For you it was your face. It was the way it curls and moves only slightly and the way you express so much with it. And your fucking eyes. Whenever you looked into the camera I just felt all the love you had for me rushing back into me. It felt like you sucked all the evil out from so far away. It made me feel so much lighter. And the way you'd raise your shoulders when you're happy. and the way you'd laugh without being able to contain yourself. I love every fucking thing about you, and there's no replacement for you in the world. I still don't know what it is about me that you like so much, but I'm so glad you do. Don't ever let me abuse this.

When I close my eyes it feels like sunrise in the mountains when all the animals come out to live another day of their lives.

I read your letters a few more times. Okay, more than a few.

It's just that I'm madly in love with you.

It's so silly that I worry about nothing. I know you're going to be okay for the foreseeable future. Just, sometimes when the sun is down you get thoughts that frighten you or that make you upset. I don't want you to apologize in the morning for falling asleep. I just wish you'd sleep more, because passsing out can't be healthy.

And also, I love you.

[my world now]
And on some distant shore a port-tender dips her bare feet into the sea at the edge of a dock, and as an especially high wave wets her rolled-up pants, she wonders what it is that makes the waves work as they do.

Far above this scene, Procul held his dull, brass compass, his eyes perfectly affixed on the horizon. He snapped his compass shut and walked into his cabin. The spectregraph was out on his desk, and he began to crank it. As the components began to whir softly, he saw a central dot. He continued to crank, until finally a blip appeared on the upper left corner of the screen. Another appeared. And another. Three more. He snatched his hand from the crank and walked to the deck with uncharacteristic briskness.

“Fire starboard,” he uttered. No reply. “I said fire starboard.” Still no reply. This time he raised his voice: “For God sakes, who is my first crewman?” Still no reply. Procul yelled: “Fire the aft cannon!”

A pause. Moments later, a roar sounded and the ship rocked back and forth. Procul grabbed the yolk to steady himself. Then, silence. The ship's wood creaked. No activity sounded from below the deck. Brutal tension rose through the cracks in the wood: Procul could smell it. It was crisper than the damp steam he had grown-- or was born? He had forgotten-- accustomed to over his years of service. It was welcome.

A small red and green oval appeared a few hundred feet from Procul. He trotted into his room, snatched his telescope and returned briskly to the deck. He expanded it, and aimed it at his new target. It was a green bottle with a large, red balloon tied to the neck, and it floated softly up towards the heavens. Soon, another appeared, and another, and another. All around the ship, tiny bottles of all different shapes and sizes: round-bottomed decanters and long-necked wine bottles, flew up into the skies, lingering like hawks in the wind. Procul hurried into his cabin and began to spin his spectregraph again. Now, many tiny dots speckled the screen. The unnamed ship was hidden.

It's a kid hitting a (fanciful) pinata with a cricket bat or something. Obviously farm-like, think the drawing you sent me of the misplaced farmer. He's just taking the blindfold off his eyes, still smiling, not yet seeing that there's nothing in it.

"He hit the pinata, cracking it's side. But there is no candy. It's an existential pinata. Full of questions we can't answer."

I can feel our spirits intertwine
as we send our souls through power lines.

I promise I'll do anything to keep you safe.

God. I was so surprised to see "1 comment" below. I thought someone found my blog. Hahaha.

I loved your message today. It made my night. (when do you not make my night?)

I started the RPG today. We'll see how long this holds my interest... who knows? Maybe I can make something special. And I'm up to 20 letters in each alphabet today! I still need to work on improving reading, but yeah! hehe. I miss you, baby girl.

I hope it's true what you tell me about loving me. Somewhere deep down I know it is, but there's this little part of me always saying "she's just going through a phase. she'll sober up soon." I hope it's all true. Because I love you with everything that I am. When my dad told me how he loved me, I heard his own words coming out of my mouth to you. It's exactly how I feel about you. You make the world so much cheerier, and you make me want to be fully awake for every moment of this beautiful life.

