The last few weeks have seen foreigners in China taking it on the chin in the media. As the tenor and pitch of the anti-foreigner rhetoric has increased in nationalist circles around the country (and became more and more removed from reality), most foreigners have taken to following this simple rule: respect others, don’t be a total ass, and everything will be fine. Unfortunately, this rule only helps expats who have proper documentation avoid any major inconveniences; basic courtesy will not help me avoid the kind of situation I would find myself in if I was asked to provide passport, visa and residence permit. There is just too much at stake.

So as the local Public Security Bureaus around China amped up their 100-day campaigns against illegal foreigners, I took to the hills. But Knox—my boss, landlord, pal, confidant—came through (as he always has), and got me some new paperwork. It’s not above board, of course, and I’ll continue to evade the PSB as best I can. It won’t get me on a plane, but it’s enough to get me through the more cursory checks on buses, trains and streetside sweeps, which are my greatest concerns.

And so on to the content! As we saw in the last blast, there seems to be a shift occurring in the world of love. Today, we take a look at this Compliment Request Package™, as strange a phenomenon in gift giving and love-professing since the introduction of the sweater vest and the mariachi band. No one wants a sweater vest, Grandma. And mariachi bands are incredibly annoying. Anyhow, it seems to be the loving ode of a devoted individual. One can only hope that the sentiment will be returned in kind.

I’ve never been one for zombie movies. In fact, I’ve avoided them almost entirely. Unfortunately, what was once a Hollywood infatuation has now become a real life fear. The zombie-related stories from around the Americas have been deeply unsettling and strange. Here in China, the prospect of a zombie outbreak is particularly threatening; the most obvious reason for this increased threat being the population density and the high concentration of urban areas. Sascha Matuszak is acutely aware of these risks, and has provided us with a China Zombie Survival Guide. Break out your Tibetan short swords everyone—it’s on.

There are few things as disheartening as feeling completely and totally alone in a city of millions, sick of your surroundings and the people that inhabit them. This is a fucking drag. James Weir offers a solution or two in The Any City Blues.

I recently received an audio letter from an old friend in America, Marissa Anderson. Though we hadn’t spoken in years, she remembered my affinity for her voice (I once asked her to read poetry out loud while I sanded my living room floor). The poem presented here, The Autobiography of the Moon, is lovely. And though she spurned my love, her calming delivery has once again cast me under her spell. Whenever I find myself stateside I will, no doubt, again vie for her affections.

I am not a courageous man. In fact, I avoid terrifying things as a general rule—zombies included—and find my life enriched by this lack of terror. But Ryan Headley continues to convince me to push the bounds of my comfort zone with this second installment of Five Minutes of Suspense, With One Arm Tied Behind Your Back.

There is very little more valuable than the realization of the value of the moment. In hindsight, the best memories will always be obvious—the difficult part is recognizing this while you are a part of it. James Weir‘s story, The best part of it all, reminds us to remember this. It also reminds us to watch where we are walking.

I have the distinct pleasure of calling Matt Day a friend. Though we once had a falling out over a contentious arm wrestling match, we have since reconciled our differences and buried the ice pick. I am pleased to introduce the latest in his Naked Musicians series, Marco Benevento: Live at the Radio Bean. Marco wears an excellent cape, and plays with the exuberance of a child on a slip n’ slide, and with the grace of a god of old.

Ever since I read David Perry‘s poem Take China, I have heard one line echoing in my head: No bridge? We haven’t waited this long not to cross, so go. Read it and hear the echo for yourself. Like forward momentum, it is an inevitability.

Shanghai has many things. Here are five of them. And finally, I leave you with Bobby Bland and BB King.

As always, lean into the wind and hold onto your hats.

All the best to you and those who matter,

Roger

See more from Blast No. 3

If so, a Zombiepocalypse is one of the many ways in which the human race may bow out. I live in China, as do many of you, and a zombie outbreak here would be most disastrous, not least because of the population density. The following is but a sketch of some possible scenarios and should not be considered an exhaustive survey of a zombie threat. For a more complete guide, see The Zombie Survival Guide, by Max Brooks and related literature.

This short guide does not take into account the actions of the government or military, as that would require a more in depth analysis. This is only for the average human caught up in a China-based Zombiepocalypse.

Classic shuffling undead (courtsy of zombiecombatcommand.com)

Moaning or Hopping?

The first thing to ascertain is, what kind of zombie are we dealing with here? Are we talking standard moaning and shuffling undead – the video game variety – who operate in packs? Fast moving, hive-minded zombies like those depicted in the movie I am Legend? Or the classic Chinese hopping zombie? These are not the only versions of the undead encountered over the centuries, tales speak of vampire-zombie hybrids, reanimated wights susceptible to fire and obsidian, and many others. Again, this is but a survey and every human should get educated on the threat of the undead.

