Last Call

Writer's Note: This entry was written two days ago :)


I find myself standing behind the glistening flat-topped silver barrier known to most as the bar at Wellington's.

The slicing sensation of a freshly opened bottled beverage sends an icy chill to the palm of my right hand as I take in the horizon of an empty room. Final patrons have paid their tabs, the register has been successfully closed, and each required individual side-work has been accomplished without issue. The only remaining disturbance to the otherwise serene atmosphere of the bar is a hardly recognizable rhythm originating from a low volume stereo system.

The twilight of the day has passed and impenetrable views of layered blackness from every visible window give an impression that nothing exists from beyond the bar doorway. With a quick combination of taps along computer screen via a free index finger the shift for today has now officially reached its timely climax. 

For me the final routine before locking up and making way towards home has usually been clicking off the soundtrack of the evening then flicking off the lights. Normally at this point it should feel refreshing knowing that within a short series of instants a couch for relaxing will be in reach however tonight is hardly the case. 

I find myself standing here, beer in hand, shirt untucked, behind the bar of Wellington's with zero desire to turn off the music. 

Looking down towards the circular button to silence the room a wave of sadness, nostalgia & fear enters my consciousness. Sadness exists because once the music stops I will no longer be an employee of Wellington's Wine Bar in Sausalito. Today, Sunday August 3rd 2014, was my last official shift as a member of the Wellington's family. Tomorrow morning at 9:30am I will start a TESOL (Teach English as a Second Language) course in San Francisco as a step towards preparing for a year long move to Murcia, Spain. Once abroad I will commence a contract teaching elementary students my native language. The opportunity to work in a different country is something that leaves me extremely excited yet at the same time a little scared since I have never taught a class of students before.

The globe shaped button that is now directly in front of me will serve as the final period mark to one chapter in life. Knowing that the climactic phrase for this page of happenings has nearly autographed itself to it's unavoidable ending I stand here feeling honored to have served, trusted, and befriended the wide variety of characters who took a part in its storyline.

Taking a lingering sip from the drink in hand I stand truly thankful to have known the people who have frequented this bar since the moment I took a place behind it's metallic confines. From the online coupon carriers to the long time regulars it was an honor being of service and more importantly it was a pleasure getting to know you. Even if it was for a single half glass of wine I still cherish the moment we briefly shared together. You will probably never read this and most likely don't know who I am but I won't hold that against you :) Another savory taste and a nearly empty bottle within hand raises itself in dedication to Julie, Jeremy, Justin, Ken, Ryan, Russell, Evan, Emily & Annabelle. I will probably never call you my coworkers ever again and in my heart this is alright because from this day forward you will have a more important title: My friends. 

The bottle that was previously in my hand has somehow found itself lowered within a nearby recycling container and a finger is now pressing it's hand with pride along the smoothly round button. 

With all of my heart I wish that the soft beat of the song would never end but deep inside I know that changes like this are a necessary part of life. May this chapter rest in peace. Within a flash of an instant I'm now a civilian disguised in a Wellington's uniform.

In the sixteen months of working for this establishment I had never asked a person to leave the bar. 

It's only fitting that the first guest to be escorted out should be myself.

The lights are fully dimmed and this is my last call. Thank you for everything Wellington's Wine Bar, you will never be forgotten. Locking the door behind me I exit the bar the same way entered on my first day over a year ago, with my head held high.

Cheers.

Weddings & Reunions

Note: Written yesterday 

Today is Thursday and currently I am taking in various shapes and arrangements of clouds via a window-side seat from a Sun Country airlines plane. The sun is initializing its final dissent towards other sides of the world, leg room is quite spacious, and the relaxing sea of hovering grey spherical mist engulfing each corner of the visible horizon makes napping sound like a pretty decent idea.

Within two hours I will be in Minneapolis and shortly afterwards a final landing will guide me into the city of Boston. The purpose of this trip is to see two very close friends, Chris Williams & Caitlin Schwinden, get married in a small beach town outside of Plymouth. Ryan Day, Kyle Spurr, Charlie Brown, and Chris Griel who are also some really great people, will also be in attendance which makes this weekend special for numerous reasons besides a wedding. 

