the breeze. In the distance, a group of elderly pagans seemed to have constructed a maze, or a small amphitheatre made of stones. One of them seemed to be holding a wooden fish. Maybe they were Christians. Let's stay far away from them.

The next thing I knew we were walking through a labyrinth while an old woman played a sad clarinet which served as theme music for our death march through the winding narrow path. This wasn't the first time I had found myself unintentionally walking with a partner through a labyrinth while on psychedelics. An odd thing to have happen to you more than once, no? This time was different, though. We walked without hurry. We giggled and talked and took moments of silence, and when we got to the center we didn't immediately turn around and leave, we sat down. Children came and fluttered around us, paying no mind to the deliberately designed passages and, instead, chose to form their own paths by hopping over the rocks and chasing each other with no specific goal of arriving at the middle. Then someone said something in German. Asia told me this meant there was about to be a performance. I turned around and saw a man with a strange music box that he was pumping at his pelvis. The children stopped to watch. Parents, too. The man and his musicians began making odd sounds and harmonies, some nightmarish, and some choirly. We watched this for a while. A cello and a gong were added to the mix. Eventually we relocated to a patch of sunny grass between some trees behind the show. By this time we were sobering up and reflecting on the experience. I shared some vulnerabilities with Asia and she listened with open ears and an open heart. Her eyes were so full of warmth and love. I wanted to crush her in my arms. She asked me good questions and after talking I felt even closer to her.

We went back to the rose garden and I had a beer before eating another mushroom which I had fished out of the toilet with a piece of dental floss. We went grocery shopping before going home to cook. We ate and danced and listened to music. After that we went back to the park to catch a 9:30 showing of Green Book in the open air movie theatre. It was a beautiful warm night and the skies were clear. Overhead stars were twinkling. We laid out our blue blanket on the seats and cuddled up next to one another. The movie was safe and somewhat archetypal, having a mass appeal; nothing mind-blowing. The day was perfect and easy and effortless.

I'm glad I spent it with you.

After the movie was over I turned off the TV and kicked everyone out of my apartment. Asia and I set up a tent in my living room and turned on the sounds of the forest. Inside the tent we smoked some weed from a small bong and listened to the farm animals in the night. A mushroom came to me. It said that humans think they're tripping when they eat mushrooms, but they are mistaken. It's the mushroom that's tripping, not the human. It's only while the fungus is being absorbed into the lifestream of the human that it can achieve self actualisation. 

Because mushrooms don't have eyes. 
Or legs. 
Or ears. 
Or a nose, or mouth. They 
want 
to 
dance. 

They want to feel -- any feeling, not just pleasure. But also pain, struggle. All feelings are okay, because the experience is only temporary. 

The mushroom told me that everything is always okay, and it's all connected through an elaborate mycelial network, a sort of vibrating harmonic web of light and energy and sound, and that humans are lucky because they have a unique psycho-physiology that allows them to perceive the structures of this web. The mushroom's head became a spider's head. It danced all around me in circles as shimmering light fell out of its mouth and wrapped me in a suit of armor. I couldn't really move anymore but I didn't want to. I felt safe, and happy. The spider mushroom told me it would take control of my brain if I wanted, but that I didn't have a choice anyway. It told me I would one day climb to the tallest structure I could find, but it would take me a long time. The structure wasn't a structure in a physical sense, it was something that forms by the passing of time. But the spider-mushroom-me assured myself that it would take a lifetime to reach the proper height and, once I reached it, that it (me) would burst from my brain and all the spores would rain down like electric snow pollenating generations of beings that would come into being but had not yet come into being, and that this contribution was essential and unpreventable. 

It sounds like fireworks, I told mushroom spider me. It is like fireworks, I told me.

Surrealistic Tits

I'm back from Barcelona. What a trip. I don't even know where to begin. We were gone for eleven days. So much happened. There was a crucifixion procession in a medieval village, full of child members of the Klu Klux Klan. I joined a marijuana collective. A demonic cat tried to force itself on me as we slept in the remote mountain wilderness of the Catalonia. I ate some of the best food of my life. Should I start by talking about praying while stoned off of THC gummybears in La Sagrada Familia? Maybe about a drunk restauranteer who tried to steal Asia from my arm with offers of luxury travels to exotic, far away lands? Or Michael, a drunk Austrian who, one night at a hostel in Figueres, regaled us with stories of the fabulous Napoli-style pizza ovens inside Auschwitz?

