• Travis Ryan

Change What?

Updated: Apr 24

“write you idiot.”


“write you fucking idiot.”


That’s what the internal voice says as I try to snooze idly, It’s Saturday. Not that that matters for shit in here but I add significance because I would much rather not be here. A voice in my head has been apparent like a worm in the heads of those sad kids on T.V. telling me to use my language skills, facts as of right now:

I’m in jail, contained in a windowless box. Which really sucks but I tend not to let it define me. You know that high pressure feeling like a giant jaw breaker is being forced backwards up your throat? That’s what being on this cell block is like. Creeping anxiety hiding bolts and barrels of hardened steel and only crawling out a bit around the edges as it spits forward, slowly but surely 800 rounds per minute. It’s the human equivalent of bullets cycling through a Spetznaz, not too fast, not too slow, just the right amount of destruction is dispensed at the steady rate the universe deems sufficient.


Another round.


Another round.


Another round, that’s where the memory starts, when he slides back to that fateful night that everything happened just wrong, that set off the domino string until now. Travis was in a swanky downtown sober living house, living off the rents again. $1750.00 a month, with no expenses and making that sum every 2 months in writing “royalties” for, what was, at the time, the coolest shit he had ever written. This should’ve been the perfect little writer’s nest where he cranked out his sober and sobering , best selling oxy-moron come back piece, She could’ve been that same style of piece too, but as soon as he looked into her eyes, “ Hey, I’m in recovery, lets take everything slow, I’m pretty bad at this, and trying to mitigate a lot of damage...” And all the other prerecorded responses, turned into “Is there a bar or somewhere around here where we can catch our breath?”, so abruptly that I could almost see the letters rearrange in front of me like a fucked-up alphabet soup.


Another round.


Another round.


The worlds spinning, cycling around me, and her, and us. Two wrenches thrown in the same machine, clanking around both entranced in heavy ether as the teeth nipped away from that sacred moment. Those teeth were attached to a ringtone, that was attached to a phone, that was attached wirelessly to a confused and angry woman living in Baltimore MD, A world away who just received an odd audio message. She wanted clarification and her pound of flesh; she might even take two...


Another round.


Another round.


A full-fledged magic show on DMT wouldn’t have been able to add fun mystery back into that night. Endless back to back calls either means wife, or Mom, both equally draining forces on ambiance in the air. The gears caught hold, and this wrench was ground into sparking flux and nothingness, writhing in the air.


Another round.


Another round.


Even though I tried again with that woman, I was caught between two worlds, trying to define who I was as a man. And she was at that beaming point where she “knew” exactly what she was and what her world would look like. I envied her; I had been there before. Before the things you just know are “unshakable” were shook, “unmovable, moved by soft a steady erosion.


Another round.


The best part about this girl was the music, and instant capacity for compassion. We could instinctively sense the dire need in each other and laid down Love together. Her sense of humor was great and much entwined with my own. She exclaimed randomly while shirtless “I’m German, you can tell because my tits start at my shoulders” God we laughed about that for a long time, I hadn’t had fun like that since the fall of Frostburg Rome. A hellish and frantic orgy of the past while strapped to ruins that would become fate, an uncertain voyage indeed.

As much as “serious” thoughts should have permeated those days, they did. The laughs still came.


Another round.


Another round.


As a tool for artistic expression, the only place I feel a genuine human usefulness for hindsight, still “would I have changed something? “


The question is lunacy, only answerable by children, would you change the Mona Lisa? Writhe point is there were so many beautifully designed, precision engineered to put me and her in the same place that night. A wonderous clockwork of space and time, the likes of which no one (myself included) will ever be able to fully understand, or replicate, and you want me to ruin the recollection of this event by focusing on the parts you would change? That would be my definition of narrowmindedness at its core.


What would I change? I’d make dinosaurs less mean….


"Prime Suspect" "Prime time"


Travis Muffhuggin Ryan

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