The sun sets differently on the train. I think it’s because you don’t choose it.
Everywhere else travel is a constant process of choices. There, on the train there’s nowhere to reach, and no way to get there faster. We’re already in motion. I wake up, and I run out the door to get to work. I can taste the urgency in the morning air of the city. I swap breath for the exhaust of a car that carries a person as jittery as me.

People hate ‘sonder’ now, and it makes me sad.
For someone who has just reached a newfound understanding of everyone else’s lives, it seems cruel for that same ‘everyone else’ to pretend this newfound glowing world were something dull and ordinary.
I wonder if anyone can see the irony in that, to find cliche in understanding.
To pretend that it’s effortless to see everyone else with clarity, and that it’s simple implies a staggering misunderstanding, I think.
I hope that I’m wrong.

I think about it on the train, and it hurts my heart.
It’s not just that other people exist—that’s obvious. No one has time for a realization like that.
It’s that they want and hurt, just like you do. They can roar by in an instant, and you’ll never learn their name. Countless libraries of knowledge live and breathe on the same train as you. Someone is living an adventure you might’ve yearned for, but you will never talk to them.
You’re trying to get somewhere, after all.

As we go we forget each other more and more. I don’t remember your face.
Maybe that’s why the sun sets differently on the train.
The world breaks into colors you’ve never seen before, and you pause.
Here aboard the train my heart glows and aches. The sky is alight with shades of morning and noon, even as night presses its palm over my eyes. In front of me, another person watches the evening sky with the same passing joy.
We share a moment together, and they never see my face.

Sometimes sadness is only profound to oneself. I look up to the night sky in the city some days, and I wish tears would come. I wish someone could express the ways that the light bounces off the clouds and makes the city glow. I try to capture it in the moment but you can’t take a photo of a moment. It passes too quickly. The blues and pinks of a long gone sky were left on the tracks behind.
I cannot show someone the way the street smelled when I saw that glowing sunset.
I cannot tell you how big the moon was the night it shined over the city in a haunting orange.
Photos serve an ill substitute for memories, and for living. I forget what it’s like to exist in a time and place. I forget when I pick up the camera. I forget. photo or no.

I want to reach out to that person in front of me.
I want to ask them how they see the night sky, to know what lives behind their eyes. I want to hold a photo of them in my hand, so I might not forget.
It would probably serve me well to stand from the train’s seat. But I won’t, and I didn’t, and I don’t.
The moment passes into my memories. Only a photo of clouds proves it wasn’t a dream, immaterial though they are.

Bright red bunches of swollen roots, celadon stacks of threaded stalks,
variegated hibernal venation, gleaming white tap roots, purple petioles,
paper-wrapped bulbs contain sulfurous layers, destined for sautéed silkiness.

Foraged forest treasures, tube-shaped and dome-capped, soft-toothed and earthy,
sealed plastic packets of sea life and ruminants, stored in ice-packed coolers,
clear glass jars filled with bubbling ferments, salted cabbage and peppers.

Lines form for eggs and chiles and cured meats wrapped in hot blistered shells,
casings stuffed with fatty ground meats and aromatics, sizzling on blackened grates,
flakey baked layers of flour and butter, piped full of fruits and sweetened cream.

Babies in fancy strollers, dogs in quilted vests, old ladies in plastic raincoats,
students with tattoos, chefs with soft-sided wagons, peddler of painted rocks,
honeys huddle on slightly damp wooden slat benches, taking it all in.

We had smoked the morning away joint by joint.

This morning slugged along, as did the rest of the day. We drove, and stopped at every Walmart and Burger King. We lived off one chicken sandwich at a time and free refills of coffee at every juncture. We must’ve hit about three or four Wal-Marts and five or so Burger Kings. It was all in a day’s adventure to stay alive.

From Highway 30, we got into Philly after a two-and-a-half-day drive from Pittsburgh. Normally, this drive should take about three hours. I stopped at a church next to a turn-off on Hwy 30–Gettysburg, a small town in PA, where the horses and carriages still roam the asphalt streets, and sorrows of one of America’s most gruesome battles.