Let’s begin with the zombie we all know and loathe: the shuffling, undead brain eater. This particular zombie is an animated, rotting corpse and is therefore immune to almost all of the basic discomforts we know as humans: pain, cold, fatigue, etc. The only thing that matters is hunger. This zombie has been known to display heightened senses – especially hearing and smell – and will use these senses in a pack or alone to locate and feed upon the living. These zombies can put on a burst of speed when in the proximity of the living, and they are easily detected by the distinct – and terrifying – moan of the undead.

The second zombie, the fast moving, semi-intelligent Legend variety, is extremely dangerous and, thank the Gods, a rare version according to historical accounts. This zombie is similar to the shuffling variety in that it is hunger-driven and basically immune to discomforts and pain. Unfortunately, this version emits no moan, has extremely powerful senses and operates as a hive. The Legend zombie was created by a virus, not through contact with other undead, so should not technically fall under the classic “zombie” category. However, the flesh-eaters in the news recently displayed a wide variety of characteristics, including the ability to surf online, book a plane ticket and wield weaponry, as well as classic animal hunger. Be prepared for anything.

The third variety, the hopper, is an unknown quantity outside of Greater China. This zombie cannot bend its legs or arms and must hop about in search of prey. Most of the legends surrounding this zombie come down to us from the ancients and may not be applicable to modern zombie outbreaks. This zombie hungers for qi, one’s essence so to say, and not brains or flesh. Folk tales in China explain that hopping zombies suck the qi out of their victim through the victim’s breath, so some say that “holding your breath” may keep this monster at bay. Nonsense, says I. A zombie must either be avoided, evaded or slain – it pays to remember that sticking your head in the sand or holding your breath will not make the undead go away. The Chinese hopper, known as jiangshi, is supposedly susceptible to a variety of things including mirrors, vinegar and jangling music. I would stick with your standard sharp- and blunt-edged weaponry.

Chinese myths, legends and folklore do much to shed light on past events, but the mixture of rumor with fact obscures the truth. The modern age has given us the ability to take events and news (as well as outright conjecture) and place it into the greatest forum mankind has ever known, the Internet. To wit, Chinese zombie trackers have put their experiences online for the rest of us to learn from: possible undead-related outbreaks have been recorded as recently as 2009 in Chongqing, 1995 in Chengdu and Harbin, and 1993 in Beijing – it behooves the human to research as much as possible when dealing with the undead.

The Chinese hopping zombie (courtesy of theworldofchinese.com)

How to Kill a Zombie

Standard operations for killing the undead require destroying the infected brain. There have been tales throughout history of religious figures using symbols, magic, herbal rememdies and incantations to halt zombie outbreaks, but all are unverified (as is God, for that matter) and should not be relied upon in the face of actual, physical zombies. Weaponry across the world is pretty standard when it comes to zombie hunting. Crossbows, metal spikes, guns of any variety, axes, clubs and pikes are all effective killing tools.

A slug to the brain is an effective and proven method, but the scarcity of firearms in China means that humans will have to improvise. Options include, but are not limited to: crowbars, hand-held hoes, baseball bats and Tibetan short swords. Crowbars and hoes are very useful due to their capacity for overhead slams that can crush skulls, but issues arise when the blade of the weapon gets stuck … many a human has died trying to wrench free a crowbar from the skull of an undead.

Tibetan swords are easy to come by in western China, but what about in other locations? Humans should do their research into regional weaponry and take stock of the options. Also, note that a sword is only useful when used in a piercing or stabbing motion through the eye socket, up through the mouth cavity or, in some instances, through the temples.

Fire is often considered a good alternative to blunt trauma or piercing the brain, but historical accounts have shown that the undead do not fear fire as much as legends and tales would have us believe, and, what’s worse, a zombie can survive being burned to a crisp and continue to be a threat to humanity. Fire is best used in mop-up operations, to rid the battlefield of fallen undead.

Nowhere to hide

The sheer mass of people in China – everywhere, anytime – makes for a very precarious situation in the event of an outbreak. It is quite likely that hundreds of millions of undead will be roaming the land within the first few days of an uncontrolled outbreak. Take a moment to consider the daily traffic jams around Chinese cities and imagine a horde of undead descending upon such a clusterfuck. All bad. So where are the safe places?

In urban areas, humans should seek out stand-alone homes whenever available. These will be the homes of the rich and may be in outlying areas, depending upon the urban area you find yourself in. Cities that experienced some sort of colonial influence will have older, stone homes within the urban area – Shanghai, Qingdao, Beijing, Tianjin, for example – and they can provide refuge if defended and well-stocked.

