Anything At All

What a beautiful face I have found in this place that is circling around the sun. ♪

Making my way to Palermo from Denver takes me about 24 excruciatingly slow hours, dozing in and out of consciousness, my mind assailed by sweet memories tainted with a bitter edge by ruthless time and dragging my bones through three airports. Plenty of time for my body to let go, crushed by the sudden weight of the past few weeks. People notice the tears, but thankfully they respect the barrier of anonymity, I couldn’t have coped with well-meaning concern.

Palermo Airport already feels different from the dozens of others I have gotten to know. Something in the air, a vibrant energy about to burst forth, compared to the languishing lethargy ambient in the US. Probably just me. I know what you would have said:

‘You’re projecting your own perception of Italy on this anchor, an image carefully crafted by decades of swallowing clichés and bad pizzerias. This airport is just like the impersonal hundreds you’ve waded through. Nothing’s real, sis, this is your world, and no one else’s!’.

Now how I remember you. How I would push my fingers through your mouth to make those muscles move that made your voice so smooth and sweet… ♫

Pedantic little shit. I can see your smug grin so vividly. Can’t do much against the smile creeping up on my face, I do love you more than anything else, warts and all.

In the 55 minutes it takes us to reach my hotel, my chauffeur bombards me with information about his hometown and its tempestuous history, breezing through millennia of conquests, from the Phoenician inception, to Carthaginian rule and something about Arab influence. You’d have been thoroughly engaged but I merely nod at this torrential downpour, unable to focus on much but marveling at the musicality of his approximate English. He’s a reckless driver, but I am culturally sensitive enough to panic internally.

Nevertheless, I am relieved to be on my own as he drops me off in front of L’Hôtellerie, the upscale hotel our parents insisted on booking me for the night. Oh god. The sea-view, the outdoor pool, the gorgeous building, the white columns, the palm trees, the lovely staff, the soothing color pallet, the abstract art on every wall by a certain Luigi Colajanni, red, yellow, black and blue contrasting the pristine indoor whiteness, ‘Art between Africa and the Mediterranean’, the baroque communal areas, the Versailles-worthy gilded doorframes, the silky pink couches on either side of the fireplace, the scintillating parquets bathed in light by the gilded ceiling porthole, the oceanic blue overhead turning the hotel submarine, supplied in oxygen by numerous ferns, the antique pottery on every vitreous table, the marble busts of eminent historic lawmen in the outdoor patio, the translucent stairs to the Tufo suite under the arced roof, the bed framed by WWII travelling coffers and ensconced in a low alcove of dull yellow bricks, the white bathroom espousing the gentle arc in a scifi glow, the Welcome Kit fit for a Queen, the ebony desk and bedframe, the sensory overload, the frontal jump onto the soft sweetness of the sheets, finally welcoming the instant slumber.

What a beautiful dream. That could flash on the screen in a blink of an eye and be gone from me. ♪

I awake in darkness but for a ray of artificial light coming out of the open window, bringing with it a salty breeze and a distorted chatter. Assailed by memories of you, I have no choice but to stand up, dress and go out into the night, desperately seeking distraction in any form.

‘Are you going to the night market?’ asks the girl at reception, as I am passing by. It does sound plenty distracting enough, and somehow, the thought of effervescent life doesn’t scare me as much as it used to, just hours prior.
‘Hm… Yes! How do I get there?’

‘Is really easy. Take two rights to Via Lincoln and then it’s straight for 15 minutes, you can’t miss it.’

I thank her and head outside where salt gnaws at my face repeatedly, casting my drowsiness away. Via Lincoln cuts the breeze, the air warms up. From every corner couples emerge intertwined, and amble towards what I sense to be the market. Again, I am overwhelmed and into that breach your music once more engulfs.

What a curious life. We have found here tonight. There is music that sounds from the street. There are lights in the clouds, Anna’s ghost all around, hear her voice as it’s rolling and ringing through me. ♪

I don’t know about Anna but there is for sure a spirit amok tonight and he seeps through my every pore, claiming the space and sights around me.

