Adventure issue

Page 1

Volume 16, Issue 1 September 2016

The Adventure Issue



As soon as I saw you I knew an adventure was going to happen. WINNIE-THE-POOH (1924-FOREVER)





Kiva’s Big Adventure


Travelling Affair


Alberto’s House


An Awfully Big Adventure




Natural 20


The Summer of an African Foreigner


The Piper’s Tune




Time Zones




Miss Adventure




Google It




Something Worth Reading


Rubha an Dùnain, Skye


Peter Pan in New York




Front Cover


Back Cover




Inside Back


EDITORIAL Editor-in-Chief Breanna Kettles

Interim Production Manager Carina Rampelt

Literary Editor Manreet Lachhar

Art/Photography Manager Tamar Zecharia

Promotions Manager Erica Parnis

Web Editor Vacant

The Adventure Issue Whenever someone leaves the house, I tell them to have an adventure. Because no matter what they set out to do, anything can turn into an adventure with the right mindset. While we can’t all go on grand heroic quests, or deep explorations of the world, we set out on our own tiny adventures every day. Some of us are tackling the feat that is university. Others are discovering something about themselves more precious than all the buried treasure in the world. People naturally have a desire for adventure, despite the risks that come with it, because we know that it’s worth it for new experiences and memories.

Literary Intern Vacant

Art/Photography Intern Vacant


Rebecca Allison, Joseph Brannan, Jonathan Collie, Charis Hesketh, Amanda Scheifele


Adventure makes me think of stories. The ones in books, the ones we tell around campfires (of witches and werewolves and Oak Island gold), or the ones our friends tell us when they come back from somewhere far away. In this issue, we hope to share some of those stories, and to wish you luck as you set out to make more. It doesn’t have to be a Lord of the Rings-sized road trip extravaganza ending in a swashbuckling duel to the death (although that would be awesome). It only has to be yours. I look forward to facing this new adventure with Blueprint, and with all of you.

Elliot Alder, Katey Brannan, Rachel Cogswell, Kevin Farrugie, Rebecca Fletcher, Alice Flynn, Cora Vanessa Haven, Will Huang, Andreas Patsiaouros, Katarina Petrovic, Carina Rampelt, Tristan Renaud, Preye T A, Jared F. Warren

Breanna Kettles Editor-in-Chief

ADMINISTRATION President, Publisher & Chair Meghan Roach Executive Director Lakyn Barton HR Manager Taylor Berzins Finance Manager Randy Moore Advertising Manager Care Schummer Vice Chair Abdiasis Issa Director Maddy Cutts Director Mynt Marsellus Director Matt Burley Community Director Fred Kuntz Community Director Gary Doyle

CONTACT Blueprint Magazine 75 University Ave W Waterloo ON N2L 3C5 p 519.884.0710 x3564 Advertise Contribute

COLOPHON Blueprint is the official student magazine of the Wilfrid Laurier University community. Founded in 2002, Blueprint is an editorially independent magazine published by Wilfrid Laurier University Student Publications, Waterloo, a corporation without share capital. WLUSP is governed by its board of directors.


Constrution Site or Playground? by JULIAN VAN MOSSEL-FORRESTER This painting, entitled “Construction site or playground?” is based on a photo that I took of my kids exploring the cement tubes at a construction site hear our house in Kitchener. We had fun looking and climbing through the tubes, which are now underground.

Content appearing in Blueprint bears the copyright expressly of their creator(s) and may not be used without written consent. Blueprint reserves the right to re-publish submissions in print or online. Opinions in Blueprint are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Blueprint’s management, Blueprint, WLUSP, or WLU. Blueprint is created using Macintosh computers running Adobe Creative Suite.

NEXT ISSUE Spectrum On stands October 2016





Life well-travelled Hole in my map No more pages For the last few stages My affair with travelling My comfort zone Unknown lands Throw a stone At the loans Travel brings power Travel far enough Screw the sour That may come On my travelling affair




An Awfully Big Adventure CORA VANESSA HAVEN

You may have heard Peter Pan say That “To die would be an awfully big adventure,” And I suppose that’s true For someone who’s had every adventure imaginable. But what of us mere mortals? Us, who try to cheat death, Who try to fight it? What of the broken ones left behind, And those who try to fix them? And what of those who face it and win? (Can you ever win against death?) That would be awfully big. There’s also the alteration, “To live would be an awfully big adventure,” And that sounds a little more accurate. Because there’s something to Discovering new places, Falling in love, Creating a new home, Conquering obstacles and destroying adversity. There’s something to looking death in the face And declaring, “I’m ready.” That would be awfully big. But what of the liminal space? What if you haven’t wandered the world, Declared yourself ready, Dodged the scythe? What if you didn’t get the chance to fight? What if death took you before you were ready? That wouldn’t be awfully big. That would just be awful. (I hope you do grander things the next time around.)