With the modern times rapidly rushing forward, the traditions of the past are still practiced to this day by the long line of descendants of those who keep Amish ways alive. The night before, I had slept in the car of a Walmart fifty feet away from a horse and buggy parking facility that resembled a stable—never have I seen such a thing. The wooden parking structure was equipped with an overhang, a shovel for the shit from the horses, and individual stables per each cart.

We drove through a gigantic Christian college. It bore elegantly carved stone with weathered bricks, enormous white columns, and flowing walkways. Upperlandsville, U.S.A.

By 3 o’clock in the afternoon, we reached Philly from the west end, just as rush hour picked up. We drove in circles in search of a park where we could sit in the grass, relax, laugh, and soak up the summer sun. We finally found a spot to shut off the motor, and slink amongst the city locals. We parked on Locust St., between 5th and 6th. Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell are on 5th, a block north.

I lit some tobacco, leashed up Squeak, and our dingy bodies hit the streets.

The sidewalks guided hella kids on a field trip; I spotted snipers on the rooftops, Homeland Security everywhere, and rangers overseeing the historic grounds in Philly surveying the public activity like a starving eagle.

The roads across the country, so far, had not been confusing but Jersey, what a spidery-clusterfuck.

There we were, at the heart of the nation’s pulse.

The streets were cobblestone and asphalt. The gardens were well-kept, and the grass was greener than the finest green grass you have ever seen. Park rangers walked up and down the streets on the beat. A couple of the guards were talkative, spouting a barrage of facts about the rich history of the surrounding areas. But mostly, it was their job to remain on overwatch, straight-faced, not fuckin’ around.

“The bell rings, and I must go among the grave ones and talk politics.” Benjamin Franklin’s words ring out in such a way that the silence of reading the quote sends a shot to my brain’s receptors. With the bell’s handset back, a swing of the mallet or tug of the rope would send out a vibration in pitch to attract many worldwide to stop, listen in, and hear—well, a ringing bell. The bell severely cracked, as we all learned in the classroom. It felt like the country was cracked, leaking its guts all over the soil.

The bell reads:

“Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.”

Either do away with all borders or recognize that they exist—but if we are going to have a government, run it in a way where everyone is equal for the sake of humanity and the well-being of us all. No matter where you are, we are all little pokies that jut off from the curvature of planet Earth.

Some choose to use power for their benefit at the expense of others—at the expense of the lives of others. Bush is doing an outstanding job of twisting this country around his little finger and bewitching the public with his pointy, strange smile. I was not around for Nixon’s infamous Watergate scandal, but it was not a time worth being around for, especially since they were using the media to disrupt reality in truth.

After the Liberty Bell, we walked across the street to Independence Hall where the Declaration of Independence was written and signed–again, school knowledge. It felt like being on a field trip. Maybe that is just what this is…this trip began two months ago.

The last tour was about to begin. Bobby and I stood lost, ticketless. The ticket lady told a lady, who was also ticketless, that she might be able to get in or something to that effect. So, we hopped in line with the non-ticketers and, by dumb luck, made it through the doors. The day before, we had absorbed the heavy air of Gettysburg, and now, a day later, was Independence Hall—brain overload of information of significant historical worth.

And here I am, standing in the same room where this nation’s rulebook was signed, where history lodged itself between cracks of wood beneath my feet.

We gathered in a small rectangular room with a projection screen to one side and, on the other, an oil painting depicting the day the Constitution birthed its first breath. Our tour guide dished out quality info like a seasoned professional. Her life to give knowledge is hers every day. The guide then escorted the group into the old-time jury room, where a trial of any kind would be placed on the chopping block, from small claims court to murder and treason. Committing treason was unamerican, especially in those days. Seems like something got lost along the way.