 As it always has, the music you introduced me to takes on a new, curious life here. I’d have loved nothing more than to listen, rapt, to your excited, soft and tremulous voice, slightly lagging behind an intellect you never learned to fully tame, trying to share in the complex ecstasy of your relationship to Sicily, to the people you met there, so far away from your birthplace, who felt far more like kindred spirits than the narrow-minded folks at home.

What could possibly have brought such a sweet boy to the military?

Soft and sweet. Let me hold it close and keep it here with me ♪

The couples finally lead me to Ballaro which interrupts my reveries. Music, the sounds of revelry, laughter and good-natured violence spurt from every street corner. Most stands are covered, presumably the fresh fruits and meat from the day, leaving out the hand food, beer and wine stalls as well as some emptied gift stands turned hotspots for flirtatious young couples.

‘Signorina, Signorina! Como vai?! Vous êtes Française? Deutsch? English?’ inveigles a long-limbed, balding man, taking me completely unaware.

‘American.’ I blurt out of habit. As my traitorous feet guide me to his stall, I see in his grin that the war is already lost.

‘American! Hello! I fucking love America! Halle Berry and Thomas Pynchon, yes?!’

‘What?’

‘The black actress! James Bond! Bellissima!’

‘No, I mean. How do you know Pynchon?’

‘You don’t think Sicilians can read? Gravity’s Rainbow, V, and Against the Day, my favourite. Best postmodernist since Nabokov!’

‘…’

Before I can wrap my head around this decidedly unique vision of the U.S., he smoothly trudges along his trusted spiel.

‘I saw you walking there alone, Signora Americana, so beautiful and forlorn, my heart melted. I can’t accompany you tonight, I need to work, but please carry a bit of me along the way. I have here the most delicious of beers, Trimmutura, brewed right here in Palermo by three young engineers and a doctor. Try the Miscela al 4.6percento, it’s like you, blond, light, and with the sweet aroma of prickly pears. It’s seven euros, but for you only five!’

Before I know it, he brushes my hand with his lips and gives me back some change. Befuddled, I walk on, taking small, delighted sips from the Miscela, musing on the likelihood of having bought a beer from the only Italian who might have read Pynchon outside of esoteric academic circles and understandably being too shaken to ask him about Quaternionism and double refraction!

For a second I am tempted to retrace my steps and confront that beer-peddling scholar but resist it out of respect for the ephemeral beauty of reality you so hold dear. I know you’d have loved that encounter and laughed that belly laugh of yours at my paralysis and confusion.

None of the ambient noise and effervescent activity manage to shake me off the mounting melancholy. After reaching the end of the street with an empty bottle, I hail a taxi and am lost to the world until I get back to my room and catch some more rest.

‘Miss Snowden? Miss Snowden?! You asked to be woken up at 10, your taxi will be there at 11!’ the receptionist clamors.

I mumble something loud enough to satisfy her, sit up and come to my senses. Today is the day. I hastily shower, pack up, check out and grab some breakfast in haste before being summoned to the front entrance by the same receptionist.

Maybe the driver senses my introspective entrenchment and opts for silence after a greeting (Hello.), his name (I am Lorenzo.) and a gruff approximation of the time it will take us to reach the Naval Air Station Sigonella (We will arrive in 2 and a half hours.).

You’ve always loved music. I still see you, bright as day, picking up a guitar for the first time, you were what? Eight? Seven? When dad showed you your first chords, I swear I’ve never seen anyone half that happy.

So make all your fat fleshy fingers to moving and pluck all your silly strings and bend all your notes for me, soft silly music is meaningful magical, the movements were beautiful…♫

After that you hardly ever included me in your musical meanderings, until you were 13, in the thick of your Joy Division phase, when you discovered Jeff Mangum and Neutral Milk Hotel. From a symbol of early teenage rebellion, music suddenly became to you a bottomless source of awe and wonder, and I was there to witness it.

On my own, I probably would have stopped the album -like a hefty chunk of first-time listeners- at ‘I LOVE YOU JESUUUS CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIST!’ with a dismissive chuckle and moved on forever. But how could I ever claim a shred of objectivity -a myth, by the way-, when my little brother barges in my room, ignores my insults and, out of breath, with a radiant smile I haven’t seen on his face in about seven years, shouts: ‘Just listen, it’s the best thing ever!!’.