Apartment buildings are very dangerous and should be avoided at all costs. Once inside of a high-rise, leaving undetected to resupply will be very difficult, and you may find yourself the target of a massive mob of nearby undead once they’ve been alerted to your position. The vast majority of Chinese homes are high-rise apartments, adding to the general difficulty of surviving an outbreak.

Chinese cities are dense, under construction and riddled with under and over developed areas. If the enemy were human, standard urban warfare operations would come into play; with the undead, strategy is similar, but the density of Chinese cities precludes protracted house-to-house warfare. One must hide or escape. Every alley could be a dead end, each apartment building may have an undiscovered entrance, any wide-open spaces become magnets for hungry undead and, again, the sheer number of people in each city makes the urban environment the last place you want to be in China in the event of an outbreak.

Not where you want to be during an outbreak (courtesy of beijingcream.com)

Head for the hills

The countryside, then, should be the destination of choice. Not only does the population diminish the further one gets from China’s mega-cities, but the savage slaughter that will undoubtedly take place in all urban environments following an outbreak could take several weeks, giving survivors added precious time to distance themselves from cities teeming with undead. Also, country homes in China are almost all stand-alone buildings with walls, clear entrances, and fields for growing food. A well-defended country home with a decent garden and a good water supply could hold out for a long time, especially if we are dealing with the standard shuffling undead.

The mountainous regions of central and western China are also excellent places to organize a defense and eventual counter-attack against the undead hordes. Zombies are not big climbers. Given the choice between a mountain and a valley, the zombie will almost always choose the valley. In any other country, a mountain fastness could hold out and provide a locus of strategic operations for all survivors, but this is China. Tiny towns have 300,000 people or more. Even the mountains will be overrun, eventually, as the undead scour the earth for human brains.

Given the special characteristics of an outbreak in China – extreme numbers, bad infrastructure, dense cities, no access to guns or other high powered weaponry – the only real option for survivors is to escape.

According to my research, there are three possible routes. The first is west into Tibet, with the goal of hunkering down and waiting for the worst to subside before planning an eventual re-conquest of the earth. Tibet is still sparsely populated, lies at a very high altitude and is sealed off from Asia’s major population areas by the highest mountains in the world. Tibetan people have learned to live off of the land in Tibet, but for your average human, living on the Tibetan plateau would provide serious challenges, most of them centered around food production. It would be paramount for any expedition to Tibet to gather a herd of yaks and make contact with local Tibetan survivors. Another issue, besides re-supply, is that Tibet lies smack dab in the middle of the world’s two most populous nations. Tibet would remain safe for only a limited amount of time before the conflict would resume in earnest.

The second path is northwest, into the sands of the Gobi and Taklamaklan Deserts. This option also leads into a relatively sparsely populated region and would buy survivors time. But re-supply becomes an issue without venturing into the cities, and the landscape, although harsh, is not forbidding to the undead hordes. In fact, a desert climate decreases the average decomposition time of the undead and the flat expanse allows them to see their prey over large distances and move quickly to intercept and ultimately devour them.

The third route is, in my opinion, the most promising. This route leads north through Mongolia into Siberia and, if so desired, across the Bering Strait to Alaska. For me, as an American with experience in Alaska, this option is well-known to me and provides several advantages. First, like the other options, it is a sparsely populated region. Second, the cold, although not inherently harmful to the undead, does slow them down. Survivors would need to be aware that zombies can survive a deep freeze and be ready to eat flesh once the spring thaw arrives. Third, the northern regions of Siberia and Alaska are rich in game and fish. A well constructed hill or forest fort, near a river or the ocean, could be a great strategic outpost for the remnants of humanity.

However, I live in Chengdu. So I would most likely head west, grabbing all the weaponry and Tibetan chupa cloaks I could along the way, and head deep into the mountains. Asia is the worst place to be if the undead rise up to vanquish us, so I would try, eventually, to make the run north across the Gobi, across Mongolia and eventually through Siberia to Alaska, where I would join whomever survives and begin the Reconquest.

See more from Blast No. 3

A shorter version of this article originally appeared on Shanghai Expat

In many ways, Shanghai is the gateway drug for wide-eyed expats, providing a less-shocking alternative to life in China than, say, Baotou. There is a booming, diverse expat population; English language services are practically omnipresent; cabs are (fairly) easy to come by and the metro is a (mostly) rodent-free breeze; English-based work is in high demand; and familiar, quality comfort foods can be found across the city, especially if you find yourself in the Former French Concession. All of these things can provide a much-needed respite for the displaced and homesick foreigner on a bad China day, or during a particularly low point on the China Cycle of Funk. A kind of Diet China, perhaps.

