This is my writing portfolio from my study abroad experience in Summer 2023 in Rome, Italy! As my professor put it, it is very much my style, the Mullinian style as it is now apparently known.
Twat’s Guide to Waiting in a Queue
This article was published in Forbes magazine by British travel writer Nick Twat.
Mr. David Attenborough
There is a queue to look at a rather nondescript green door near Basilica dei Santi
Bonafacio e Alessio near Giardino degli Aranci in Rome and it’s not the locals playing tricks on tourists. You might be quite unimpressed by this green door at first. Your back is drenched in sweat. Your knees are begging for mercy. Your eyes are about ready to quit because of the unfair working conditions. And all for what, a locked green door? With your best David Attenborough impression, you are tempted to say: “that’s a door, innit?” and walk away, patting yourself on the back for a job well done. Well, actually, no; Mr. Attenborough is too posh to say “innit”, that old bag o’bones 50 quid for an autograph? fuck you. Regardless, the gelato and cold drinks mock you as you stand in a line with a bunch of other people whose Italian ranges from knowing basic phrases to “I’m pretty sure that was Spanish, not Italian”.
That Guy on Guitar
And then there’s the guy on guitar. Absolutely legendary performances by this gentleman. Everything ranging from “I hope he’s not cursing my dead family” to “I don’t think those are words in any human language”. He can play it all. If you had the courage (or wallet), you would invite this man to serenade you everywhere you went, him and his … music.
King Charles’ Sausage Fingers
There are a lot of things one can do while waiting in a queue. For example, you can make fun of King Charles’ sausage fingers. Being unfamiliar with them, you do a quick Google search. … oh … oh my lord …
There is no way those are real, you refuse to believe it. Some twat at Forbes got paid to
write an article about it, and yes, it’s just as horrible as you’d think it’d be.
The Pedestrian and Driving Experiences
You can comment on how different the driving and pedestrian experiences are in Rome
compared to that of the States. This one idiot backed an SUV into a parked truck. Like, buddy, it’s parked. It’s literally not moving. All you had to do was NOT back into it and you’d be fine. You had one job and ya still fucked it.
Ahem … apologies. Where were we? Ah yes, the pedestrian experience! You can either
wait an hour at a crosswalk and hope one of the cars stops for you (they won’t). Or you can play Frogger. You are convinced that the creator must have been inspired by trying to cross the street in Rome. The whole concept of “right of way” is clearly something that has not made its way to Italy; everyone moves at their own pace. They go so fast they probably won’t stop if (when) they hit you. At least you won’t have to pay $10,000 to take an ambulance to the hospital, silly Americans.
Have you run out of things to talk about? Great, because we’re almost at the front of the queue to see the door! How exciting! You can already anticipate how cool this experience will be … because, you know … the door is … green. And it’s closed. And … it’s green. It should be at this point that you realize that you may have missed some valuable information. Well, actually, you should have realized that quite a while ago, maybe up around “sausage fingers”. Oh well, it’s almost your turn and you’ve come this far so, at this point, why not let go of all expectations and be open to whatever is behind this nondescript green door.
The Aventine Keyhole
Okay, it’s finally time. The moment you’ve been waiting for! After almost getting out of line and caving into your craving for gelato, it’s finally your turn to stare at a green door! Are you excited?
You step up to the door and give it a nice look, up and down. Start at the top, soak it all in. You can say, without a doubt, that of all the doors you have seen in your life, this certainly is one of them.
Okay, so not as exciting as you thought, huh? But wait, you’ve noticed that some people have been peering through the keyhole. You overcame your desire to whack one of them unsuspectingly in the back of the head while their gaze is directed into such a narrow point of reference and now it’s your turn to get whacked on the back of the head.
You bend down to take a look. Already unimpressed by the door, your expectations are rather low. What could possibly be that interesting on the other side of this nondescript green door?
You are greeted by hedges in the shape of an arch, cut out as if caressing your attention
and guiding it forward. Your eyes oblige.
A small villa graces your attention. You’ve been around Rome a bit so you aren’t that
impressed. Your eyes keep moving up. Lush trees now enter your vision. They certainly are nice but nothing to stand in a queue in the beating sun for.
Finally, your eyes reach the top of the view. A familiar and iconic white and gray masonry meets your gaze. The dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica stands with a certain air of ethereal yet ephemeral beauty. You back away from the door and take a moment to soak it all in. You open up TripAdvisor on your phone and add a review for The Aventine Keyhole that says: “I’ll be dead before you catch me queueing up for a fucking door again. Five stars.”
Nick Twat is a British travel writer who has written numerous pieces including The Smiles of
Rome is a Stupid Fucking Name, The Trevi Space Program, and Metal Jesus and the Calcium
Comrades.
A Pigeon and a Pringles Can
black feathers and an orange dusted beak
I peck at what Mr. Pringles for brunch,
they call it litter
I bob my head up and down like
the tourists constantly checking
if they’re going the right way
I think that makes the third person to take
his picture at Piazza di Santa Maria,
not that they came to take a picture
of a pale American poet
and to the gentleman who walked around
the fountain, picking up my brunch:
what the fuck?
there were still a few pringles left
To The Lady Who Cursed My Entire Dead Family
I haven’t thought of my dead family in quite a long time.