And this is the room one afternoon I knew I could love you and from above you how I sank into your soul, into that secret place where no one dares to go ♫

I’ll confess, that first time, half of my listening experience was spent watching you, as you kept your eyes closed and were transported to another plane of existence, your face and whole being contorting into a thousand different arrangement of outward emotions, only briefly emerging in between songs to check-up on me, still beaming, before being thrown back into your trance.

My passion for it never could hold a candle to yours, but I got it. Through your love, ‘In The Aeroplane Over The Sea’ took flight in my heart as well.

You love when I’m that corny, don’t you? You always tell me to avoid thinking and talking in clichés, that they take away from genuine experiences.

Well fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!

Through your experience, I got it. The abrasive sound, mixed to embody the feeling of decades long gone, the infinite number of odd brass, horn, bagpipe, singing saw, shortwave radio and other random instruments giving what could have worked as an acoustic record the weight of an otherworldly fanfare wandering through surreal, Daliesque lands, the ethereal, fanatic lyricism of Jeff Mangum and his raw, heart-felt voice on the delivery of the most puzzling lines and some of the most beautiful imagery I have ever envisioned in lyrics.

How much fun it was then, accompanying you down the rabbit hole of attempting to unravel what ITAOTS[1] could possibly mean. Hours spent trying to grasp its mystical, cult, meme status online, on so many forums and Youtube channels (4chan.org/mu/ is such a weird place). Identifying all the Anne Frank allusions, theories and interpretations, the potato/drum head, Jeff crying ‘for three days straight’, the time-traveling and all the other tinfoil hat conspiracies.

But first and foremost, exploring the music and what it made us feel over and over again. The album never really left either of us. Even for me, whose dependency on music is dubious and episodical at best, never a week has gone by without intently, diligently to ITAOTS, dedicating to it my absolute, undivided attention.

ITAOTS[2] quickly became the one thing connecting us through thick and thin. Through your recurrent depressive episodes, through your constant battle with mom & dad, trying to wade through their projected demons

Your mom would drink until she was no longer speaking, and dad would dream of all the different ways to die. Each one a little more than he could dare to try ♪

Through my violent bouts with alcoholism, through my moving out, through our shared anguish and despair, through our growing estrangement, through your enrolment in the military, through your voluntary relocation to Sicily and finally, through this.

The candle of our love, blazing securely against the encroaching darkness of our dreary lives.

 Yeah, yeah, I know.

Mount Etna has been looming ominously over the car for a while now, Google Maps and Lorenzo tell me we will arrive in ten minutes. Time to focus on the here and now. My hand lays heavy on the bag next to me, as if to mirror its unspeakable weight.

Lorenzo leaves me right outside the gate of the Naval Air Station Sigonella. The sentry unhurriedly takes my name and forwards it over a sea of static to several hierarchical ranks before an armed soldier comes to escort me. We walk past endless lots before stopping at another nondescript grey building. We go up an empty four flights of stairs to our destination which he indicates by throwing his back to the wall, next to an office.

The door has a semi-opaque glass window at chest level, below which is screwed a rutilant plaque inscribed with: ‘Major Major Major Major, Squadron Commander.’

Wait… What? I shake my head and squint before reading it again, hoping that would reassemble the letters into some modicum of sense. Alas, no such luck. Unmoved by my plight for rationality they retain their impenetrable order. The soldier is of no help either as he declines my imploring glance by staring straight ahead.

In the glass window I vaguely discern a shape sitting behind what I surmise to be a desk. I knock on the door firmly and see the figure launching itself below the desk.

At that point I seriously start doubting my sanity. I knock again to no answer or rousing from the man I can almost hear breathing, prostrate on the ground. I turn to the private for moral support. He reacts this time, as if he had been expecting this and takes over the knocking.

‘Major Major, sir? Are you here? Squadron Commander, sir?’ he says, almost imploringly.

‘I’m sorry, there doesn’t seem to be anyone in there. Please follow me.’ he finally addresses me, a tinge of vicarious shame in his eyes.

Two floors down, we stop before the more modest office of a Sgt. Towser, who happens to come out of the room as I am about to knock.

‘Miss Snowden, I presume? I’m sorry Major Major couldn’t receive you today; he has taken ill. Please do come in.’ he greets me without skipping a beat, as if the situation were planned all along.