Natural 20 ALICE FLYNN

All these skills that I’ve acquired, or spells I’ve yet to try – It’s silly that my quest depends on the rolling of a die. I could still the storm of Jupiter, close his tired eye. But only if the Fates were kind in the turning of a die. This little thing, a wicked jewel we throw, my friends and I, And curse, or cheer, or laugh, or sob, at the upturned face of the die. We have demons to face, hearts to win, and secrets still to pry. Still none of that will happen with an ill toss of the die. So knock your bowstring, cast a spell, or raise your dagger high, Since the battle could best your foe – or you – at the whim of that stupid die.



KEVIN FARRUGIE The wind falls silent As a familiar tune envelops the landscape Calling to hush all daily qualms And lulling all in ear to rest. Yet from a far distance Comes a song A song of dreams and woes Of adventures and sights unseen. Its call tantalizing and unavoidable The beauty in the unknown In the chasm uncharted Hopes of journey and sounds new. Fear however taints the song With failures and sufferings that yet may come Still dreams of joy and success Lull the resting children away. Tears may fall But not in vain Though faith in such songs Beckons change. Experiences and places of old In sight and shape anew Gone yet remain As they fade into the passing horizon. Hope and fear, faith and failure Tunes of the past remembered While a new melody whisks all in ear


To the infinite unknown.



7:47 — Atlantic Standard Time bent crescent moons of light peek out from under window shades. humming in the background. i can’t get to sleep. even my quietest thoughts up here in this otherworld are soundtracked by the mechanical whirring. an unrelenting lullaby. what time is it? seven? eight? squirm. it’s much too late to be up like this, much too early. i crane my neck (tense, sleep-heavy) across my snoozing seat mate (late seventies, German, male), push back the shade the morning streaking across the sky like a harried impressionist painter’s brushstrokes. or a streaker, actually. my arm slips as i lean back. i spatter my plastic glass of gingerale across my travelling companion’s lap. he wakes covered in fizzling stars. sorry. i’m so sorry, sir. just wait— i’ll grab you a napkin.


11:58 — Central European Summer Time two lines, yellow signs with bumblebee black text indicate one for EU BURGER UND SCHWEITZER and one for everyone else. the crowd-river forks, i flow to the right, stuck in the slow-moving current with the rest of the non-eu citizens. a german porky presides over a stack of pamphlets telling me bringing meat into the country is streng verboten. i flip through. you can fold your own origami pig on page twelve. my turn at the counter. i hand over my documents to a woman looking every stereotype of storybook schoolmarm—glasses, bun, cardigan over her dark blue uniform button-down. she opens my passport. looks at me. apparently i’m the same girl as the unnaturally pasty photo. stamps without a second glance. in a soft voice tinged with accent she tells me, please proceed to customs.


0 : 0 — ??? 2 i maze my way through clean white corridors punctuated by bursts of families, men and women in business attire, young backpackers like me. the backpackers and i trade tired smiles, shyly, as if to say, you too? finally i find the elevator that will take me down to the train platform. i squeeze myself and my backpack in alongside a family with a trolley laden like a basket of plums. the doors hiss and we swoosh down. step out. all the signboards are blinking white dashes. all the clocks are melting; they flop off the walls and onto benches, dripping gold droplets puddle on my fingertips. i look up and get splashed on the nose. i wipe the dribble with a single finger, smeared metallic.


Kiva’s Big Adventure BREANNA KETTLES

The Laughing Raven would not escape her this time. Too long had he swooped along her window with a cackle at the thin mesh that separated him from the fiercest hunter in all the land. Today, Kiva was free, racing through the underbrush below him. Once, she might have been too round to keep up with the beast, but today the tabby felt light and powerful. She skidded to a halt and watched him with narrow amber eyes as he alighted onto a low branch just ahead. He fluffed his ebony wings almost teasingly, but didn’t look her way. You’re mine now. She crouched low to the ground, muscles coiled to spring. It took a great deal of control not to let her tail swish through the grass in anticipation. Nothing was going to ruin this moment, even though she was fairly certain that the Laughing Raven knew she was there. Her leap was surprisingly graceful, guiding her straight for the stupid raven and his wicked throat. She thought she had lost her claws years ago, but there they were, locking onto the tree’s branch as the raven took off a hair’s breadth shy of being hit by her swipe. It left her dangling by her front paws, trying to scramble onto the branch. Only she felt heavy again, and her claws were disappearing. No longer the wild hunter, Kiva was just a plump housecat, wiggling comically in the air. The Laughing Raven did what he did best as he flew away. Kiva sat up with a shudder, the raven’s laughter still cackling in her ears. Beside her, her human rolled over and gave her a reassuring pet. Out past the open window, the raven flew freely.