Where does any story start, if not at the beginning? I arrived in Catalonia in the same state I would later leave: sleep deprived to the point of certifiable mental retardation. The night before my trip I was out at a show watching legendary Ethiopian Jazz musician, Hailu Mergia. Because of this, I didn't get home until late and found myself landing in Barcelona with only three hours sleep in my fuel-tank. Once I exited the plane, I stumbled into the airport bathroom, fumbled for my zipper, pulled out my average-sized penis, and took a steamy shit in my trousers in front of the urinal. Surely sitting in a bathroom stall would have been a far better venue for this type of procedure, don't you think? Well, I didn't think. I was incapable of thinking. Instead I drooled idly onto my shirt and stared blankly in the mirror. Reaching in through the open zipper of my pants, I grabbed a fistful of feces from my soiled undergarments like an elephant reaching with it's trunk into the anus of a neighbouring elephant for untold chocolatey treasures. Twisted and contorted at comic angles, I finally freed the feces from the clutches of my underwear, but the story didn't stop here. Had I deposited the shit into the garbage can like I thought I had, the story may have had a somewhat happy ending. Instead, a loud whirring sound told me that I'd placed the booty balm into the Dyson hand dryer. I watched with demented, mute horror as chunks of poo erupted from the device like the initial wet warning farts of an active volcano. Later on in our trip we would descend to the bottom of a volcano where an old church sat. In this moment, though, there was nothing holy about this shit.

I scuttled from the bathroom and made my way to a cash machine. I needed new pants, you see. After agreeing to the petty 5-Euro robbery necessary to withdraw money from the ATM, I took a few hundred out thinking I'd have some cash in me in the event I needed to buy some speed or bribe a police officer. With my bloated wallet I boarded the bus to Barcelona and stashed my bag in a seedy carpark. Why I expected my belongings to be placed inside a locker, or some kind of safe, I am unsure. What happened in place of this was an exchange of 2-Euros for a greasy-haired Spaniard to throw my bag into nearby janitor's closet. I had the comforting feeling that my valuables would certainly be insured should any of them go missing, but when I tried to confirm this with the man, he suddenly seemed to forget the English he was fluently speaking only moments ago. He smiled and said, no comprendo amigo, no worry. He put my mind at ease and I bid him a good day. I ventured out into the sunny streets of Barcelona where the trees were bristling on the warm breeze. Now that my bag was gone I was free to wander around the city unencumbered.

I killed an hour or two by strolling through Eixample and then grabbing lunch at a popular restaurant serving Peruvian ceviche. I ordered a bunch of food and as I sat waiting I felt a wave of fatigue wash over me. To keep myself awake I took another look at the menu. Upon closer inspection I found all of the V's had been replaced with B's. Ceviche had been conspicuously renamed to cebiche. Immediately I wondered if I was at the right restaurant. Was this some cheap imitation? Were knockoff restaurants a thing in Spain? When I confronted the waiter, who was previously very cordial, he scratched his head and struggled to find words in English. He began speaking in quick Spanish sentences that ran off his lips in staccato flourishes that I couldn't make sense of. Asking him to slow down proved to be of no use and so I focused instead of the cocktail he had placed in front of me. Soon the food arrived and I ate incomprehensibly tasty sea urchin cebiche. Then something I don't remember the name of but was the nicest, lightest fish I've ever had. After that a classic cebiche full of onions and tiger milk was brought out to me. Once more I was dazzled by the deliciousness of the fish. I paid, told the waiter eberything was bery good, and left.

Back at the carpark I picked up my bag. I must have been a little drunk from the cocktail because my bag felt so much lighter now. On the next block I met my Airbnb host and he escorted me to the top of the building where our room would be, in the attic. I dropped my bag in front of the balcony window and gazed out at the city. Then I collapsed onto the bed and woke up a few hours later. Before strolling out to dinner I stopped by a local florist to get Asia some flowers to welcome her with. The florist was a kind old woman with warm eyes and strong hands. She expertly cut up a fresh bouquet of mixed flowers and turned it into a truly beautiful, artful arrangement as she made dinner recommendations. She even spritzed the flowers down with some water to give them a sparkly, littered with diamonds sort of look. It was stunning. I was so moved by her work that tried to tip her but she wouldn't allow me. I bid her farewell and walked through El Raval and into the Gothic Quarter. In front of the Cathedral of Barcelona I saw a street performer play a beautiful rendition of a Bob Dylan song as the sun painted the face of the old building in glowing orange light. Everyone stopped and stared at the architecture, took pictures, kissed and hugged to celebrate the spectacular aesthetic splendor of the scene.

Next I found myself in front of the Picasso museum. A tapas restaurant was just opening and it was causing quite a queue to form. I happened to be standing in the queue, very near to the front, so I didn't move. When I looked behind me a few minutes later the line had quadrupled. This is where I would have dinner. Because I was alone, I was put at a table by myself, but only for a moment. A young, college-aged Korean girl joined me. I greeted her as we each looked at the menu on the table that neither of us could read. When the waiter returned he asked me if I ate fish and meat and I told him I did. He proceeded to bring out the most delectable foods I'd ever tasted. To pair it, I ordered a glass of Estrella Damm and washed it down. The Korean and I had some light conversation. She was only in Barcelona for two days. Today was her first. She was studying in the south of Spain and wanted to see Barcelona and then Paris for her Easter break. She was nice, but the interaction was a little strained because of a hyper-politeness on her part - combined with a slight language barrier - which made anything but brief, shallow exchanges difficult. Eventually she left and then so did I. I followed her and smothered her with my soiled underwear in the shadows of a deserted alley.