It's been close to two years since all of us have been together in the same place which makes me feel extremely excited yet fairly sorry for the town of Plymouth. One can only guess knowing our track record what can unfold in the span of a weekend with all of us together again. It hasn't been until this exact moment that the reality for the events of this weekend have felt like they are actually going to happen. Until typing fingers starting constructing words upon the shining screen in front of me the notions of "wedding" and "reunion" felt like abstract concepts from a class missing it's lecture notes. 

All of us have been friends since the beginning of our collegiate career at the Unversity of Montana in Missoula and at some point have mostly all been roommates either in dorms or off campus. As if through the lense of a projector a dense book of memories flip tirelessly through the back of my mind. Flashes of garage parties during the freeze of winter, bicycle adventures through downtown allyways, beers shared on linked innertubes, frisbie on the Oval & fateful Luao parties immediately replay like a dusty home movie. I feel blessed to have wandered, made mistakes, laughed, grown up (sort of), and simply lived with the people whom I'm about to see in a matter of hours. They have been some of the biggest influences in my life and I will always be proud to be their friend.

Sitting in this airplane it's becoming apparent that the light outside is dimming and the clouds are losing visibility. Despite everything in front of me getting swept away into blackness of a sinking sun I know in my heart that the future is only shining for Chris and Caitlin. Thank you guys for inviting me to celebrate the beginnings of something truly special. 

Best of luck to you both, I didn't buy you guys a gift so hopefully this makes up for it even though I know a waffle maker would have been really awesome ;)

Epilogue

Pressing the index finger and thumb of my right hand along the cylinder shaped plastic of a black inked pen I pause to stare at the blank page glancing back at me. Like an impatient dance partner the thin pre-traced lines await the initial steps of a soon-to-be word inspired tango.

In this particular moment I know exactly what I want to write but feel a block of uncertainty towards the correct way of expressing it officially on paper. There was a reason for my sitting down in the common area of my families' house and to take a short break from daily obligations and events. As I sit slightly confused yet increasingly frustrated the primary solution to this first world problem is simply to grant the writing utensil a green light and let it accelerate freely within the book's boundaries. 

Both sides of this newly purchased moleskin notebook have been pinned to the coffee table for what feels like a lifetime and still the message I want to document fails to leave it's final mark. For me the first page of a newly bought moleskin is like an epilogue of a story that has yet to be read. One mishap from the opening phrase could prove disastrous for the remaining hundred and something pages.

In the past I had purchased notebooks as a means of recording previous wanderings in other parts of the world and the item reflecting back at me has been commissioned precisely for the same role. I bought this book because a change is approaching. For over a year I have been working, saving, and preparing for an unknown new chapter in life but it wasn't until a handful of weeks ago that a light finally presented itself with a specific direction. The muscles in my hand have the forthcoming words already memorized yet a cloud of mixed emotions keeps raining drops of forgetfulness. 

I soon realize that fear is holding the pen back from completing it's natural task because once the message tattoos itself along the opening canvas of blank page it makes official in my heart the future events about to unfold. Life in California has become increasingly comfortable and as each day passes it's easier to picture myself developing a rooted life in this part of the world for a long time, quite possibly forever. I love and have a strong respect for everyone who has entered and played a part of my life since returning home from South America back last Spring. The friendships gained and maintained from a year at home are gifts that I am truly thankful to have received thus generating an powerful internal brake of literary restraint. However the rhythm of my heart is signaling for a time to explore, a call to wandering arms, and a tying of traveling shoelaces towards a sphere of completely unknown. 

I'm terrified. One word releases itself onto the page, followed by one more, then another and soon another. 

"Today is Thursday June 5th and on September 15th 2014 I will be moving to Murcia, Spain to work as an English teacher for a year."

Without breathing I silence the screaming pages by closing the book and hastily place it down along the coffee table. Standing up I sense the desire to flee what at first appears like the scene of a crime. Turning around I take a long look at the moleskin, bring it back into palm of the guilty hand that heaved the imaginary window shattering stone, and placed it softly within the sleeve of my back pocket. 