So,
To the lady who cursed my entire dead family
outside the Basilica in Piazza di Santa Maria,
thank you.
Thank you for giving them a sense of companionship
in the eternal fires of hell you cast them to.
Thank you for wishing them health and eternal life
in the pit of sorrow and despair you created for them.
Thank you for allowing them to go through
their eternal slumber without boredom.
I’m sorry I didn’t have any change to give you.
P.S.
If I wanted eternal damnation
I would have just
stayed in the church.
A Museum of Modern Art
With the number of white people
taking my picture,
you’d think I was a modern art masterpiece
in a museum in some posh burrough.
I am not.
I am just a fool
sitting on the steps of the
Fontana di Santa Maria.
I’m a piece of modern art
amidst a city of ancient history.
A flannel and Ray-Ban
against marble and masonry.
I watch as an older lady,
cloaked in black, chases
after a group of tourists,
asking for their charity.
I can’t help but chuckle
at the state of this museum of modern art.
Footnotes
The Stumbling Stones
are not a failed rock formation
The Stumbling Stones
are not a failed Rolling Stones parody
The Stumbling Stones
are pieces of history
They are the family dragged from the collar
by rabid dogs
They are the deafening screams
of children one October morning
They are nothing more than their namesake;
literal footnotes
of history
that you still trample on
The Fall of Trevi Fountain
“I CAN’T HOLD THEM OFF MUCH LONGER, CAPTAIN!”
“FIVE MINUTES! I NEED FIVE MINUTES TO GET THE SHIP BACK UP AND RUNNING!”
The private clicks his tongue at the impossible task ahead of him. The sound of the ship’s alarms ring in his ear like tinnitus. He can’t tell if the red he sees is his own blood or the emergency lights in the cabin.
As he sprints back to the radar station he is reminded of a Christmas, long, long ago. He had wished for a plastic model submarine all year long. Building it with his father was easily one of his most treasured childhood memories.
As he assesses the radar he curses his young self.
“TWO FALLING OBJECTS FROM THE SOUTH! 70 KNOTS SIR! IMPACT IN FIVE!”
The private begins to count down those five seconds.
Five.
The five of them, “The Amigos”, posed for a photo on the steps in front of the school church.
Four.
He used to play four different sports: baseball, basketball, football, and hockey.
Three.
The number of siblings he has.
Two.
The number of pets he used to have growing up.
One.
The number of people he has left in his life who will miss him when he’s gone.
The captain’s sultry voice comes over the radio. Fighting back tears, he reports back to the naval base:
“Trevi Fountain has fallen.”
The Trevi Space Program
“Quick, launch the satellite before another impact!”
“Right away sir! T-minus ten seconds until lift off.”
The much anticipated launch of the Trevi Space Program is in its final stages of preparation. After years of massive population loss due to falling space debris, the Trevian people are finally ready to fight back.
The ground begins to rumble as the rocket’s twin engines come to life. An applause erupts from the crowd as they look up to the top of the massive twenty-eight picometer ship. It took three and a half years and countless setbacks, but the project to reach the stars was finally ready to be realized.
“3…
“2 …”
“1 …”
“0 …”
A few moments of silence ensue. The fate of an entire people rests aboard this spaceship with no true destination.
“Oh my god, babe, I am so drunk right now you don’t even know.”
“haha gnarly bro, me too.”
The rocket shakes itself from its shackles as it roars and tears through the sky. Its ascent is quick and calculated, reaching the incredible speed of eighty-six nanometers per second.
A woman unzips the fanny pack resting on her shoulders and retrieves her wallet. She pulls out a one euro coin and tosses it into Trevi Fountain
Red lights engulf the cabin. The astronauts scramble to find the cause of the alarm. One of them speaks up: “The radar! Something is showing up on the radar!”
The other two astronauts sprint to the radar. The first looks out the window to the sky above and the ground below. The rocket begins to shiver in anticipation.
More people follow suit, tossing coins into Trevi Fountain.
“THE RADAR! WE’RE GETTING MULTIPLE POSITIVE READS ON THE RADAR!”
One of the astronauts attempts to radio to the command center but is greeted with nothing but static. The once bright sky turns almost pitch black. The cabin continues to shake as the rocket struggles to climb out of the atmosphere.
Space debris flies past the rocket at a speed too fast to make a sound. The astronauts are violently thrown around in the cabin but the rocket perseveres.
“What’d you wish for, babe?”
“I can’t tell you it’ll make my wish not come true.”
The warning lights turn off all at once. There is a brief moment of deafening silence that fills the cabin with nervous anticipation. The silence is immediately replaced by a tinnitus inducing ringing. The rocket jolts back and forth once more. The ground below the astronauts shrinks as it is enveloped by a cloud of ash.
The rocket has reached an altitude of two meters and has exited the upper atmosphere. They are immediately engulfed in a warm light that quickly burns through the rocket’s heat shielding.