I’ll get you next time.




Let’s grow old together, you and I! Let’s roam the earth and share a pot of tea. And when our twilight deepens by and by We’ll set our sail for home beyond the sea. Do rocking waves recall your favourite chair, A brand new father singing to his son? Or clinking masts, our daughter’s impish flair, Her tiny footsteps followed at a run? Does silent moon our patient hope apprise The thousand years before our first embrace? Or shining stars resemble brightened eyes, As when I first read love upon your face? This pilgrim soul will ever you attend, My joy, my co-adventurer and Friend.



The paths of all these woods have changed I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of my sole Move still, Oh soft! into the sunlit holes Beneath the ancient limbs where play was link’d To dreams, and dreams to the low salal leaves. These bushes once made palace halls or forts; This winding trail, The Western Walk, supported Umpteen noble quests a day. Now it weaves Unchallenged on the forest floor, ignored By adult cares and hid by lack of use. It takes a child to recall a child’s lore; A soul yet unreserved by fear to choose The rover’s path and blaze a trail once more The young retrains the old to roam footloose.




Three easy steps to getting lost: construction, poor signage, a tongue slipping over alstublieft(s) Welcome to the Disorient— I watched the train slip away through a haze of damp possibility, pulled the grey sweater morning close around me. I found myself in Amsterdam by accident. I rang my boss: I was going to be late. His voice hummed with laughter as he called me sweet miss adventure. Still; pulsing in the voluptuous canals I could feel the heartbeat of the sea.





Home was never home to me, It’s just the place I was born. I always felt trapped there, I always felt torn. I always feel more at home; When I flee to places I’ve never been And that staying in one place is a sin, I never feel like I have to hide behind a crowd – Not being afraid to fit in, Not being afraid to stand out. Finding peace with a world I never knew And doing things I would never usually do, Finding out that mischief is my middle name Then feeling so blue when I had to go back on that plane. WILL HUANG




We were too busy. Following the route. Counting the miles. Hand me the map. North was south. The sun forgot its way. Days moved eastward to night. The clock cried foul. The journey, but miles along a dotted line. No time for detours. Windows were pointless. The path was long known. The destination was far behind our taillights.


