Dear Bachelorette

Dear Bachelorette,

I'm a failed entrepreneur and a jaded digital nomad. I like reading, sports, the boring usuals... and street raves in heavy third world environments.

A next chapter in life would include backpacking from Europe to India for a retreat. But I can't do this if you capture my heart. That's how humans work! I'm sarcastic. I'm Bostonian. I speak wisely of human proclivities. Ben Franklin was a boss, along with Hitchens and Hemingway, my favorite holders to the pen.

Are we the resounding complements to each other's souls? I'm not a Renaissance man. Self adherence is confirmation of one's ignorance. Here's to a cocktail in your chicest blazer and heels. I'm ready to rock someone's world. You?

Do excuse anything off-kilter in this note. I had one too many Manhattans at a bar mitzvah last night. But the schnitzel and the sermon were on point.

Duly,
William Randall

Q&A with William Capozzoli on The Move to Brazil

Your plan seems to rely on a lot of if’s and then’s, a lot of tentative things that need to happen.

While my plan does all of the above, you forgot to mention one thing - it’s still practical plan. When you have a practical approach that features goals, multiple backup and alternative plans, an exit plan and even a back-to-home plan, and it’s all on a timeline and attainable through good decision-making, which is something you’ve proven to do in the past, then why not go for it? Imagine where the world would be if everyone always abandoned their plans for fear of failure? Would all of the man-made things in front of you right now exist? That phone in your pocket? The clothes you're wearing? Your employer?

This all sounds a little bit rebellious, at least from the norms most people follow.

I’ve been a rebel in one way or another for my entire life. Sheep don’t bring change. They follow the herder. I don’t want to be a sheep. If an outside observer looked at the sequence of events in your life, and the decisions you’ve made, would they say you’re more of a sheep or a herder?

You speak about wanting to be different.

I’m a very artistic person and I believe that life is an art form. How you live, how you lead yourself and others around you, I see these processes as forms of art, and I don’t want to paint a picture that someone else already painted. Life is too short and there are too many lemmings in this world painting the same pictures. I believe that I have some positive qualities that can help me be a great leader. I believe there are plenty of opportunities to lead in developing countries. Don’t you think so?

You list plenty of ideas for projects down there. What if none of them work out?

Most plans in my life have worked out for the most part. One of them didn’t. I thought I had a job lined up a few weeks before graduating college. After 3 rounds of interviews I got a rejection letter. I was devastated. So I did the next best thing; I started looking for more jobs. And guess what happened? I found one! And I’ll do it all over again if I have to. All of my current project ideas stem from lots of hard research and networking for only 6 weeks of total time in Brazil. Do you think I'll come up with more ideas or less if I spend 6 months down there, as opposed to 6 weeks? Something has got to stick. Why think otherwise?

You’re going to make less money, initially. The idea that you’ll get back to your current income while down there isn’t guaranteed.

If all I wanted to do was make money then I would have grounded myself in a sales track a long time ago. I’ve had opportunities to get into these roles, but they’re not what attract me, and they’ll always be there if I become interested. Money is one factor out of many in the equation of happiness.  With my plan (The Move), the scale tips lower in the money bucket (initially) but higher somewhere else. That’s how my equation works, at least. Plus, less money means living with less. If I can live as a have-not and be happy, then this proves that my happiness is independent of how much money I have.

The move seems kind of risky. You don’t know exactly how you’ll end up?

I live today and I know what to expect tomorrow. I’ve been living like this for my entire life. I want to be thrown into a position where I have to re-define the plan. I want to feel like I’m learning how to walk again. I believe the skills and experiences that I’ve acquired prepare me to take on such a task. There is risk involved but the payoff is higher than any reward I could possibly be reaping right now. I won’t come out of this with any sense of complete failure, and that’s because I know I’m going to get something out of it. If there are any shortcomings, then I’ll recover in time. Do I have enough years ahead of me? I’m 26 years old.

On an Airplane by William Capozzoli

The pilot announced over the intercom, “Folks we’re experiencing some turbulence. Please remain seated.” I was almost asleep until he interrupted, “Folks we’re sustaining some light damage to the exterior of the aircraft, we're going to make an immediate emergency landing at an air station”. The exotic location of the airstrip in lower outer-space made up for the shrieks and squeals of the non-seasoned passengers. What a bunch of wimps. The view was beautiful: a large behemoth of grey matter that resembled an aircraft carrier, in the middle of a black background speckled by stars and offset by the planet biosphere below. If only Van Gough had an easel up here. I was impressed.