I have no idea what the next sentence will look like but this reminds me that life is too short to not do what you love. A lot of blank pages are waiting to be filled. 

Thank you for reading this blog, it means more than you will ever know, and be ready for updates because it's official: 

I'm moving to Murcia, Spain :)

Footprints

Last Thursday started like any other. A snooze button was pressed several times before getting out of bed, a small steaming cup of coffee was purchased from a corner cafe, errands were initiated, and a normal shift behind the bar where I work was completed.

However one week ago on this very day something wasn't the same. A spring to each step was lacking energy, drowsiness from the night before lingered a few hours longer than normal, and at the bar a series of spills left bandaged fingers as the victim of personal clumsiness. Besides the sharp sting from broken glass the only distinguishable feeling once last call was reached was that of slight internal vacancy. Something inside wasn't fully present.

An evening breeze swiped against my face a with slightly dissimilar velocity from nights prior as I hiked with heavy feet up the street to my house where my parents were also winding down from their own series of daily happenings.

Normally we would sit together and chat but tonight there only sat an urge to climb upstairs to my room and simply sleep away the oddness of the day's rhythm.

As I slowly climbed up into the blackness of my room a clanging of intense rattles from the blinds of a distant open window gave notice that the wind outside wasn't ceasing its rolling relentlessness. Instinctively reaching for the light-switch at the doorway to my room the attic style living quarters instantly illuminated and tints of soft yellows projected themselves along each corner. A slow sigh of relaxation whispered calmness into the room however within instants an eruption of hisses from the disturbed window shades brought an undesired liveliness.

The commotion was coming from an enclosed walk-in storage space to the side of my dresser that rarely was used. Stomping with urgency to shut the window I caught sight of something that brought a wave of nostalgia to my eyelids.

Buried beneath a bag of saved childhood mementos sat something that I laid to rest a long time ago. An item that shamefully had been left forgotten and grown dormant through lack of proper attention. It was the travel backpack that had served as my companion in last year's trip to South America and instantly a date in time rushed to the front of my recollections. March 27, 2013. This day in history marked a final series of tracks down south, a return home, and pivotal footprints forward towards a different chapter in life. That was precisely one year ago last Thursday.

One year ago on this day I promised this grey oversized partner of adventure, and myself for that matter, that there would soon arrive a day when we would ride again. The "see-you-soons" of last year now stung like fateful "good-byes" and "never-agains."

For 365 days a close friend had been left behind and merely glancing at a mirror could determine who was truly responsible. Reaching out to feel the scarred canvas of the backpack I slung it over my shoulders just to see if it still remembered who I was, to once again reminisce of how it felt to have it close again.

Standing in the blackness of this concealed storage room desperate murmurs from gusts of invisible air collided against the now fully locked window.

Tugging the harnesses closer together I could feel the rustling of a soup kitchen in Bogota, slightly releasing one cord the sensation of a Spanish classroom in Quito flickered then evaporated, bending slightly forward I caught a quick glimpse of a hiking shoe disappearing from a Peruvian collectivo, shaking both straps the sounds of cumbia music echoed from some unknown origin. The contents within this travel sack didn't feel like anything that important but then again they felt like everything that truly mattered.

The soles of my feet began to shudder and knees buckled like a horse taking on an obese rider. The travel pack was beginning to gain weight over my shoulders and it was practically unbearable. Hastily dropping it to the floor I curiously unzipped it's main compartment to see what was making it so dense.

Reaching my hand through its main compartment there was absolutely nothing inside. Not a single relic remained in its confines after a year in exile.

The wind outside vanished. The only disruption to this now ghostly silent room was the sound of my parent's downstairs television and a sinking from my heart. The internal off-beat flow of today matched the state of how I had left this once loyal companion: Utterly hollow.

In my heart I knew that foreign sunsets, unfrequented pathways, fine-printed passport stamps, and endless potential firsts and lasts awaited out in the world. It couldn't be done alone.