Sometimes when something makes me unsettled I think about your smile. If I'm really lucky I can just glance at a picture of you and it brings back everything that's wonderful in the world. It's real love, with nothing else. Before I fell in love with you, I hated long distance relationships. I hated blogging. I hated it when kids would "save themselves" for their girlfriend or boyfriend however many miles away. And ya know, most kids who do that are probably twats, and most blogs are probably twatish too, but you've brought out something in me I didn't know I had. You've made me so much more pure, and so much fucking happier.

Thank you for absolutely everything.

I've had some piece of something stuck in my right eye all day.

When my dad said goodnight, I wished him a happy father's day and he said "I can't tell you how much I love you. I just can't tell you. Nothing can describe the happiness you've brought to me."

Anyway, I teared up and it got that piece of whatever out of my eye.

Some things I really like about the world:

1) the last bite of something always tastes the best.
2) when it's really bright through your window and you can see the bits dust floating really slowly
3) if you're up high in a plane you can see the curve of the earth
4) everything falls at the same speed no matter how much it weighs
5) we're together. :)

1) I'm now from "a" to "ko" in both alphabets.
2) I've learned 20 kanji, and basically remembered the on and kun for 9 of them. ...basically.
3) Guitar is coming nicely!
4) I picked up a book I'm really liking today.
5) I'm eating ice cream
6) I got to talk to you on the phone again, and I love you.

I hope you get a good night's sleep tonight, baby.

Hey, ONLY IF YOU HAVE TIME, do you think you could ship over that DS? I was thinking maybe I could have it in Edinburgh. But not if it's expensive or if you don't have time!

I love you, baby.

(PS, this doesn't count as my "not whiny" update because it was super quick)

It's so stupid, but I was watching this corny TV show while my parents were out, and... it made me cry. Half because of the actual subject matter, and half because it feels so empty sitting on the couch downstairs all by myself. Whenever I'm down there by myself I feel like you should be right next to me, watching whatever the hell is on whatever station at whatever time and enjoying it thoroughly, just because we're together.

God, these entries have been SO MOPEY. I promise the next one won't be. And we both know that breaking a promise to you is one thing I can't do.

--Nick

I was looking through your xanga (what? I miss you!) and I noticed you used the phrase "pre-disastered."

My dad loves that phrase. He thinks it's a brilliant idea: a plane flies into your house and you lose everything, and that's the best thing ever! you're pre-disastered! That's why I don't want to own a lot of stuff. When you own stuff you're tied down by heavy atoms, and for what? Half the shit I own doesn't really /do/ anything except take up space. But that's it's purpose! We have so much space that it has to be taken up by space-consuming devices. ...that's RIDICULOUS! What do I even have two bed lamps on either side of my bed for? I only read on one side of my bed! And there's nothing in the draws of my nighttable, but if I took the nighttable away there'd be an empty spot where it's obvious something should be. I don't need half the books on my shelf, but without them, I'd have a few bare shelves!

But what if there's a fire and I have to evacuate? How do I know in that split second what I have to take and what I don't? That's the real evacuation plan: what do you keep? Your letters and my laptop. That's what I'd keep.

All this stuff could be money in the bank. The house, the land... millions upon millions, probably. This stuff is so old and valuable, and the land is so expensive now that it's 90210. But who cares if it's 90210? This is the same shitty piece of hill my parents bought when it was 90023. The only reason this place matters is because my parents built it themselves. And that's great, but I don't think it suits me. I want to keep a bunch of this lovely old stuff, but a lot of it can go. It'd be more valuable liquidized.

I guess what I'm saying is, I want to live pre-disastered with you. I hope you don't mind.

------------

The woman who taught me Russian today was this funny little woman with thick, thick glasses, and she never quite looked at your eyes when talking to you: she looked at your left ear, no matter who she was talking to. Never eye contact. She never seemed to get jokes or understand what people really meant to say. She read political cartoons from Russia to me. It's incredible how much hatred the US fosters.

-----------

...I wikipedia'd Newark today just because it makes me feel closer to you. I love you.

--Nick

Sorry for dragging out the goodbyes. Your voice is like honey.

Hey you! I just got off the phone with you. I wanna know what's bothering you... I hope it's nothing regarding me. (self centered, I know, but hey.)

I really do think you're going to have fun working, whether it's "real work" as you say or not. You're gonna feel really good about yourself.

Also, I knew you were with other kids because your answered the phone in a deeper voice than usual. Hehe.