Anyways I was more focused on watching the technicians weld a metal graft onto the left wing of the airplane. It looked like tough work. I don't know how they'd light up a cigarette on break in outer space but its probably not permitted on the tarmacs in the States either. Tough luck. The technicians finished and the flight takeoff was business as usual. We were plummeting back down to earth. I couldn't take part in the cheers and jeers because something felt off. We were pointing downward a few degrees too sharply. Maybe I was the only one who noticed this given my extensive flight experience. I didn't want to ask "Mam are we in a nosedive?" because it might freak people out if she replies "I can go ask the captain if its a good time to deploy the O2 masks". I tried to check the time on my watch but the flight attendant blocked my wrist with her hand and said, “You’re not going to be needing this sir. It is all going to end very soon." I chuckled at how this was the first time in my life I felt like I was going to die and that I was tired of listening to aviation workers and interpreting their updates correctly. Makes for a bland travel experience. So I reclined back in my seat and figured I'd just take everything as it comes. People say to live life straight no chaser. That's how I was taking the cabin vodka and it gave me a halfheartedly soothing head-rush.

Needless to say I woke up shaking in a spacious airplane cabin. Clear blue skies on both sides of the plane. The children sitting next to me were giggling and imitating how badly I was shaking in my sleep. The pilot started muffling on the intercom. I put my headphones on to filter it out and get back to sleep. I was curious to see how the nosedive would end up.

The Waitress by William Capozzoli

“Excuse me, I am very certain that the chicken in my entrée was absent. However, I do not want the chicken anymore because the beef and pork were plentiful and delicious. But, if you could assure me that the next customer who orders this mixed-meat entrée is insured against not having the chicken, then I will be most happy.”

The waitress smiled and I cut off any chance of response, “May I buy you a drink?”

“Well, I can’t now. I’m working."

“I’m not talking about now, silly."

"I can get you a drink because I'm the waitress here."

"Fine. I'll take a pen and a napkin, with a couple ice cubes and gin on the side."

Bike Ride Through Rotterdam by William Capozzoli

I parked on a bench under light brush in an undisclosed location between Kingsen Pond and the main road. I breathed the cool, fresh Dutch air deep into my lungs and held it for a moment before exhaling. I felt a bit giddy and took to the path again for a more joyous ride. Then, the rain began settling in.

Tinkling turned crackling on the leaves. I needed thicker brush for cover. In a bold move for rejuvenation I took my left-hand off the handlebar and up to my mouth to light up a new idea from my hand. Still harder I pedaled, feet propelling me like a turbine. I was trailblazing, with every smooth and strong rip of the crank exhuming smoke that whisped from beneath my arms and around my back behind me.

I wicked the wet but my field of vision began hazing over. I soared high over the water bridges, feeling omnipotent and hulk-like over the environment and all microorganisms below between the treads of my tires. I lost all sense of time as my adrenaline surged slowly through my bones to the tips of my fingers, prickling back across my skin. The exuberance prolonged until suddenly the rain began to secede. I put my left hand back on the handle-bar for good. A dot of light ahead of me - which I wasn’t sure was a blind spot or a hallucination-  pried open my field of vision with light. The sun emerged between two clouds that were either bouncing off of each other or being pulled apart by the sun’s hands (I couldn’t tell). I parked on a bench overlooking the pond. My heart returned to resting pace. I was caught stoned in the wind.

Baltimore by William Capozzoli

When I fuddle through someone's front porch turned playpen for a spare key that is supposedly hidden in a toy, it usually turns out well. Three locks on a front door require some extra experimentation but unzipping my suitcase in the family room at 4 in the morning is priceless. Friends asleep, its the perfect way to unwind for a full day in the morning. Someone knocked on the door and I kept unpacking my clothes. Someone knocked again but I didn't want to greet unless I was sure my arrival was announced to all members of the household. The knocker entered the apartment and began walking up the stairs. Then tiptoeing. Then it stopped. I didn't want to occupy in silence so I called out my friend, "Andrew, is that you?" More silence. I walked over to the staircase to see what nightmonger entered. A police officer awaited, genuflecting on the stairs with full attention angled upwards. Staring down the barrel of a gun isn't as bad as you'd think as long as you face it head-on. I only saw a dark circular ring in between the officer's eyes. It was very two-dimensional. Phew. Secondly, it helps if the gun has already been pulled on you. This way you see no movement. He was in stationary kneel, crouching tiger. This made it harder to flinch. 

I was a defiant boy during childhood but today I'm better with authorities. I'm like a model citizen, a sheep. The officer wasn't enthused that I didn't put my hands up in reaction but in my defense he never told me to, and I don't want to become the next Amadou Diallo. I complied in answering his questions, "No sir, I am not armed" and exhibited astute truthfulness, "There are no weapons in this household, to the best of my knowledge". After 15 minutes and 3  officers rummaging through stories and sleeping roommates and not finding any college paraphernalia laying about a dusty cocktail table, they left.