I extended an apologetic hand in greeting down to one of the shoulder straps and tugged the clumsy over sized backpack once again upon my shoulders. I didn't know if it would ever forgive me and be open to getting lost with me again but with a gentle nod I re-positioned it where it should have been all along: Next to my bed.

Before going to sleep a single piece of paper was torn out of a nearby notebook, a quick note was written, folded gently, then climactically tucked inside a compartment that had for 365 days grown withered with neglect. A ripped sheet of paper isn't much, but I swore to myself that my partner in wanderings would never sit empty again.

Turning off the lights to my bedroom the note read:

"September 2014, with Love and Footprints"

One week ago on a Thursday I received the best sleep I had gotten in a very long time, quite possibly a year.

The Sound of Silence

I found myself sitting within the confines of a heavily windowed bakery in the midst of an afternoon lunch rush. Beigely tinted walls displaying paintings from various local artists and aromas of freshly created bread products accompanied a room buzzing with patrons. I had just received a generously portioned green salad and taken a corner seat along a community bar-style table looking outward into a patio dining area. Tall canvas umbrellas stood guard against bright curtans of yellow sunlight as diners enjoyed their meals.

Not quite knowing the exact reason, possibly out of forgetfulness or maybe out of a desire to be disconnected for a few moments, I had left my cell phone inside my car while taking in the flavors of the food in front of me. The immediate sensation was that of nakedness or slight self consciousness since this pocket-sized social crutch was rarely out of personal reach. There wasn´t even a book or piece of paper in my possession to serve as a slight layer of distracting comfort. Looking around to make sure the internal uncertainness was just an false element of imagination rather than an increasing reality, a calming fan of relaxation sprinkled the salad with a slightly more enjoyable taste. Rearranging the entrapped assortment of vegetables with the fork in my hand I found myself delaying the final bites of a now decreasing portion of lunch. 

A few millimeters of glass from the window directly in front of me was all that separated my presence from the wheel of people entering, exiting, and congregating within the outdoor patio. My attention became absorbed in the casual sites outside the window as an elderly woman stationed herself three seats to my left along the bar-style table. At first her presence wasn´t something that warranted much notice since the room was already filled with dozens of other feasting customers. However as time dwindled forward it became evident that oddly within this precise moment we by coincidence were sharing a great deal in common. She too was without a cell phone or book in hand and was simply watching the scores of tables filled with people through the looking window. She was silently observing the crowds with curious intent and I too was silent doing the exact same thing. The views were nothing special but the feeling of being fully present made them seem increasingly pleasant, even freeing.

I couldn´t remember the last time being physically next someone who was equally as concentrated on their surroundings without the influence of personal distractions nearby. This realization gave me an urge to get this random woman´s attention, to ask her questions about her life, to know what she was thinking, to even know how her meal was tasting. I simply wanted to know who she was. Yet at the same time the quietness was satisfyingly melodic, like a painting that didn´t warrant a further brush stroke, and despite the internal debating I let the moment ride itself to an abrupt conclusion when finally the woman stood up, left her empty plate on the table, and continued living the rest of her life. 

I looked up immediately and for a flicker of a second our eyes locked entirely, however within the same eclipsing of time our paths grew increasingly distant. Maybe similar thoughts were pacing through her mind but this is something I'll never know. 

The aftertaste of the green salad lingered as I stood up, folded napkin upon plate, and like the elderly woman before me, continued with the rest of my life. 

Sea Change

Note: Written yesterday


While writing this blog post it is becoming a late Tuesday evening and currently I am taking in the flavors of a short glass of red wine at a neighborhood bar while decompressing from a fairly uneventful night at work. The establishment is slowly trimming its occupancy and the echoes of underlying musical instrumentals humming from ceiling speakers are starting to overcome the fleeting murmurs of its remaining patrons.