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We probably should have recognized the signs. What else would you call a baby doll, painted black with bright red lips, hanging by its neck from the clothing rod of a beaten wooden wardrobe? I had been in Argentina for little over a year when me and my companions—Paul Charles and Carrillo were their names—met Alberto in Neuquén City. We were missionaries at the time, and we were eager to reach out to anybody who required service or who was genuinely interested in learning more about the doctrine we preached. Neuquén was one of the larger cities in southern Argentina, and we were assigned to work in the suburban area known as Limay, which had its share of slums and affluent Neuquinos. Alberto’s house stuck out like a sore thumb, not just because of the baby doll hanging outside the front door, but because the house itself was unlike the larger brick homes that surrounded it, the properties of the rich. We met Alberto in the streets, and he seemed interested to have us over at his house. He seemed normal. He had lived for most of his life in Brazil, which explained the pidgin language that he employed—a cross between Portuguese, Spanish, and a little bit of English, perhaps to make us feel better. His interest in what we had to share seemed genuine, so we agreed to meet again the following Thursday at his house. He lived on the corner of Carro Enrique and Nogara José, a short walk away from the provincial police station. Paul Charles was excited. Carrillo was rather indifferent. I was in-between— excited, but always with some reservations. You never quite know what to expect in Argentina, and I already had my fair share of surprises by this point. Thursday at last arrived. The baby doll was a bit distressing, but like I said, it was Argentina. Paul Charles knocked on the door, and a little man with dishevelled hair and beady eyes eventually answered. It was Alberto. “Come, come!” he said, and then disappeared behind the door. We stepped in individually. Paul Charles remained excited and did not seem to realize that we were in a room engulfed in darkness. Carrillo stayed close to the door. From the little light that came from the boarded up windows, I could make out the shadows of boxes. A few feet away, Alberto switched on a single light that hung from the water-stained ceiling. It eerily swung from side to side while its faint glow illuminated our surroundings. The boxes were actually old computer monitors and CPUs. A little odd, I thought, but perhaps there was a good reason to store all these away. It was when we rounded the corner that things started to get a bit more—how do I put it?—unnerving. In the centre of the far wall was the large metal door of a walk-in freezer. Later, we discovered that this “house” was actually a former deli store. The light continued to swing back and forth. To the left were three television screens, each of them on, each of them on the same channel, each of them in a different language—Portuguese, Spanish, English. We only hoped that what was on the walls were only paint smears. Paul Charles suddenly realized the situation and his excitement degenerated quickly into anxiety. Carrillo was ready to make for the door. What lay beyond that freezer door was left for speculation. We assumed the worst–it was Argentina, after all. Alberto emerged from a dark corner somewhere and pointed to a different wall. “Miren! Miren!” he told us, and we looked. He was apparently very familiar with missionaries; he had about ten years of newspaper clippings tacked to his wall, each with a photograph of missionaries. He had the latest one to come out of the Río Negro, titled “Le tajean la cara a predicador mormón.” He spoke to us about each and every one of the missionaries as if he knew them all so well. He told us what their aspirations were and their favourite colours and meals, as if he could discern these facts just from the looks on their faces. We could only imagine that the bare spot was awaiting another addition to the wall. Tres mormónes, muertos!, we each silently assumed to be next headline. The freezer door suddenly appeared more menacing. That was not all. Alberto, who mistook our silence for sincere interest, motioned us closer to the television sets, which were surrounded by unmarked VHS tapes. Torture videos, we thought. How soon could we get out?



Alberto rummaged through the VHS tapes and pulled one out that, although unlabelled, he seemed satisfied to show to us. He popped the tape into the VCR. It was obviously a home video; the first minute or so was of him trying to keep the camera upright. He then disappeared from view. There was a period of two or three minutes when nothing happened. “Están vendo? Están vendo?” Alberto asked us in his Spanish-Portuguese. In time, Alberto reappeared on the screen with something behind his back. And then . . . It was a video of him playing a trumpet. He was not very good. He had sent a copy of the video to the United States for some kind of competition. We left Alberto’s house shortly thereafter. He was rather sorry to see us leave so soon, but Paul Charles reassured him that we would pop by again. Cuando? Sometime. When exactly, he did not say. The next time we happened to be passing Alberto’s house was some weeks later. The wardrobe and hanging baby doll were gone, and there were no signs of life. A policeman from across the street called us over, and we inquired as to Alberto’s whereabouts. “Se fue a Brasil,” replied the policeman. He went to Brazil. “Les dejó un regalo.” He left us a present. We accompanied the policeman to the station, where he pulled out a tiny shoebox from underneath the front counter. The words “para los misioneros mormónes” were written across the top. We waited until we were outside to open it. Alberto had left us his baby doll, the noose still around its neck.



Run over mountains, swim through the seas, Rid yourself of your lonely state of mind. Travel the world through paths that twist and wind. Feel the earth between your toes and the chill of the breeze. Ignore the desperate hammering of these People who treat you very kind, Who tell you that what you’re trying to find Is impossible and beg if you’ll please Reconsider, for this cannot end well. Go forth, graze the sand and pick up the shell. Is it a clue, here on this very shore? You don’t know, but you’re willing to be brave For once. For this journey, you will not cave Until you find what you’re looking for. Everyone says you need your rest As you pour water into your chipping cup, But you’re not going to give up. (Even though they may be right, it may be best.) They don’t understand the emptiness in your chest, The weight of it making you feel like you’ll erupt. So you make light conversation as you sup, Because by morning you’ll be gone west Without a word to any you hold close to your heart. They say to quit would be smart But quitting is a thought you abhor. The only way to stop feeling bereft Of what you need and fill this cleft Is to find what you’re looking for. Visit the old witch in her tiny old home, Give her short sentences and a shrug. Distrust her as you wish, for she seems so smug. Instead, follow the swinging of the metronome As she asks you of where you’ve roamed, And oh my, please tell her about the bugs! Would any be good for potions? Sure. Oh, the new rug Has such a lovely pattern! What is it, again? Monochrome. You remind yourself that it’s just a short blip, A visit to make before you board a new ship, And suddenly her tinkling laughter turns into a roar. “Dear,” she begins, and she instantly drops her mask. Her face twists in the wickedest way, and she asks “Have you found what you’re looking for?”