Hey, I love you, kiddo.

Hey babe.

You're gone, so I'll use this to tell you everything I can think of so I don't forget a thing while you're gone.

I got my grades today. A- in Spanish and Latin, B+ in English, History, and Chem, and a B in math. I don't know how I got a B+ in English, but hey, I can't dwell. I got a B in Math! I made honor roll! Ahh, I'm so silly. And I got into all the Honors and APs I wanted. So a happy ending!

I went to go see Ocean's 13 today. It was fun, except for Sarah made out with this random guy the whole time, and they were sitting right next to me. She has her and her prom date's picture in her wallet, too. :( But hey, I guess it's all good. Mmm, I have off from work tomorrow, so I'll try and give you a call.

Oh, quick story. I was coming home from the movie at night, and I like to go up Coldwater really fast, and up my street fast too, just because it's fun. Anyway, I was stuck behind a slow moving car on Coldwater, and I was a bit bummed that I didn't get to race up the street. So I turned on to my street, and I see this convertable speed down a blind curve in off into Coldwater, and I realized that if I had arrived just a few seconds earlier it would have been a head on crash. Huh.

Hehe, it's a lot easier to write a journal when it's addressed to you.

I'm sorry told you that you should leave. That was dumb, and I should have let you make up your own mind. That's what my parents would have done. You've found cool kids, so I know you'll have a good time now (or, you'll be alright with the climate and the no AC). I'm glad you don't always listen to me. I'm usually wrong, hehe.

Well, I love you, my one and only. I'm sure you can be expecting many more of these little updates. I hope you have a good night's sleep tonight, and I hope you have a good breakfast tomorrow. You're never off my mind for too long.

--Nick

A foul stench alerted Procul of Smithen's return. Procul locked the yolk and turned to his crewman. Smithen looked almost comical: his already hefty build was exaggerated with the courdory jumpsuit, and the large rucksack he bore gave him the appearance of a hunchback. Procul, however, simply gave his crewman a solemn salute. Smithen saluted back, raising his small, round head proudly. Procul turned silently back to the yolk, gracefully unlocking it, as Procul ran off the edge off the starboard edge of the airship. His figure became increasingly smaller until it blossomed into a British flag and slowly descended to the farmland below.

One minute and thirty five seconds later, Smithen was crashing with surprising momentum into the ground. Smithen was not normally graceful, and his landing was anything but out of character: he ran a few meters, stumbled, and fell heavily on his side, his dully-colored parachute flapping over his face. After a few seconds of struggle, he feed himself from his parachute's grip, clawing and gasping his way out of his trap. He unbuckled the straps and hoisted himself to his feet. He looked around. A small, wooden cabin was to the southwest. Smoke was rising from the chimney. He cracked his neck, dusted off his pants, and began to walk.

A few hundred yards higher and a few hundred yards to the southwest, Procul began to slow the airship. The great engines let a soft "put put" of protest before shutting off. A second passed, and a sharp hiss of steam came from Procul's left, and slowly subsided. Procul stood still for a second, then, a yell:

"All crew to conflict positions!" The unnamed ship turned in a flurry of pit-pats, of clinks and clanks, of clicking and creaking. Whispers of confusion and mutters of dissent leaked from the gaps in the wood and twirled like steam but did not condense. Inside Procul's head there was nothing. There was the moment after a flash of lightening when one is waiting for the thunder. There was the blankness of an inevitable event. There was the sky, there was the ground, and there was the unsustainable layer in between; only mankind could ever dream of this layer: this layer which requires constant effort to not plummet to earth, this layer in which the wealth of nations are lost or secured, this layer in which life is not destined to go. This, Procul thought, is home.

Back on earth, a rotten-smelling, unshaven man was bursting into the home of a husband and a wife enjoying a shepard's pie next to a fire. As soon as the door burst open, they wiped their faces with their napkins and jumped to their feet. The husband was about to reach for his pitchfork when he saw the RAF insignia on Smithen's uniform. He stops, straightens, and salutes. Awkwardly, his wife follows suit. Smithen, again demonstrating his lack of grace, nodded his head and reached into his breast pocket, producing a letter. He broke the seal, took the letter out, and squinted to read Procul's handwriting. He cleared his throat and began to read.