But Diet China or not, and even with the presence of a number of foreigner friendly enclaves, Shanghai is very much a Chinese city—and an enormous one at that—and living in any city is a goddamned grind sometimes. As one of Asia’s premier centers of finance and international business for at least the last two decades, Shanghai has seen a steady influx of money, domestic and international investment, and is a city absolutely barreling, fearlessly, into a newer, richer tomorrow. Byproducts of this transformation include, but are certainly not limited to: piles of money, rapid infrastructural development (roads, housing, skyscrapers, hi-tech industrial parks, gourmet eateries, luxury hotels, etc.), high-stress jobs, an overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by pavement and neon, the creeping suspicion that your only value in this world is that which can be tangibly measured in flow charts, year-end projections and on a bank statement, the list goes on. In light of these kinds of city-living, soul-crushing realities, it’s incredibly important to remember to ease back—I would recommend, at the very least, that this be a quarterly undertaking—and consider the idea that’s it’s not all about the Benjamins (or the Redbacks, as the case may be).

Shanghai could learn a thing or two from Chengdu. Chengdu folks kick it. They relax. They relax everywhere; beside streams, under trees, on the sidewalks in front of houses, spread across hotel plazas, in parks, whatever. Tea houses, cards, sunflower seeds, plums, cigarettes; whatever you need to breathe deep and take a load off. Wherever there is space in Chengdu, you’ll find clusters of those little foldable tables and chairs alive with the smell of green tea, Honghe cigarettes and that sweet scent of people at their leisure.

Last time I was in Chengdu, I spent the majority of my time playing dou dizhu (斗地主, a fantastic card game that translates to “struggle with the landlord”) and eating delicious, huajiao-laced (花椒) Sichuan food. It was glorious. I reveled in the cabbie’s thick Sichuan accents and the RMB 7 taxicab flagfall. I wore smelly, dirty clothes out to the bar at night and never once felt like I was in the wrong place. Granted, this might have something to do with my affinity for fancy cocktail bars in Shanghai, of which there are fewer in Chengdu (admittedly, I still wear less than well-presented clothes out in Shanghai; your glare doesn’t phase me, you fashionable vixen).

Given my personal proclivities, it’s no surprise that when I’ve had enough of it all in Shanghai, and I’ve begun to pull my hair out with trembling, ink-stained fingers, my thoughts turn almost immediately to sitting lazily somewhere—anywhere—and playing cards with sunflower seed shrapnel down the front of my mapo dofou (麻婆豆腐) stained shirt. In the most trying times, I even welcome strategic suggestions from the curious, over-the-shoulder Chinese onlookers schooling the laowai in the world of Chinese cards.

I live and spend almost all of my time in the Former French Concession, a miniscule geographical footprint that I share with many an expat. This is primarily because I’m a bit lazy, and also because I’m a very serious creature of habit deeply entrenched in his ways. I don’t get out to Minhang much, or Qingpu, or Songjiang. It is perhaps because of this that I see so little of this longed-for Chengdu-ness. After all, you won’t find an apron-clad woman mingling among the crowds at People’s Square, wielding a corked, faded hot-water thermos, searching for a cup to fill. And there is no room for roadside tables on Huaihai Lu (what, and block part of that massive, three-story D&G wall of neon?).

And, generally speaking, I avoid most of the parks in downtown Shanghai, as they tend to be more like brown, post-apocalyptic wastelands than the lush green fields of my dreams. If I want to sit on a dusty, dirt covered surface, I’ll just sit on my living room floor.

Inevitably, I get sick of getting drunk on patios, in overpriced bars and hearing the eardrum-splitting terrible pop at 88 and the like. At a certain point, I just can’t bring myself to order another cocktail with the word infused in its description. I can’t eat any more lousy ham sandwiches in poorly lit establishments. Sometimes I think I need some of that familiar, Western goodness, but these are not solutions. And with a notable exception or two (I’m looking at you 葱油饼, my sweet, delicious friend), Shanghai cuisine just doesn’t always cut it when I need that intangible jolt of something comforting. And let’s be clear: a cold bottle of Reeb has never done any good for anyone.

It’s easy to blame China, but sometimes the blues I’m feeling aren’t the China Blues, but just the everyday, stuck-in-the-trenches Blues of the Everyman. The Any City Blues. It just so happens that I like the way the Chengdu Everyman has evolved. I appreciate their unabashed affinity for relaxation.

And while the Shanghainese can, no doubt, relax, I just don’t see it on the same scale. So what do I do? I deal, mostly, by emulating my brothers and sisters in Chengdu, by slowing down, by easing back. I head to Fuxing Park, avoid the “grass” and the “amusement park”, walk over to the frantic, packed teahouse, order something to drink and deal some cards. I high five my bao’an. I drink beer outside of Feidan on Anfu Lu, close my eyes and pretend I’m not surrounded in large part by a contingent of well-dressed go-getters, always on the lookout for more, more, more. I smoke cigarettes and watch dudes play Chinese chess at that little park on the corner of Wulumuqi and Huaihai. I go to Spice Spirit and order blind. I eat too much and regret it later. I remember, as best and as often as I can, to relax.