It's been what feels like a lifetime since updating this blog and for that I am truly sorry, especially to those who have taken time out of their day to read it. It's hard to say if the effects of drinking this liquid inspiration as it sits effortlessly alongside my typing hands is the true influence for this current post or if there is something more important on my mind that is worth writing about. Despite the fact not a great deal of time has passed since the days of consistent blog updates I can sense brooming sweeps of frustration invading my mind as I struggle to decide whether this entry should just be deleted due to insoficient reader content. In the past there had always been an underlying reason for adding another chapter to this growing index of random life accounts but at this exact moment there sits a vacant mental block of absolutely nothing. A creeping urge to pay my tab and exit the bar lingers in the cold outside but my hands keep wanting to continue their seemingly hopeless romantic crusade of simply writing SOMETHING. 

Despite the internal wall of writer's block breathing over my literary shoulder the thumbs of my hands keep dancing on my phone's keyboard as if a familiar tune had just starting playing from the nearby stereo. Pausing for air to scan the horizon above my screen, I take a quick sip of my beverage sensing that the energy of the room is slowly escaping and the faint noises of keyboard clicks and wine glasses reconnecting upon bartop are the only two distinguishable elements computing within my consciousness. 

After a series of transitions from glass in hand to glass upon bartop I realize that I haven't been drinking any of my wine; the only thing I've been doing is staring at its miniature crimson tides as they swirl along the walls of their oval shaped confinement. My right hand keeps lifting and rotating the faintly transparent liquid in front of me then silently plummetting its container back to its location of origin, completely disrupting its circular motion. For being so peaceful and docile relative to everything else capable of grabbing my attention in the room the miniature swells rippling from side to side bring boisterous echoes of unpredictable change and my gaze is now fully trapped within its spheracle trap. Perhaps the instincts of my hands are aware of something that my mind can't sense, at least not yet. 

My body shivers as a slight breeze is beginning to whisper through the establishment and I suddenly realize that the place is fully vacant except for me and the practically unconsumed drink staring back at me. Its a cue to leave so I pay the bartender and make for the dimly illuminated exit sign. The faint hint of wine being freed into an unseen sink could be heard as I close the door behind me and blend into the blustery darkness. 

Where Dogs Stand On Rooftops

There is a place that I used to know, a far away land where for a sparkle of an instant used to be considered an address of residence or quite possibly a home. A destination where exotic scents and lush colors could be discovered on even the most regular of corners. The pace of living was slow but wonder effortlesly raced as if it were on a schedule. A place where curiosity became new friends with oddities such as cars chasing cars or even dogs standing on rooftops.

This place shall remain anonymous because merely typing its letters brings moisture to my eyelids and sensations of  vibrating bells to the walls of my heart. Since our unavoidable parting a few months ago its name has been hovering in my mind like a drifting wave of fog unaffected by the movements of oncoming breeze. Simply whispering the correct sequence of letters for this location will serve as a password for opening a well-encripted box of nostalgia.

This backwards yet strangely comfortable realm of hot mornings and refreshing afternoons welcomed me into its boundaries for the first time last November and undeniably I was a lost treasure seeker looking to fill my pockets with the invaluable bounties of memories, friendships, but maybe most importantly a hopeful sense of personal direction. 

Crisp and fluid ripples slicing through the massive ocean known as life haven't missed a rythmic beat as weeks have graduated into months since returning home from this far away land. Life has molded into a unpredictable sandcastle with friendships, asperations, and familiarity evolving or dissolving at the mercy of incoming water. However as the waves forming and crashing on all sides of me continue to break with sentiments of change, ghostly gusts of familiar breeze continue to whisper as I find myself staring out into the unknown horizon of the límitness body of water. 

The life ocean in front of me keeps molding and reforming and after months on this side of the shore I still find myself walking back onto the dock that cast me off into my previous journey. Looking from front to back it is apparent that so many things are changing but then so much feels exactly the same. I don't know why after this much time the siron like breeze keeps calling me back to the edge of the shore, maybe its to search for more answers but possibly its to find an entirely new list of questions. Looking down at the tide below there is one thing that has stayed the same since when this dock used to have a raft, Im lost. The hollow ringing in my ears doesnt sound like wind anymore, its becoming familiar, faintly like a car chasing a car.

Am I still looking for treasure? No. The truth is that I'm looking for the place where I entrusted my love, the place where dogs stand on rooftops. Its time to build another boat...