‘I did not know your brother well, but I’ve heard his fellow men talk about him with utmost pride and the greatest respect. On behalf of the 256^th squadron of the United States Air Force, I am sorry for your loss.’

Brother see we are one in the same, and you left with your head filled with flames, and you watched as your brains fell out through your teeth. Push the pieces in place, make your smile sweet to see. Don’t you take this away. I’m still wanting my face on your cheek ♫

‘He died safeguarding liberty and honor, gave his life for a cause greater than us and for that we are all grateful.’

The words ring hollow, mechanical.

‘Thanks. I was led to believe I could be granted access to an aircraft this afternoon?’

‘Yes, yes, Major Major saw to that. He was touched by your brother’s last wish and made sure it could be fulfilled. There is an Agusta-Bell 212 leaving as soon as possible, the crew is instructed to head east to the Ionian Sea, leave you up to 20 minutes to proceed and then drop you off back here where a taxi will be waiting for you.’

’20 minutes? That should be enough, I guess. Thank you for the effort.’

‘You’re most welcome. Now if you don’t have any further questions, private Kraft here will escort you to corporal Hupple who will then brief you on all you need to know for the mission. The… excursion, sorry.’ he smiles, almost relaxing into something human.

‘No, it is a mission to me. Once more, thank you for your time sergeant.’

Private Kraft leads me through labyrinthine stairs and corridors. We pass by the mess hall, filled to the brim with young, healthy bodies filling up for the slaughter. I just can’t picture you here, bonding with those about to die. Hapless gladiators in your blood-stained arena, bellowing ‘Ave Dominus, moritori te salutant!’ to out-of-sight politicians.

After yet another endless trek, we reach a hangar on the opposite side of the base. Kraft passes me on to a teenager, hardly looking a day over 14.

 ‘Hi, miss Snowden? I am corporal Hupple, I will be your pilot today.’ he pauses, unsure of what to say next.

‘I have heard about your… task, and will do my best, along with private Dobbs over there, to help you complete it. You will wear a harness and I will try to stabilize the aircraft so you can work without interference, Dobbs will stay by your side and assist you. I was ordered to come back within the hour, but if you need more time, just let us know.’

Somehow this small gesture helps me relax and takes some weight off my shoulders.

But now we must pack up every piece of the life we used to love. Just to keep ourselves at least enough to carry on ♪

‘Thank you, corporal, that’s very kind of you. Do you mind if I ask for your first name?’

‘It’s Michael, Mike, ma’am.’ he smiles, bringing up more images of you in his boyishness.

‘Call me Sam. Well then, Mike, ready when you are.’

The moment we are airborne I stop trying to hold back the tears that have been welling up for the last three weeks. No nostalgic bitterness, rather an odd sense of fulfillment. This is it. This is your moment. I hold you tight against my chest, cradling you like I used to so many years ago.

I don’t need to play it. The music resonates through me and you.

Somehow reading your will made me smile and laugh and filled my heart with pure love. I can’t fathom a better way to honor your life than this, Ben. Yours was short, filled with doubts and struggles, but you found your havens of peace here and there. I feel blessed to have played a part in your quest for contentment and joy. I love you. I wish you didn’t have to leave so soon. I wish we had time to discover some new songs, new things in life, or keep on raving about old ones, but you had to leave. To travel to another corner of the world, to reinvent yourself far from the stifling environment you grew up in, and finally, to die, bleeding to death in a freak accident in the overcast sky of Avignon, at a time of peace.

Yet now, as I open your urn and hold it against the open door of the helicopter (shoddy ‘aeroplane’, but you wouldn’t want things to be too perfect, that wouldn’t be life now, would it?), I see the clear blue sky and the sun gently bathing the sea in a hazy emerald glow. I feel its warmth hugging me as well and feel as one with the world, with you still very much part of it, as your ashes scatter over the sea you so loved, a scintillating cloud of you waltzing in the wind.

And one day we will die, and our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea ♫Can’t believe. How strange it is to be anything at all. ♪

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Note: All song lyrics in bold are from ‘In the Aeroplane over the Sea’, song from the aponymous album by Neutral Milk Hotel, far more than an internet meme.

Do yourself a favour and give it a listen.