See more from Blast No. 3

I received this message (heard above and seen below) from an old friend after a few years of no correspondence. The audio can be streamed above or downloaded by clicking here.

Dear Roger,

I’ve been thinking about you so much lately- probably because it’s dead pigeon season. Ever noticed that about spring? I’m not sure if there are pigeons in China, but they are everywhere in New York City, and come April they just seem to die rather graphically all over the sidewalks, with the falling of the pink blossoms.

I’ve been thinking about all this because of our first and only date, that time you said you wanted to take me to the summit of Mt. Harlow and show me a rare breed of moss that can only grow from the leftover carcasses of truffles. We’d stopped for a wine break halfway into our ascent when we noticed of all things a small, unidentifiable bird that looked somewhat like a pigeon with a broken wing. Anyway, halfway through my frantically trying to get cell phone service to look up animal control and make a splint, you picked up the helpless creature and snapped his neck, ending his small yet important life.

I don’t really remember the rest of the date except that we didn’t talk very much and you kissed my chin which I thought was very odd, and I couldn’t tell if it was romantic or something my drunk Uncle Lee from Georgia would do at a family reunion.

You are a man of violent mercy, Roger. If anything, that is how I will remember you. I wrote you a little story, a bedtime story if you will- as I recall you once told me I had hair like a split artery and eyes like the moon. So here it is- the Autobiography of the Moon.

The Autobiography of the Moon

The phone rang and I was born. I’ve never seen my parents because I’ve got no eyes, but their voices have been with me since I was a young and unremarkable stone. Nobody ever handed me any light. Brighter, they’d say. Less gloom, more doom.

For my first birthday my father gave me the sea. Why does it feel so good to pull all this water around the world? The beached whales are not my fault and I do my dirty work in the shadows. All shadows are my second cousins.

My first and only love was an angel named science. Her brain stuck a bayonet in my heart and wound me around the earth she hovers above, always.

People look up to me but I don’t look down at them. Why do you continue to give me things, put things on flowered altars, hang things on your doors, necks in your tree branches, bleed and love and kill in accordance to my shape? I can’t see you.

Sometimes I wish all the howling and praying and weeping and laughing would stop, just stop, just stop and it could be quiet. It’s quite loud up here. Your voices are harpoons and caresses.

In my world, I am the religion, and the religion is in love with it’s characters. Who are the characters in my bible? That would be you. And you. And you. And you. And all those fishes in my childhood toy that is your ocean.

Don’t forget about the fishes. Ever. Don’t feel sorry for them either- something in them knows they were born for dinner.

We’re all just looking for a creator. Give me a creator.

See more from Blast No. 3

I am not a courageous man. In fact, I avoid terrifying things as a general rule—zombies included—and find my life enriched by this lack of terror. But Ryan Headley continues to convince me to push the bounds of my comfort zone with this second installment of Five Minutes of Suspense. See his previous post, Vampire Tango, for more spine tingling stories.

See more from Blast No. 3

The sun was shining and the smoke from my cigarette was wafting in front of me. The man hesitated as he approached. Had I not previously felt noticed, had I not already received the impression that I stood out in some way in the place I was in, I would have assumed that the odd expression that suddenly arrived on his soft, unassuming features was from my smoke curls polluting his tonic afternoon air.

I glanced back at him and tried to smile a thing so slight that it could have been imperceptible. I hoped to show him that sense of place and belonging that lends itself to a sort of inner peace, some peace that relaxes your features and then radiates outwards onto everyone around you, not so much in your words or your actions but in the folds of your skin around your eyes and your mouth. It’s a look that people like to see when they walk by you or see you somewhere, a stranger or otherwise. But sometimes I feel so at odds with everyone around me that I can’t muster it and my face stays waxed and I never have a chance to pretend anything. I felt strange there when I thought about it and I had for a day or two since right before I took the ferry over and that lady called me Lorne. I asked her what she was talking about and she looked so frazzled back at me, so put off by my simple presence there that I probably looked off put too, and she walked off real fast when I started to speak. But I didn’t think on it too much after the fact.

The man walked by me without saying anything so I kept smoking and looking out. It was a real nice day and I felt pretty okay, I had been sleeping well outside in a large field and I liked the food out there. I had been off on my own away from home for a while, probably almost a month at least, and I hadn’t been traveling with a friend since the first weekend when I split up with my buddy I had come over with. We both had these ideas about doing whatever we wanted to do when we got across the pond, and then our plane landed and we got out and stayed together for a few days before realizing how difficult and really absurd it was to travel with someone else when our only plan was act on every impulse and do whatever the hell came to mind. So we split pretty quick. He’s probably in Spain now, by way of southern France and the eastern coast down there. I bet he’s knee deep in red wine and paella at this point. That’s something I think I could count on. I had vague plans of going down that way myself way off in the future I knew had to come sometime.