The signing of those papers changed everything. Without Ben Franklin pulling strings in France, we might not have gotten the help we needed, and those signers could have faced death for treason. As we know now, it worked out. But even back then, they knew what they were writing was not the final word—it was a start. The same goes for the Constitution, signed in the same building where we now stood, hundreds of years later, just steps away from where the big debates went down.

Wild emotions flooded through my head with every new piece of knowledge our pro tour guide spouted. I stood in the center of the room in silence. As if watching a movie, I imagined the fiery debates and the order in the court. The woman’s voice screeched—good acoustics in the room for everyone to hear clearly. Fun fact—the building itself took about twenty-five years to complete. The builders gave much thought to the place where the framers would hash out the nation’s secret codes, including the surrounding buildings and courtyards—more fine architecture. The tour was about a twenty-minute round trip, but worth a lifetime of memories.

After rambling around Philly trying to find the 94 West on-ramp, we flagged down a FedEx driver who escorted us to the freeway. We peeled off, onto the 94, and smoked another joint leaving Philly in our plume.

Next, we were in search of 202 North, a small highway that ran through average-sized towns and tiny ones, too. We drove the car till the gas light shone red. We had spent most of our gas getting lost following the damn road. The more weed we smoked, the more confused we got, and the more gas we burned.

The police officers in Wayne knew we had arrived. We had California plates, and an American flag sticker flaunting inverted colors, which was enough for them to buzz around the blocks a few times.

We decided to stop at a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot and plot out our next move. We needed a place to stay for the night. Ended up with a box of donuts. Another late-night group had gotten coffee after us, and in the parking lot, our two groups merged. They asked us about our plates, and why we were in Wayne, PA.

We spent a good hour or so outside the shop bullshitting. Ultimate bullshit, I told them my name was Sped *clap-clap* (in eighth notes) and got a couple of laughs—Sped was the nickname given to me along the way. I rolled with it. Mike handed over the guitar, and I started playing. Nikki tried to get me to play “The Butcher Song,” but after being stoned all day, I was not in the mood for singing—just playing. However, it did not take much to talk me into singingThen came the song I had already played fifty times or more, one of the few anthems of our trip: “Baby, I’m an Anarchist,” by Against Me! Then came my song about ink, simply called “The Ink Song.” Finally, the Woody Guthrie song, “I Ain’t Got No Home.” The end of that song would be the turning point of the night.

A brunette girl stayed around for the songs. I did not glance at her sitting on the curb, but I felt the silent communication in the air. I found her comforting, quiet, and a gentle soul. I felt lucky to have had small talk with her. She had only been to Mexico; otherwise, she had never left Wayne, Pa. I had been through many states but never out of the country. She was clean and well-kept. Unlike me, who was days out from my last proper shower. She had done-up nails and tanned skin, not orange but tan. She was smoking Parliaments. She sat and listened like a Greek statue in thought.

The friendly group had continually said that they would love to hit the road but did not think they could. But really, it is about leaving—set a day to leave and go, drive face-first into the unknown at blazing speeds. The brunette in the black sweatshirt had been lost in thought as I was playing, staring at me. Nothing much, but the eager feeling of connection floated amidst the eddying music during those short tunes.

We parted shortly after the last song. We filled the tank with whatever money we had. To our surprise, they dumped fifteen dollars in change with two one-dollar bills. Enough for another cup of coffee, and we found our way north to Hotel Rest Stop to retire our tired brains for the night.

4:07 am now, power off.

The boy moved slowly, feet dragging through the sand, hands kept deep in his pockets. He raised his voice as he drew near, but the wind swallowed it before it could reach the three older kids kneeling in a trench beneath the boardwalk—faces half hidden in shadow.

“We can’t hear you!” one of them called out again, with growing impatience.

The boy spoke again, but the sound hardly carried. By the time he reached them, the group had already stubbed out their cigarettes in the sand. They moved cautiously, like they thought he might bring trouble with him.

“What is it?”

The boy’s body was as taut as a wound spring. His eyes darted around the beach and over the boardwalk, as if someone or something might be watching.

“I need a light,” he said, louder this time, his voice trembling slightly.