You tell yourself after another fruitless day, “It’s just a setback, just a blunder.” But you look at what you have and wonder, Is it worth it to keep wasting away? You leave the cursed thought astray And move forth with your plunder Of this cave, ready to fight the lightning and thunder Promised by the dragon that is hidden here today. It tries to douse you with fire, And it all seems so dire, But the strength of your will is more. It’s defeated. Now time to conquer the next tower, The next battle. There’s the rest of the world to scour. Will you ever find what you’re looking for? The desert sun is scorching, relentless, Just as the day promises to be. You feel good. For now, maybe, You’ll loosen your shoulders of the stress. Soon? Are you close? Yes. It’s a thought that brings you glee. All your doubts begin to flee And it’s forward you press. Fierce strength, excitement, a dream – It’s all of these things that give you the steam To finish this inner turmoil, this internal war. (It’s time for the loneliness and screams at night To stop, and for your world to be set right.) You’ll finally find what you’re looking for.


You’ve run over mountains, swam through the seas. There’s nothing more left to face. Look at every terrain you’ve weathered, every chase You’ve endured, every foe you’ve brought to their knees. You circled the world with some luck, little ease, A lot of fight. You crossed off every place. You’ve conquered every obstacle to get to this space, This moment where your journey comes to freeze. You thought the world would align, That you’d reach here, say, “This is mine,” And go home, happy forevermore. You’ve scoured the sky above and the earth below. Now hopelessly overturn the last stone and know You’ll never find what you’re looking for.





“Oh, hey mountains!” You say in the most casual voice you are able to muster. They’re just there. Just suddenly. No warning, just. There. Oh, hey. Welcome. Please, enjoy your stay. Their voice is quiet, powerful, old and strong. They know they’ll be there when you wake up in the morning. “Oh, hey! Good morning mountains!” Well, good morning. They go away sometimes, covered in a still blanket of milky grey clouds. They stretch beyond your sight line so you can never tell how far up they go. You never see them end and I think that they think this is very important. They are so quiet, so still. Immovable. You don’t realize how much so, how firm and forever they are until you’re at their feet, staring up as they look down, though they never look down on you. Their serenity is intoxicating. A human brain has the capacity to fully understand them. They are the sublime that the romance poets write about, and yet they have no need for romance poetry. They are and they will be. They just are, And I think we have a very hard time accepting that.


The Summer of an African Foreigner PREYE T A

When you think summer, you might think of adventure. Laughter, travel, flings, and summer jobs. See, I am not from here, so it is different for me, and when I think summer 2016, I think the days will be like this –

First of all, not summer at all. I come from a place where it is hot all year round. We call this a long vacation. (Except it’s not that long, because it starts mid-July and ends in the first days of September, but I digress.) These are the contents of an African summer adventure: It will begin with a trip to the other side of the world and there will be a wonderful welcome home. I’ll get the most special treatment for about a week, and then shall come the old “house-girl” (which means maid) chores – this is a joke, by the way. As this happens, nosy relatives who haven’t much business with my life will concern themselves with whatever perceivable changes there may be in my appearance. They will give their unsolicited “advice” and I will retort with less than polite comments of my own and my parents will be mad. Or I won’t, because I am to respect my elders no matter what. Because I am African. Their sons around my age might take a liking to me and I will notice, but care very little. My parents will too, and will reiterate that. “There is no room for teenage pregnancies under this roof, and she is only nineteen.” My friends on the other side of the world, from my foreign school, will gasp. They are not accustomed to what is normal for their foreign friend. By now, I will finally have gotten to eat the foods I’ve been craving all the while I was in school. Having Suya (a special kind of barbecued meat) in my mouth again will feel like heaven. I will also catch up with old high school friends that I have missed dearly. No ex-boyfriends, none of that.