I wanted to move further west and closer to the shore before the sun set so I hiked up my backpack and kept smoking my cigarette. I veered off the trail and walked down the low incline towards the sun and that thin strip of white way off in the distance, which was right above the mountains that were over the shore and across the water down westward and to the south a ways.

Eventually the incline leveled out and then got flat again before it started to rise up under me. I was walking at a good clip and mostly looking down at the grass moving and I was breathing deeply. Usually when I’m walking real well I do that, just look down, and sometimes I watch the big veins on my arms and try to spot the blood pumping. My blood’s strong when I’m walking quick and I can feel it, and it’s always so tight in my chest and right behind my eyes that I want to feel it in other places too, like it means something.

I saw an old blue bus parked on the side of a hill so I walked over to look in it just to see something on my way. But before I even got up to it I heard some chickens or something like chickens rustling all about inside so I steered off and avoided the whole thing altogether. I used to live in a small room on the corner of a real busy street, and I remember how it felt to have people always walking by and looking in, whenever I had my blinds pulled up or had flipped the slats open. And I don’t mean lookin’ in a strange way or anything, just regular old lookin’ in, something to do. But I figured that since I didn’t really ever appreciate it and that I didn’t have any real reason or particular interest in walking by and looking in the bus that I would avoid the situation altogether and move on.

I was still walking and feeling steady so everything felt all right to me that afternoon. I really liked how everything about that part of the earth was so serene. It all moved so gracefully, like something real old that was never in any rush to get anywhere anymore. But I could see signs of struggle from back in the past in some places, even right around me, and off in the distance everything seemed to be moving a little faster, so it all felt all right and it was nice to be where I was. And I knew it then too, I really did, which seems to me now the best part of it all, of anything really.

By the time I was ready to stop walking I could see the ocean off the coast out there some ways below me and I remember that the water looked real black that day. Just dark, for whatever reason, the light or the tide or something that made it the way it was. But it was nice, because the water was all black at the bottom of everything I could see, and then off to the southwest over the Pentland Firth a ways the mountains came up all soft and dark brown, and then they got lighter until eventually the tips reached that same strip of white sky which I liked so much that finally turned blue and circled up and over behind me. Straight out west and up to the north I could only see the world curling so the strip of white stayed flat across the ocean, and up north somewhere that white strip probably turned to snow and ice.

So it was all there, dark and light and whatnot and it felt okay to me. And it felt okay to me too that the day was getting on and I was close to town and it all looked real pretty and everything. I don’t usually notice the way things look unless there’s really nothing else going on. But I seem to really appreciate it when I do accidentally take in how beautiful things are, because I remember a lot of nice days I’ve spent alone and they come in all easy and focused when I think about them still.

By the time I got into town it was getting dark and I saw a lot of yellow lights on inside houses and everything looked warm and soft, and I felt for a moment that the houses were a part of the land, small and unassuming and everything, and I thought about the potatoes I had eaten for breakfast many hours earlier that had been flat and wholesome and filled me up smooth and easy. I realized then I was hungry as hell so I smoked a cigarette and walked and started to think about finding a bite somewhere to eat. I was thinking that it would be all right with me if I could find something I didn’t have to pay for.

I heard a man playing the guitar and singing loudly so I walked towards the small hut it was coming from. I knew the song, or maybe I just thought I did—it was some old folk tune, almost haunting, real simple and circular. Sounded a lot like something I would have heard before. Anyway, this guy was doing all right and it seemed nice to me, the way his voice sounded and the accent changing it a lot, and it came through the window sounding pretty darn okay. I stood outside all still and it was dark by then and I liked listening to the man sing. I hadn’t really spoken to anyone in a while and it seemed to me then like a good idea to knock on his door and strike up a conversation. I was interested in hearing his voice when he wasn’t singing, so I could see if it was always so thick. He was sitting there through his small wood framed window and he looked friendly enough. Must’ve been near his mid twenties, broad shouldered with thick, red-brown hair.

When he stopped singing I walked up and knocked stiffly on his door. The wood was thick and it sounded satisfying when I put my knuckles to it, so I did it real quick one more time, and I heard him stand up and then the door opened and he stood there holding his guitar by the neck with his left hand hung low on the doorknob. He looked at me and his face changed, it got all slack and his mouth was lower than it had been when I first saw it through the window. I lost my words when I saw the way he looked at me so we stood there staring at each other for a moment that seemed to stay put in time or something.