The group exchanged glances—a joke, surely? But the boy didn’t flinch.

“What for?”

The boy said nothing, then dipped a hand into the pocket of his dark, worn jeans and drew something out. Holding it low, he cradled it like contraband. The older kids craned their necks to see, but the boy hid it too well.

Again, the boy looked over each shoulder and scanned his surroundings. Then he flipped his palm over to reveal a dirty, half-smoked cigarette, shielding it as though it were something harder.

“Where’d you get that?”

The boy didn’t answer.

It wasn’t unusual, younger kids coming up to them when they smoked, but something wasn’t quite right. Something they had only noticed in his silence.

The boy was young, somewhere between five or six years of age. His skin was rough and cracked from the salty air, and dirt had settled in the crevices of his face. His eyes had a hardness to them—something unrelenting. They were wide and intense, carrying a weight none of them could hold for long. His body was marked with bruises, dried blood, and the telltale grime of neglect. He looked like a baby deer, hit by a car—wide-eyed and bleeding out on a desolate highway. Dying, and not understanding why.

The boy’s lips tightened, and his piercing gaze drilled into them. “I won’t tell anyone.”

One of them shifted, glancing around. “It’s not about that.”

“Then why not?” He asked. His voice broke, the tiniest crack in his steel armor.

“Please…I won’t tell,” he repeated, aware that no one on the boardwalk could see this exchange.

“We can’t.”

The boy nodded once, his expression unreadable. “I understand,” he said. He turned and walked back into the wind, his body hunched in disappointment.

The older kids watched him trudge away through the sand. They glanced at the cigarette carton in front of them but had lost their appetite for it.

They looked back for the boy, but his figure had vanished into the twilight. None of them said a word. The waves filled the silence, steady and hollow.

That being said, the most fascinating thing to me is an estate sale. I find myself constantly checking the websites that announce the dates, and if there’s a good one coming up, it becomes the most exciting day of the week. I explain it to my friends back home in a morbid way– I say I am on a hunt for dead people’s stuff.

I’ve always loved a good sale. For a post-Soviet person, a brand name product has an almost magical status. My grandfather might believe that the “Golden Billion” is plotting evil schemes to turn Russia into an oil pump and nothing more (I argue with him that the Russian government does so successfully by itself, but with no luck). Still he cherishes the American-made Levis he got at the fall of the Soviet Union and dresses like an Ivy League graduate, despite living in the equivalent of a studio apartment in a mass-produced housing complex. I get a thrill holding Bottega Venetta shoes that don’t quite fit because this desire to look like I have means is instinctual.

I love peeking into people’s houses. I love thinking about the decor that people choose. When I look at their stuff, I peek into their souls.

Why did this person collect model trains? Was their grandfather a railroad engineer?

What was the reasoning behind all of the geese and chickens? Is that nostalgia for the simplicity of farm life? I am told it was a decoration trend in the eighties. It’s intriguing.

Why did this person have twenty-five books on the art of telling jokes? Were they told that they were critically unfunny? Did they try to become the soul of the party in a particularly scholarly way? Were they threatened by the success of the class clown?

I look at all the places people traveled to. This family loved cruises. That family must have been to Hawaii at least a thousand times judging by their trinket collection and abundance of Hawaiian shirts. Maybe it was their honeymoon spot, and they came back every year to recapture the magic. Or maybe they bought into an unbreakable timeshare agreement and decided to fully commit to the bit. Maybe they were just fetishizing the culture like a man who buys a Katana and imagines a submissive wife who squeals like an anime character. But there’s no fun in this explanation, so I pretend it’s something else.

When I left home it was abrupt. I didn’t plan on leaving for a long time. I foolishly assumed that he (the one who does the deciding in Russia) would understand what a colossal mistake the war was, and the madness would stop. I didn’t have the opportunity to pack a lot. I didn’t get to pack my great-grandmother’s plates which had a little stamp on the back that translated to “communal nutrition,” or her set of mid-century red drinking glasses. I didn’t get to pack the Russian classics book collection that my grandparents got from the Soviet government in exchange for recycling paper. Back home, I lived in my great-aunt’s apartment, my desk had once been my mother’s desk. It was all a story. I had to leave it. Even the dried flowers from my wedding bouquet.