"Dear stranger,

"In all probability, we have not met. My request is unusual, and, as my dearest friend--" (Smithen tripped only slightly on his words at this-- "will tell you, I would not leave it in the hands of strangers were it not of the utmost urgency.

"The nation of Spain has developed a technology which detects airship and displays a specters of these ships on a phosphoric screen. This technology has fallen into friendly hands; however, even if our engineers were able to mimic its function, it would be far too late to prevent the impending Spanish attack on our central, (and, before a certain commander's strategic blunder, secret) RAF airdock. Due to both conscience and coincidence, I have taken it upon myself and my crew to prevent this attack at all costs, and have chosen to spare the man you see before you so he may become my successor." The poor strangers kept their eyes wide in horror as Smithen choked on his words. He gathered himself, and continued.

"That said, my orders to you are as follows:"

Presently, Procul turned around and walked straight out the door. Steigh marched briskly after him, smoke puffing from his pipe. Procul looked up to the sky directly ahead of them. Steigh looked to Procul for a moment, then followed his gaze. For a few moments, he saw, but did not comprehend. Suddenly, his mouth fell the slightest bit open as the image registered. A mid-sized airship drifted slowly away towards Procul's vessel.

Steigh was already marching back into Procul's cabin to examine the device again.
"Our researchers were working on something to a similar effect," he grumbled, "using the reflection of soundwaves-- surely the Spanish must be using a different method. There's no chance it could function in such a compact size..." He gazed at the device, running his hands over it. "We'll have to bring this into the laboratory for testing." He picked up the device. "Procul, I never thought I'd say this, but--" He released a puff from his pipe. "Good work." Steigh began to waddle out of the cabin, the horn sticking up over his head. The machine seemed to challange him with its size, and Procul couldn't help but derive some amusement from the image. Finally, he spoke up.

"Steigh, I'm keeping that," Procul said softly. Steigh turned, his mouth open and his hazel eyes windened with a slight look of fear. His moustache seemed to be losing its wax curling as he began to sweat.
"What are you talking about, Capitan?"
"I'll be needing that machine. You can't have it yet."
Steigh produced a sharp laugh. "I can't have it? What do you need this for, anyway?"
"It's not particularly your concern why I need it. It would concern you, however, if the Yorkshire Hearald were to learn that glorious Great Britain has been trading with hostiles, and the man responsibile is named Commander Steigh."
Steigh's eyes narrowed again. The fear had left. He had encountered this ploy from Procul many times, and he knew the protocal well.
"May I ask you one thing, Procul?"
"What's that, old chum?" Procul asked, smiling softly.
"Will I ever see this machine again?"
"Oh yes, you'll see many of them."

Steigh set the machine on the floor walked out of the cabin without so much as a glance back, puffs of smoke trailing behind his stout frame.

************************

Procul's vessel undocked by dawn the next day. Procul, who had upon receiving his vessel stubbornly refused to name it (it was referred to by others simply as the "no-name"), had only a slight modification done beyond the normal maintence: on the bow of the airship, he had "Aucorita ex recto" etched into the wood.

Procul sat on his desk, uncharacteristically lacking his Capitan's coat or his hat. He sat in his white tunic and his black, cordory pants, writing on a piece of parchment on his study. His penmanship, like all other things Procul did, was elegant in an inhuman way: individual letters were identical to their counterparts, and his signature was completely consistant. His letters hooked and curved just so, striking the balance between artistry and functionality. He scribbled his note and tucked it into an envelope, which he sealed with his standard-issue wax seal. Procul took the envelope and sauntered to the yolk.

