Trips By Sam

            Madrid is the best city to deal with jet lag.   I once landed on a transatlantic flight at 6 a.m., and arrived at a friend’s apartment as he was returning home from a night out.   We slept until afternoon, syncing up with much needed rest, me barely registering the change in time zone.   But now my jet lag is warped with insomnia and writer’s block.   After tossing and turning on a futon, futilely chasing sleep, I slink onto a narrow street, silent save for the rhythmic patter of my sneakers.   Before rounding bends, I peer into emptiness; ultimately shake off paranoia of would be assailants crouched behind trashcans.   There aren’t many places on the planet where I feel safe strolling at 4 a.m., but the capital of Spain is a rare exception. Only this lit at Carnival... not idle Wednesdays As (most of) the city slumbers, few creatures bejewel her radiance: lip locked adolescents hu...

            It’s like meditation, but instead of repeating a mantra, I’m constantly refocusing my attention on survival.   Where is the next water source?   Do I have enough snacks rationed to munch another date ball?   Is the tent protected from falling tree limbs?   How many Mississippis until that storm on the darkening horizon strikes?   And then, comfort.   Continuously adjusting the myriad of straps hugging my hips and aching shoulders, quelling voracious hunger as the packaged ramen cooks al dente, submerging into the crystal clear albeit chilly waters of Lake Superior, just to slough off a layer of grime before slipping into damp jammies rank with last night’s campfire.               Wait…this isn’t the right trail? Each step backtracking vexes my ailing toes tenfold.   My blisters have their own names and heartbeats.   I hope that hit of Pure...

            I dreamt I was an emperor penguin.    From beneath a flab layer my egg slipped, skidded across the ice, and cracked.   No life would emerge from the split shell.   With a piercing lament I glanced at my partner in distress, conveying my sorrow and shame.   What does one Google for a dream interpretation such as this?   Miscarriage seemed most fitting, which (according to Aunty Flo ) signified that things didn’t go according to plan.   In spring, I laid an egg for a summer that included wearing matching Mexican ponchos as he and I traipsed, hand and hand through an electrified forest.   Instead, I use my beloved souvenir as a blanket, cocooning myself in post-Kundalini savasana.   But while beneath my burial shroud, deep in relaxation, I recalled another dream from last night: breaking open cellulose capsules and scooping heaps of MDMA crystals, as a toddler might with ...