The flight-or-fight response of my nervous system was inhibited tonight. Its in your best interest to not flinch when you stare down the barrel of a gun. The chance that a dense piece of lead smashes through your epidermis is increased by flinch behavior.

The Search for The Swedish Moose by William Capozzoli

I went to Stockholm for many reasons: a glimpse at a quixotic utopia, love, to renovate my vague conception of democratic socialism in Sweden, among other things. But nothing from my most precarious imagination was more desirable than the Swedish Moose. I walked into Skansen Park in search of the Swedish Moose. I saw a campfire and geese by an old manor. I trekked many hills and darkness was approaching. I stood atop a tower in search of Swedish Moose. I looked through thousands of fallen yellow leaves to the Gran Alma across the water. I stumbled upon a family of moose in a stable. It took them several long seconds to turn their heads from one side to the other. They were standing and walking and standing and walking. But one Swedish Moose sat comfortably in the corner of a stable, shoulders upright and head strong with smirk and prose that conveyed only the most polished Swedish etiquette. Everything around me faded out as the Swedish Moose turned into a mystic soothsayer. I knelt down to introduce myself:

"Hello Swedish Moose," I said.

"Stop being so courteous. Make yourself at home. Have a carrot. We haven't got but an October's sunset. What questions have you?" he replied.

"What is the derivation of your kind?"

He raised his shoulders a little higher and said, "Prowess is not inherited through genes but learned. Life's situations are unavoidable. The Swedish Moose guide their offspring through adversity by giving them opportunity to gain the upper hand at every instance. It is like rights of passage. Whether or not Swedish Moose fall for the floating log trick or finding grub in a low yield zone is up to the Swedish Moose really."

"Where have your antlers gone?" I asked.

"They took them away when we moved here because we began goring each other. With domestication came madness. Do you have this problem in your land with your kind?”

“I’m trying to figure that out.”

“The problem is societies in general. That shit your kind invented. Societies force feed their inhabitants with many ideas, technologies, and things.

"Is there any way to avoid this?" I asked.

"Leave. Go fast. Head north and seek the Swedish Archipelago, the Uppsala region. The land there is dotted with islands and pristine waterways. And then come back for a June's sunset." He replied.

He motioned and bowed his head to me through the fence. I calmly cupped my hand on his nose with my fingers running up the bridge of his nose to his eyes. All of my surroundings suddenly faded back in. A school of children approached and startled the Swedish Moose. He got up and trotted away.

The United Kingdom by William Capozzoli

"The pikees. They're lazy sacks of crap who drink and piss all over our grounds and then get up and go in their trailers. I've lost count if its the same pikees we saw last year. They're almost as bad as the benefit people. I don't care that Flynn jumped all over them when he was chasing the ball because the benefit people should have been working. They're living off benefits! It was Tuesday and they're in pants and jackets on a soccer field? For what? Training for the Cup? It was the middle of broad daylight. They need jobs. And they were fat, very fat! I was laughing my butts off when Flynn chased them through the tall grass. Atta boy Flynn, come here you bugger!" said a laughing Josh as Flynn jumped into his hands. Judi was almost done with dinner and Shinder was wrapping up the poker game in the parlor. The sweet smell of the beef and potatoes permeated down the hall. I could hardly wait for cider beers and more poker.

Miami by William Capozzoli

"Sit down," Oscar told me. He turned on the television and a DVD, "I'm going to show you the real story of what that bastard did to Cuba." I'll check it out for a few minutes, I thought. The redness in face would probably go away. "It was so beautiful before he took over," said Oscar. The movie began. The scenic view of the countrysides, the eloquence of home dining and the life in Cuba looked beautiful. "My Grandfather had a farm just like that. And lots of baseball fields and stadiums." I wondered what percentage of Cubans lived so lavishly before the revolution. I kept my mouth shut because I have a Guevara shirt at home and you can draw a fight on the street in Miami for wearing one. I asked, "Have you ever been back to visit?" Oscar frowned and bit his tongue like a kid in a tantrum, "Are you kidding me? I would never support that villain. My family's fortune was stolen. If I could strangle him in his hospital bed with my hands, I'd go. My grandmother cried when my grandpa told her they had to leave Cuba for the US. She said she would never leave her homeland. So he told her they would just be taking an extended vacation, under the hospices of Mr. Maverick, the American whose factory in Cuba they managed, and when it all passed and things returned back to normal, they would return." However many years its been since 1953, Oscar's entire descendant family still lives in the US. They never returned.