Procul stood awkwardly next to Smithen for a while. Smithen darted his eyes towards his capitan, and then back ahead again: he had never seen Procul behave in such a way. Finally:
"Smithen, I have something of a mission for you."
"Yes sir?" Smithen locked the yolk and looked humbly towards his capitan. His dark curls flapped in the wind, and for a moment, Procul was taken off guard. He saw the stubble on his cheeks, and the crow's feet around his eyes: it dawned on him for the first time that Smithen was a man as well. He quickly recovered.
"Smithen, we will soon be over farmland." Procul held the envelope in front of Smithen. "You are to take this envelope and parachute to ground, and you are to deliver it to the first farmhouse you can find. Make sure that they follow the instructions I have listed carefully. You are literate, yes?"
"Yes, sir," Smithen replied.
"You will most likely have to read it to them. It is of the utmost importance that these orders be carried out exactly as I have stated them. Is this clear?"
Smithen paused. "Yes, sir," he answered.
"Good. Ready your parachute presently." Procul handed Smithen the envelope. Procul looked at Smithen's hand and noticed, after all his years of dutiful service, the roughness of his hands. Procul's face, which was always immaculately shaven and perfectly smooth, led him to believe all of Procul's body was this way. His hands were, upon inspection, cracked and weathered as if Procul had endured many years of manual labor. Smithen mused to himself how different some things can from close up.

The crewman scurried off. Procul looked ahead at the open sky: there were some mountains in the distance, but the area below was mostly flat except for gentle, unpresumptuous slopes. The sky was perfectly clear today: a deep, cloudless blue that only nature itself can produce: the shade of blue that even the finest Indian inks can only approximate. Slowly, Procul slid his hand between the hinged orbs and gripped the rough leather handel. He pulled the lever next to the yolk, releasing the lock, and Procul was, for the first time in months, himself in control of the ship's destination.

Procul grabbed on to the rope latter, climbing as it swumg back and forth. He pulled himself aboard, Steigh right on his tail. The crewmen stopped and stared at their commander, and then quickly remembered to salute. Steigh, who had clearly had his daily dose of authority, pretended to ignore them. They made their way into Procul's modest, though uniquely elegant cabin. He removed a blanket from a lump on his desk to reveal the ornate phonograph.
"Is this is a joke, Procul?" said Steigh.
"No sir," Procul said solemnly. He slowly began to turn the hand-crank, and, slowly but surely, the phosphoric screen came alive, showing a large, green blob in the center. Steigh removed his pipe and walked closer to peer over Procul's shoulder. As Procul turned the crank, the dots began to reduce themselves: they sharpened and manifested themselves: the dot in the center became smaller. Part of the former blob became a completely separate entity, one slightly larger than the central dot, moving slowly away from the central dot. Procul released the hand crank, and the spinning horned slowly ceased as dots fadeded to black. Steigh stared disbelievingly for a moment more.
"What-" He regained his composure, putting his pipe back in his mouth. "What does it show?"

Presently, Procul turned around and walked straight out the door. Steigh marched briskly after him, smoke puffing from his pipe. Procul looked up to the sky directly above them. Steigh looked to Procul for a moment, then followed his gaze. For a few moments, he saw, but did not comprehend. Suddenly, his mouth fell the slightest bit open as the image registered. A mid-sized airship drifted slowly away from Procul's vessel.

Procul stepped his shiny, black boot onto the concrete surface, and turned to see a stocky man with a thin, curled mustache and a head of bushy, light-brown hair standing back at him, frowning. A pipe protruded from the side of his mouth. Procul removed his hat and brushed his feathery, blonde hair gracefully, and bowed his upper body, pressing his hat to his chest as he kept his piercing blue eyes coyly on his commander's. Procul righted himself, fixing his hat on.
"Commander Steigh. Always a pleasure." Steigh ground his teeth into his pipe.

"Follow me." Steigh, as land commander, had to keep a positive reputation among his subordinates. Land commanders were easily replaced, and thus he made it a point to always scold capitans in private. Steigh stomped angrily to an open door protruding from the platform as Procul took long, easy strides behind him. Steigh continued stomping down a short spiral staircase, emerging in the mess hall. It was a low-roofed, dimly-lit wooden structure, oddly transporting in the steel skyscraper, with a bar at one end and wooden benches all across the carpeted floor. Only capitans and higher were allowed during non-meal hours. They sat on opposite ends of a leather booth near the bar. Music played from a gramophone somewhere behind Procul and to his left, spouting tinny lounge music.