I took some stuff: my grandmother’s leather jacket; a couple of her dresses; the suit jacket my mom bought in London in ‘96, where she got me my first English books, and her purse with a world map print. When I wear these things, I feel like I am still part of something. I guess that’s why I get excited when I come home from an estate sale with a trinket box  that was made in the Soviet Union—something that five years ago I would have found tacky, but now it feels like a piece that connects me to something.

I get excited when I see a photo of Prague at an estate sale, because I too was in Prague, teaching Russian—back when my compatriots were seen as just strange and not yet evil. I take home a vase made in Portugal because I went there once with my parents (when we saved up to travel for fun, not for survival). It’s like I have this memory represented somewhere here in the US.

I take home a table that has nothing to do with me, my life, or whatever I did before, but it has a story, and now I am a part of this story too. I am not just a blank slate in a new country; I am sitting at the table other people used to sit at, used to have their breakfast at before their children went to school and they went to their jobs, used to have guests over, used to fight and love, used to be. Now, I will continue doing all of this at this table, and maybe, if I am lucky, my children will do the same.

One day, maybe, some other immigrant will walk around my estate sale, and will try to piece together Russian trinkets; graphic t-shirts; biographies of political dissidents Italian crime bosses, and supermodels; cheetah-print pillows; a poster saying “vicious trollop” under a red lipstick. They will love this table and take it home.

Behemoth of the deep that I have become, straining in discomfort to scratch on anything I can find purchase against, I crash gently from Me into You, with force strong enough to kill. If there is any air in your lungs, it leaves faster than you’re able to admit.

So you sink with me.

To hold my hand while we tumble at your speed to the depths of my depravity would be too great an honor. I’ve turned my hands into fins, my sweet smile into impossible teeth and melon and cavernous space fit to fill with water and suck you deeply, crushingly far inside.

It’s so cold you don’t even shiver. The human body forgets itself this far down. Your feeble arteries can’t get your blood right. You could die down here just as easily as you could turn into a mermaid, chasing your own tail in a pitch darkness your eyes weren’t made for.

I could swallow you on the way down.

But something about the slow, gentle spiral of the way you fall reminds me for the last time of leaves before they touch land and begin to rot in new and familiar ways.

To follow you this far down is to seal my own fate. But like a child searching for worms in the playground dirt, I, the whale that I am, have always wanted to see the bottom of the blue hole.

(2)

With purpose I swirl and swirl down to see the worms I’ve yearned for since I was conceived.

There’s no glory in ascent here—to descend is to nourish and save the souls of the blind, the ravenous, and the forgotten.

I sing sweet one last time to announce my arrival, landing with a keening thud where my bones will eventually become home to a million writhing bodies.

The teeth that rip and the mouths that drill fill me with an ecstasy I may not have ever known if I had accepted an ascent from the gods above.

My loyalties lie below me, and my bones knew this before birth.

Even as worms bite and tear chunks of me, each and every one becomes part of me, carrying the whole and soul of who I am far away from here.

I am reborn as a single dangerous light in the dark, an old wanderer confused and floating free in unfamiliar bright. I have found new life in filling another for the last time, who fills another, who then becomes a controversial soup.

So I too become nothing more than a stew; a rigid brittle slime torn apart and filled with shit and macro-nutrients.

So then have at me as you may, worm that you are. Break through me and use me to get through your short, brutish, miserable life. I hope I serve you well.

¹first of the names we gave ourselves
²dark-tinted visions, angle
³limbs against the wind from car windows. we
⁴nothing. want only each other. we
⁵first of the bodies we found ourselves. full
⁶bellied laughter in parking lots & bars. when
⁷is meaningless, there are always firsts to discover.