Friends, pt 1

Today, I’m happy to show you the first post send to me by some of my friends. the author is Trevor, probably the only person I know who can be called a movement even when he’s alone. Enjoy.

Italy, July, how we tramped away from the beach after nightfall, the eight of us, up a slight hill, past a hotel, descending carefully as our eyes adjusted to the starlight to a small clearing off a garbage-rife path next to a rocky beach. Some splashes of sambuca down our throats, sleeping mattresses laid out, shedding clothing, hastening to the waters. Counting constellations and satellites, floating naked on our backs.

Italy, July, how we tramped away from the beach after nightfall, the eight of us, up a slight hill, past a hotel, descending carefully as our eyes adjusted to the starlight to a small clearing off a garbage-rife path next to a rocky beach. Some splashes of sambuca down our throats, sleeping mattresses laid out, shedding clothing, hastening to the waters. Counting constellations and satellites, floating naked on our backs.How we spoke, how we laughed, how we feared the cops who never came – we watched a blinking light drive across the cliffs across the inlet, hoping it wouldn’t head our direction, we saw spotlights shine from the boats out at sea (they’d checked our documents once already, earlier).

How we spoke, how we laughed, how we feared the cops who never came – we watched a blinking light drive across the cliffs across the inlet, hoping it wouldn’t head our direction, we saw spotlights shine from the boats out at sea (they’d checked our documents once already, earlier).The heat, gone, the rocks still warm from the sun. Zlatka, by my side, telling me to stay away and talk, the darkness makes conversation better, truer, more profound. Nodding in the darkness, muttering agreement, hoping she’d sleep soon so I could put away the pantomime of wakefulness.

The heat, gone, the rocks still warm from the sun. Zlatka, by my side, telling me to stay away and talk, the darkness makes conversation better, truer, more profound. Nodding in the darkness, muttering agreement, hoping she’d sleep soon so I could put away the pantomime of wakefulness.The crinkling of sleeping bags’ zippers as we adjusted positions, one leg stuck out into the nighttime air to combat the heat. The sounds of slumber, heavy slow breathing, occasional snores resonating softly. Mosquitoes.

The crinkling of sleeping bags’ zippers as we adjusted positions, one leg stuck out into the nighttime air to combat the heat. The sounds of slumber, heavy slow breathing, occasional snores resonating softly. Mosquitoes.Waking – or, rather, agreeing to accept consciousness – early, the sun beating down, sitting up to see the sea. Breakfast of bread, cheese, tomatoes and red wine, sparse conversation, swimming and packing and walking to town for coffee and another day in a coastal Italian village.

Waking – or, rather, agreeing to accept consciousness – early, the sun beating down, sitting up to see the sea. Breakfast of bread, cheese, tomatoes and red wine, sparse conversation, swimming and packing and walking to town for coffee and another day in a coastal Italian village.You smile – reader – but you shouldn’t. You read these words, you imagine the scene. But you’ll never understand the way I squinted across the table, studying the atlas with Jonas while drinking a cappuccino, or the almost frightening way the water glistened in the starlight, or the sublime ravenousness in Lisa’s expression as we eyed the foccacia behind the counter.

You smile – reader – but you shouldn’t. You read these words, you imagine the scene. But you’ll never understand the way I squinted across the table, studying the atlas with Jonas while drinking a cappuccino, or the almost frightening way the water glistened in the starlight, or the sublime ravenousness in Lisa’s expression as we eyed the foccacia behind the counter.See, the jar will never be full; I can continue cramming details, glimpses into it as long as I want. Like any ephemeral gas, its volume is indefinite. I can add images, dialogue, exposition in amounts approaching infinity, and like the infinite, you will never have enough information to understand why and how that moment, for me, remains a .

See, the jar will never be full; I can continue cramming details, glimpses into it as long as I want. Like any ephemeral gas, its volume is indefinite. I can add images, dialogue, exposition in amounts approaching infinity, and like the infinite, you will never have enough information to understand why and how that moment, for me, remains a . There are moments that pass, and there are moments that are moments. I try to cultivate the latter.

. I try to cultivate the latter.And I fail when I write about them. These moments, they’re impossible to jar like jam or fireflies, they’re slippery, the light’s never right, obstructions everywhere.

And I fail when I write about them. These moments, they’re impossible to jar like jam or fireflies, they’re slippery, the light’s never right, obstructions everywhere.But occasionally I try.

But occasionally I try.