Procul took off his hat and placed it to his right on the table's surface.
"Do tell me how your wife is doing. Still buxom, I hope?"
"Would you mind telling me, Procul," Steigh said with his signature harsh haste, "why our regularly scheduled Spanish freighter did not arrive yesterday?"
"A Spanish freighter? I never knew you all had Spanish shipments here." He cocked his head: "You'd think my commander would tell his loyal capitan about such shipments." Procul began to idly flick the feather on his cap. Steigh bit harder on his pipe, puffing short bursts of smoke out his nose intermittently.
"What was your vessel doing over Yorkshire, capitan?"
"Oh, we decided to take a scenic route, you see."
"A scenic route?"
"Yes, sir." Steigh bowed his head, and removed the pipe from his mouth.
"Procul, due to your consistant insubordination, I hereby declare your dishonorably discharged from Her Majesty's Airforce."
"And if I told you I had secret Spanish aeronautical technology?" Steigh pursed his lips. He pasued for a moment, fixing his hazel eyes on Procul.
"I would ask you to show it to me."
"Well, I couldn't do that if I were discharged."
"You were never discharged. I don't know what you're referring to." Procul gave a sly smile, and his (normally wide) eyes grew the tiniest bit thinner.
"You like me, don't you? Come on. Admit that you like me." Steigh's face began to grow red.
"Procul, this is juvenile. I order you to show me the captured technology."
"Only after you admit that you like me." Steigh jolted up, barely taller than when he was sitting down. He inserted his pipe back into his mouth.
"I'll order a search of your ship!" Steigh began to march towards the staircase.
"What, in front of everyone, and with no reason?" Steigh halted and turned his head, his index and thumb on the bowl of his pipe. "That wouldn't be very good for public image, would it?" Procul gently adjusted his hair with his thumb, putting his cap back on.
"What do you /want/, Procul?"
"Just admit it, chum."

Steigh removed the pipe from his mouth and exhaled a large quantity of smoke. He turned his head away from Procul, his wide, short frame silhouetted in the light pouring from the skylight above.

"I like you, Procul."

"There's nothing here. No gin, no copper."
"That's alright. Smithen, can you show your gentler side and help me carry this broken, old phonograph to my chamber?"
"Certainly. Anything else, sir?" Procul glanced to the chair. He stared for a few seconds, then turned back to Smithen.
"No, the phonograph will do."

****************

Procul lied flat on his back in his bed. The matress, while a remarkable improvement over the crewmen's cots, still left muched to be desired; the down filling was uneven and the wood frame gave a crack whenever one rolled a certain way. Luckily, Procul was not one to toss in his sleep. This night, however, he couldn't quite shut his eyes. He felt the gentle rocking of the ship in the wind. The soft forward momentum. The hum of machinary below the deck.

Carefully, from his bed and meandered to a small, rectangular window above his desk. The moon cast a silver shadow over the ground below, and the stars shone brilliantly in the heavens. Procul, for the first time that day, felt a subtle lift from deep inside his gut. He remembered what it was to be free now. It was the perfection in the off-white. It was the knowledge of imperfection and the sensation of it's irrelevance to the individual. Freedom, he pondered, was the state of being so devinley far away. Almost instantly, the rough texture of the white daisies was lulled into submission by the brilliant music of the orbs. Procul retired himself to bed and quickly fell asleep.

*************

The next day, Procul awoke to his ship decelerating. He stretched his neck back, and stepped out of bed, throwing his robe over his unwashed shirt. He opened the door onto his deck and strolled to the yolk (currently manned by a crewmen whose name he had already forgotten) and peaked over the edge to see the Royal Aeronautical Force's landing-tower rising high above the trees a few thousand yards away.

The RAF had its main station in South Shropshire, and all zeppelins were to dock above the landing-tower, a skyscraper with a flat roof that spilled over the edges of the tower itself. There were office buildings on the inner levels which were accessible from the roof, and, although all capitans were theoretically required to perform "land duties" around the RAF airbase, Procul had long ago blackmailed one important aristocrat or another and now is exempt from these duties. In fact, he outright refused to go lower than the top floor cafe where he would have a gin and meet with his superior officers.

Procul's relatively meager craft made its way about seventy feet above the platform, and ropes dropped from the corners of his ship along with a battered rope-ladder. Procul climbed over the edge of the ship and on to the rope ladder and made his decent on to the platform.