“What are you doing here?” His face had changed again and it looked both shocked and angry all at once, like I was pissing on his doorstep and he didn’t know whether he should laugh like an old buddy or punch me square in the jaw.

“I just heard you singing and it sounded like maybe you’d help me out, if you could.” The anger slipped off from around the corners of his mouth and moved out near his eyes and now he looked more than shocked and even a little scared.

“Who are you?” His words all sounded stuck together.

“My name is Richard Wallace. I’ve just been passing through little towns around here and moving around for a while by myself and I thought maybe you could help me get around, and maybe even if you had a little food that would be all right with me.”

“That’s, well, I don’t know. Come inside.” He moved outwards and swung the door open a little more and I stepped in past him and set my backpack down underneath a coat rack that wore thick wool shirts and carried two felt hats. He looked over at me, still surprised, I think, by the way I looked. It seemed that around this area most people I had seen were surprised by the way I looked.

“I’m Nathalan. I live here with my Mother, but she’s down south across the firth visiting her sister. I don’t think you should stay long. But I have some food and maybe even some advice about the land around here that you can have.”

“That will be fine. Thank you, Nathalan.” He walked off and I followed him through the small living area with a wooden table and some wicker furniture. In the corner there was a wood stove that was dark and empty and next to it there was a small pile of logs shaped like long pieces of pie.

“Have you ever had clapshot before?” It took me a moment to understand him.

“Just a few days ago I tried it for the first time. An old woman I got to talking to on the ferry brought me back to her house and served me some and it was real okay. I pretty much like potatoes any way whichever they’re made. “

He stood with his back to me moving around dishes of food and I walked over to his guitar and looked at it and held it. The wood felt old and the strings looked well played.

“Can I play this guitar?”

“If you want to.”

I laid it in my lap and it felt even better than it had in my hands, and I played a few chords and felt it out and everything seemed all right to me and I even forgot for a moment the way he had looked at me when he had first opened the door, and the way the man on the small walking path and the woman a few days earlier had responded to my presence. After a while I looked again at the guitar and noticed that it didn’t say anything on the headstock and that it had no name or tag of any make or company.

“What kind of guitar is this?”

“My grandfather made it in the forties. It’s been in the family.” He turned and walked towards me, holding a thick white porcelain plate covered with a pile of clapshot and a few dark sausages. He set it before me and I put the guitar down on the chair and said thank you. He sat down across the small table and I started eating and realized how hungry I was and how far I was from home and took note of all the people that had given me things. It seemed to me that everything he had given me, the song and the food and the warm yellow light, was more than I had earned and I knew it, which really didn’t feel so bad when I thought about it. The food was warm and filling and I didn’t need to say anything to Nathalan, and that was all right by me. Silence always sounds different when it’s a natural kind of thing.

“This is real good. Did you make it?”

“My mother made the potatoes and I made the sausages day before last. I’m glad somebody’s eating them before they get thrown away.” He had moved slightly while I was eating and now he was facing a little to my left, and he looked above my shoulder into the outside.

“I get the impression that folk around here aren’t used to getting too many visitors.”

“It depends on the season, I’d say.”

“The first lady I met on these islands was real friendly, invited me over to dinner even, to her little place in the middle of nowhere. She was pretty old. Talked my ear off the whole time, couldn’t do or say a thing to make her stop. I don’t think I ever even told her my name, she was so busy talking. I’ve been staying on her land at night though, and that’s all right by me. I like the land up here.”

“She’s probably lonely. There’s not much to do when you’re old.”

“I guess, something. But other than that, I’ve been getting funny looks. Even you looked at me strange when you first saw me.”

He kept looking out the window and didn’t say anything, so I went on.

“Who’s Lorne?”

“What did you say?”

“Lorne. Who is Lorne, is what I said. Some lady called me Lorne, first person I saw coming into town the other day, before I even said word to anybody. And when I went about explaining myself to her she took off all strange like, scared or something.”

“Well. I’d say if you’re wondering who Lorne is that the answer to that question is mighty long. Only Lorne I know hasn’t been around for some time.”

“Do I look like this Lorne fellow?” I ate some sausage and waited for Nathalan to stop staring out the window and start talking to me.

“Some might say.”

“Would you say?”

“I might.”

“This ain’t too big of a town, is it.”

“Fits me all right.” He watched me take the last bite of potatoes. I chewed and then went on.

“Why’s everybody seem so put off when I come around?” He hesitated. I was mostly just trying to make conversation. The lines around his mouth were coming back ever so slow and his face was getting harder.

“You look just like a man that nobody has much wanted to see for a while. Things have been better for some time, people stop thinking about things they don’t see anymore. They see you, they start thinking about things they’d started to forget. I did, for a moment there. Least until I heard you talk. There’s not much to say past that I guess.”

