Pedro Ávila

I put my drink back down on the little plastic foldaway airplane table. In the dark of the cabin, the thin golden liquid disappears into the blackness, which is enriched and deepened by the contrast of the bright screeen staring back at me. I’ve sifted through hundreds of channels beamed in via satellite, live voices telling me things, none of which carry even a whiff of importance, a mild fart of novelty.

The sky beneath us was distant. A falling ocean, a waterfall of plumes and sprays, with murderous roars muffled by the thick glass of the airplane windows.

Crazy vibrations in my head, but not from the airwaves. And no, not politics, I’m tired of politics. It’s the Israelis and the Palestinians, and Healthcare and the Republicans putting it down and the Democrats sitting on the sidelines jacking off as they always do…they just took 8 years to replace Clinton with Obama, and the results couldn’t be more similar…no, I don’t want to talk about politics.

The noise coming at me is of a different type, filling me with anxiety and a paralyzing fear. There is possibility on the horizon again; the scent of purpose within my grasp, like the smell of warm apples you can tell are coming from a pie in your oven.

There is the new apartment, of course, a new skyline to call my own, and the city will be my canvas. No strings like bookdeals come attached, but there is whatever potential I can draw from it, I suppose. Lurking around the bend there are also new whispers of employment, direction, maybe even academia again…

That’s enough, I thought. There IS no news, and there will never be any again. It’s time to get back to the project on which I’ve fallen so desperately behind. It’s time to write. And it may take a while.

So be it.

Pedro Ávila Pedro Ávila

For a reasonably sane & productive member of society (arguable, but let’s not complicate things), I’m far too mobile and unrooted. I travel quite a bit for a job that is simultaneously my greatest privilege and my worst burden.

So I write. And I write. Travel pieces, political journalism (a stretch from ranting but, still), short stories, poetry and other such riff-raff. I contribute to a handful of publications and will probably just keep going until something gives out, or someone gives in.


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Of smiles and roars