From the restaurant I travelled to a local bar to kill a little bit of time before I'd catch the bus I would need to take to the airport to meet Asia. I had a vermut and then got on the bus. The ride was pleasant and mostly empty, except for two young girls who spoke surreptitiously of sex or something like it. When I got to the airport my body must have remembered the earlier incident and I had to sprint to the bathroom to avoid depositing another muddy mess in my pantaloons. Soon after this Asia had landed. We took the bus back to our rooftop apartment and got some much needed sleep.

...I'll write more tomorrow, my computer is dying and it's getting late.

Sprummer Has Sprumm

I'm writing from a computer that's over ten years old. A vintage black Macbook that's still in perfect working order. The dust on it has my nose itching. Typing on it evokes memories of typing on a typewriter. Because the keys are taller, they have to be pressed more firmly to elicit a response. It makes the experience more tactile and deliberate. The reason I'm typing on this machine, which was given to me by an ex-girlfriend a long, long time ago, is because I've forgotten my charger at work. The battery died yesterday while playing music through my speakers. The urge to write struck me and so I got down on all fours and slid under my bed in search of the old computer. It isn't as snappy as the newer models, but what it lacks in speed it makes up for in reliability. This thing is built like a tank, and is as heavy. Wild that a 12-year-old computer has managed to outlast a top of class model half its age.

The weather is sunny and gloriously warm in Berlin. The entire city is alive with sound and motion. Birds are everywhere. People, too. Outside all of the cafes groups of people sit in the sun drinking and laughing and smoking cigarettes. Couples walk with smiles on their lips and beers in their grips. Summer in Berlin is a special time. And while it isn't technically summer yet, it feels that way. Summer has come early here for the second year in a row. And really, summer isn't about a period of successive months between May and August, it's about a summer feeling; of heat, cold beer, long days and even longer nights, a time when shorts and t-shirts signal newfound freedom from the cold clutches of winter. Worldwide weather patterns are changing and we'll need to redefine what it means for summer to start. Sprummer.

Right now there is little difference between spring and a mild summer day. Except for the pollen of course. Fits of sneezing wake me each morning, followed by intensely itchy eyes. The itching localizes right at the corners of my eyes where they bend in towards the bridge of my nose. I've never had a mosquito bite on this part of my eye, but I'd imagine it would feel something like this. A few minutes ago the sun left my living room, where it had been pressing itself against a painting of a woman hanging on the wall. The sun sets at a slightly different angle this time of year. As it sinks over the horizon, the light passes through an old tree in my backyard. When the wind moves the branches the light moves across my apartment like fire. Somehow it acquires a liquid texture as it travels through the windowpane, producing a really soothing and psychedelic effect. Outside, through the open balcony doors, I can hear the protests of small children as parents usher them away from the small petting zoo. Birds continue chirping, and will continue to do so for perhaps another thirty minutes or so, when the sky has grown dark.

In a few days, to properly kick off spring, I'll go to Barcelona with Asia. I don't think I've mentioned her here, officially, but it seems I should. Asia, not to be confused with Earth's largest and most populous continent by the same name, isn't even Asian, she's Polish. To further complicate things, Asia isn't even her real name, it's Joanna. A fact revealed to me only after having known her for more than a year. Last weekend she and I participated in a marijuana-fueled, mango Pagan sex pact. I think this means we're engaged now. Or maybe we're married? I guess Barcelona will be our honey moon. During the ceremony I remember feeling my genitals becoming one with hers. It momentarily horrified me because I thought she'd completely consumed my manhood. But, for every ritual a sacrifice is necessary. We spilled the blood of my choked chicken, and it was magical. I shouldn't throw jokes in here during her introduction, or focus on things sexual. She's so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so much more than someone to take drugs with and fuck. She's the kind of partner I've always dreamed of. I don't want to get all gushy and write long droning paragraphs about her, so I won't.

But I will say we make a great team. I'm excited to roam around Catalonia with her at my side. We'll spend five days in the city proper, sightseeing and eating and drinking, and then we'll have six set aside for an off-roading adventure where we'll try our hands at life like hobos. Sleep will take place in a tent or in the trunk of our car - a trusty Ford Focus, assuming the car rental company hasn't deceived us and replaced the vehicle with something comically smaller, like a Mini Cooper or a Fiat - and showers will happen surreptitiously, at small coastal beaches in the early morning. We'll be eating a variety of indigenous beetles and moths that we plan to attract using local honey and fresh wildflowers. She tells me that we can grind them up into a delicious pate and spread them over rice cakes. As far as a bathroom goes, we plan to rob two shiny red buckets from a Spanish toystore shortly after we secure our getaway car. In addition to our mobile accommodations, we intend to spend a least a few nights in the homes of complete strangers, hopefully with their permission. But we don't mind staying without their permission, also. It will be hard for them to protest too much with our buckets over their heads. The night before Easter I guess we'll lock ourselves in cave somewhere and then emerge the following day proclaiming that we are Jesus Christ, the lord and savior, returned from heaven to heal the sinful for a free meal and a ride to Girona airport.

More on our adventure once we get back...