Then, naturally, my family and I will get on each other’s nerves. I’ll cry. Frustration. Now I will want so badly to go back to school because it’s on the other side of the world. Although I love them with every blessed tight curl of hair on my glorious head, it really is possible to get too much of family. The days will go on and I will entertain myself with the novels I brought and pass time slowly but sweetly nonetheless. Suddenly, the clock will start to tick faster and the days will breeze by. I will have to go back to school the next day. I’ll know because my tummy will have the biggest pit in it. And because my mother will have packed the biggest bag of preserved food for me to go with, so I can have some food from home while I am away again – my wonderful mother. I will cry silently for the second time that holiday as I pack my suitcase with my door locked. I don’t want to go back. Everything here is a part of who I am; I belong here. My family won’t see me cry as I walk away. I will fly back to the other side of the world. I am a foreigner again. As I get back to school and control the tears, I’ll unpack, never minding the hole in my chest. Finally, I will straighten my figurative crown and be gangster like Princess Elsa once more. “Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it show.” I will go to school and catch up with my friends. I’ll think of how although they love me, when they eventually read this piece they might not once wonder what country in the continent of Africa I come from. I’m a foreigner again.








Something Worth Reading REBECCA ALLISON


The feather flutters on the forgotten wall. Flitting about the forest floor. Winds whipping it wherever it wishes. A djinn jumping at the joyous call. Soar or sink. Beneath the blinding blue. Above the assured gates of Arcadia. Sitting amongst slumber and slothfulness. Comfort and contentment under cover. Sirens serenade beyond the sun’s stroke. To chase or cling. A piece of plumage patient. Choice to come.





Evening dew still clings to the grass when I slip out of the cabin and into the night. My parents and brother are asleep, but my mind is awake, and racing far too fast for my body to ever catch up. On my too-skinny legs, I fly through the woods, and savour the cool earth beneath my feet. I have calluses thicker than most, and don’t even feel the rocks and branches that I scamper across in my pursuit of the wisp that darts before me.

Maybe I’m still dreaming.

I do not know this part of the woods, but discovery is half the fun of running after a myth. There is a melody to our game of chase. The shivering chirp of crickets, wind creaking through the trees, and my uneven footfalls through it all. Each bounding step hits as though I mean to never touch the ground again. Maybe I don’t. In a glade I find the wisp waiting for me. A sea of fairy lights dancing around the darkness. They wave to me, and I go to them without a second thought. I’m a terrible dancer, but they don’t seem to mind as they play with my hair and kiss my eyelids with dewdrop-cold lips. We do not speak, but we sing for the woods that come alive in darkness. They lift me on the wind, and we dance in the sky. I think they want me to stay with them forever.

Maybe I want that too.

Yet when morning comes, my new friends fade away, and I am standing alone with dirt-caked feet, and twigs in my hair. Though I explored those woods every day of the summer since, I never found the glade, or saw another wisp. All that remains is the memory of a journey that might not have even happened.

But maybe it did.


Rubha an DĂšnain, Skye JOSEPH BRANNAN Up in the small light, a-trudge down the loch side We crunched our way over gravel and moss, through the cattle grate and up the dark bluffs Past waterfall and heather hill, and all beneath the brow of the great Black Cuillin, we wound through ancient peat and squelching bog. Up Creag Mhor and out with the map again surprised by old stone fences, wandering from their ancient roots, asleep on the land. Near the end, a lamb, shrouded in sea-fog lay huddled, belly gouged by an eagle broken where the path faded into grass. In haste, backed by the spine of the island we arrived, circled the cairn, hollow hill of forgotten folk, now bare to the sky. Then back, running to the glen in wet boots, recounting the humble wonder, rude cave of man, hallowed at the end of the earth.




Peter Pan in New York ERICA PARNIS

In a Greenwich bookstore my eyes skip over the words. “To die will be an awfully big adventure.� But to live. Oh, to live. To chase you, fingers pressing forward, into the kaleidoscope of urban light that dots the night sky over Brooklyn. To parade the streets of Williamsburg with both hands on my hat, hands paled by fresh snow, Boots gliding across the wooden floors of boutique stores with nerve. To break down in covert tears on a bench in Madison Square, vagrant pigeons pecking uncaringly At the crumbs scattered beneath my chilly feet. To rest my head on your lap in the hazy Harlem morning, and on your shoulder in the Long Island night, Chest heaving after running for the subway, electric currents lining my raw throat. My journey Is not pacified by the screeching of the train into the station, not cut short by my shadow, Stable and stationary, pinned to my feet. Oh, Peter, You know nothing of adventure. That thrill that creeps up the spine when driving down country roads untouched by another headlight, or The wonder of finding someone with whom you welcome old age like an old friend, not like a bad dream. Oh, Peter. You know nothing of Adventure.






The adventure doesnt have The adventure to end here... doesn’t have to end here...


Take a picture of your next adventure and tag us on Instagram, and you could be featured in the next issue of Blueprint! JONATHAN COLLIE

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