“What did he do that turned folks off so bad? Where’d he go to?” My food was finished and I could tell that I was starting to overstay my welcome.

“He did some things to some people, and said some things to some other people. Then he got to leaving. I think maybe you should get to leaving yourself. It’s a nice, quiet place up here, some would say. I would, even.” I nodded, folded my napkin and put it up on the table next to my empty plate. The food was good and hearty and everything was fine with me right then, so I stood up tall and felt content in that small place.

“Thank you for dinner. You have a beautiful guitar.”

“You’re welcome, and thank you. I’d say I like it myself.” I stuck my hand out curtly, and he stiffened a little before reaching out and shaking it. He nodded and turned around, carrying my empty plate into the other room. I picked up my backpack and opened the thick wood door. The air outside had gotten cooler and it felt good when I stepped through the arch and closed the door behind me. It was black outside.

I walked back the way I had come and the yellow lights of the town grew smaller and the hills got bigger for a while before it got flat again, and I was full of food and felt just fine. I smoked a cigarette and walked back towards the nice woman’s plot of land that must’ve been three miles or so south east. I knew if I just bee-lined I’d get there one way or another. There was a big dirt road that cut the island in half running north and south. She lived to the south right off the road, near the ferry landing. I couldn’t miss it, and I wouldn’t miss the walk if I could.

I’d heard some American folks talking about the Orkney chasm on the ferry a few days before, but I hadn’t thought much of it since then, and really I’d almost completely forgotten it when I came up on it in the dark. The ground beneath me started to drop real steady and kept falling faster. So I stopped walking and focused my eyes ahead of me and realized that the ground fell out not even five feet away, and that I’d almost walked right into a huge hole in the middle of a field. Shit, I thought, that wouldn’t a been all right.

I turned back and got myself steady on some flat ground. I walked around the thing and it really looked so strange to me. Just this big hole in the middle of it all. Right there, deep as nothing, black as black. I looked back to where I’d come from and I could still see the lights from the town where nobody wanted me and then I remembered Lorne and all that, and I even thought about him for a minute. Seemed to me right then that it was all real clear, that Lorne had just fallen right into this thing and that’s why nobody thought about him anymore. Seemed to me black enough to hide him.

For a moment I wondered what Lorne had done to make everybody feel the way about him that got them looking at me the way that they did, and I wondered how much I really looked like him anyway. But those thoughts didn’t last too long and I looked around and noticed fireflies blinking at me all over and especially down inside the chasm. Looked kind of like a little town down there, Lorne’s town, yellow windows winking at me and whatnot, inviting me to join. But I felt real fine up top above the black hole on my own, looking down on the flashing bright spots of yellow-green and smoking my cigarette, and I was glad that I hadn’t kept walking and wound up at the bottom of that thing. I set my backpack down and sat on it like I always did when I wanted to sit somewhere. It felt okay to me, that place, and I liked the land even if the people that lived on it didn’t like the look of me. And the silence sounded real nice even though I didn’t have the option of a conversation to contrast it against. I knew just how fine that night was then too, I really did—and that seems to me now the best part of it all, the best part of anything really.

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Anyway, this concert looks like it was great, and the video is excellent. Marco Benevento has some serious chops, and an even more serious cape.

I am decidedly pro American flag cape. Just last week, I saw a young woman wearing one and my heart dropped like an anchor at sea. I fell deeply in love and look forward to the day when she will call me her very own.

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I know nothing of it. That’s quite a history!

It means something entirely different
but tap-roots back to the same
while I’m trying to buy batteries.

Note the pronunciation: an incisive coo.

And the words: Coil conduction enhancers.
I wonder if my sketch will help the density
cap work under six inches of sea water?

We form a beautiful hand and fear no other.

The guarded launch. A full ear, long chains
of leading words. Give up the tech angle
and match a length graver. Why, the answer
comes, can’t you be more coherent?

“Just blabber,” the snake hisses, then turns
into a bird, into a fish, it leaps and becomes
a bear, lands a lion, hits the sea—the ocean
comes crashing down all along the edge
of the day. The work of hiding is nowhere
as good as it gets under cover of the fiction
of self-disclosure: “To see that nothing’s left.”

Study characters, wait for Norton to download,
drink ginger-honey-lemon tea.

No bridge? We haven’t waited this long
not to cross, so go. A man may lose
a horse, a horse may lose its life

but the turnstiles wrap projected
warming currents into plum jungle gyms,
wood decks, fish ponds, bamboo stands
and office park steam valve factories

Now, in journalese: “I feel
a bit bad abandoning baby
and stealing mom’s camera,
guns and money.”

That means I dropped the brat in a ditch
and wish there was something real to steal.

This poem originally appeared in Sal Mimeo

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See more from Blast No. 3