Giant beasts of all different shapes and sizes roam this uncharted territory. Some walk on four legs, some on two. Others can fly. One swings its arm and narrowly misses the Trevian spaceship.
“Okay this here folks is Trevi Fountain. Rumors say that there is a species of little people living in the fountain. Wouldn’t that be funny?”
The Trevian astronauts decide to land on one of these galaxy sized monsters to attempt to make friendly contact. The ship approaches a pale beast who sits near the fountain with a sketchbook and pen equally impressive in size. The ship makes its way down to the creature’s skin and initiates landing procedures.
As the rockets fire up to brace for impact, the beast slowly turns its gigantic head. It lets out a wail as its hand comes crashing towards the Trevian spaceship.
“fucking mosquitos”
The Smiles of Rome is a Stupid Fucking Name*
i’ve never wanted to punch someone more
than the cunt
who decided to sit next to me
and have a smoke
while i was
partaking in a perfectly pleasant Pantheon panini
enjoy cancer ya cunt
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the next fucker
who tries to hand me a rose
on the streets of rome,
i’m gonna stuff that shit
down your throat,
thorns and all.
and for you cunts
trying to sell umbrellas,
you’re next
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i don’t know how they do it,
the waiters who stand outside restaurants,
asking passersby
if they want to eat.
i would have quit
after the second rejection.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the next motherfucker
who stares at me
after i walk in front of your camera,
i’m going to chuck that shit
into Trevi Fountain.
i’m not going to wait
for you to take the perfect picture.
i will die from secondhand smoke before that happens.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i’m going to start walking around the streets of Rome with a taser.
the next couple i catch sharing a kiss that lasts longer than 10 seconds
is gonna be in for a shock
and no,
i will not apologize for that pun
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
dear tourists,
i understand that you’re in
the eternal city,
seeing history one can only dream of.
there are very few places in the world
quite like the Pantheon.
but i swear to god
if you don’t walk faster
than my dead grandfather
i’m going to push you out of my way
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the fact that there are people
selling staplers
on the streets of rome
means that there are people
who are buying staplers
on the streets of rome
if you are one of those people
buying staplers
on the streets of rome
im not sure if i should yell at you
or give you my sympathies
clearly there is something wrong
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
no, i am not from poland
no, i am not sick
i am just that pale
if i give you money
will you stop harassing me
outside Bar San Calisto?
i don’t care that you’re 2 years sober
congratulations
you’re lucky that i can’t ever say no,
take my money and leave me the fuck alone.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*The Smiles of Rome is the name of an anthology of writing about Rome that we used as reference for this class
Metal Jesus and the Calcium Comrades
Bike tires screech in pain outside Basilica di San Pietro in Vincoli. The sound of an organ pierces through the cloud-slick night, welcoming Metal Jesus’ arrival. Cloaked like that which surrounds him, he steps off his bike, his ribcage exposed to the harsh winter winds. All of the Calcium Comrades follow suit, saluting their leader.
Metal Jesus grabs the scythe off the back of his bike and makes his way inside the basilica and up to the altar. To his right is the almost complete statue of Moses.
The Metal Messiah brushes his hood off of his skull as he turns around to address the Calcium Comrades. They all salute him once more and take their seats in the pews.
“Comrades. Today is the day we finally finish the statue of Moses and stick it to Michelangelo and his Merry Misfits.
A clattering of bony applause echoes throughout the basilica. Some of the bikers take the caps off and throw them into the air in celebration.
Metal Jesus interrupts. “Gentlemen, the work is still not finished. We still have to finish the hardest part … Moses’ feet!”
An anticipatory chill reverberates.
He continues: “The talus. The Calcaneus. The Cuboid. The Cuneiforms. The Metatarsals. The Proximal and Distal Phalanxes. They must all be perfect!”
The anxiety in the church is once again replaced by cheering. The Calcium Comrades have been waiting a long time to one-up Michelangelo’s Merry Misfit’s Moses sculpture, famous for its irresistibly seductive toe. Damn those fleshy bastards! Today was the day they got their revenge!
Just as the celebration was reaching a climax, the sound of a lonely bike screaming through the cobblestone streets drowns out the cheering. The organ almost reached its crescendo and then ended bashfully. The basilica was completely silent.
After several moments of confusion the sound of a single pair of footsteps fills the hollow hall. Out of the darkness emerges a short and stout figure who boldly addresses the fleshless crowd.
“Metal Jesus, outside of this basilica. On Christmas Day. That’s when we’ll settle this.”
The Skeletal Savior stares at Michelangelo in complete confusion. “Christmas? What is that?”
Michelangelo looks back at Metal Jesus. He forgot that he is a few centuries ahead of his time. “The twenty-fifth!” He quickly turns around and exits the basilica.
The Calcium Comrades start muttering amongst themselves. Metal Jesus quells the doubt. “Gentlemen. You heard the sack of flesh. We must finish the Moses sculpture by the twenty-fifth if we want to be victorious!” The calcium crowd roars to life once more. After finding their motivation, the bony brothers get to work finishing their rendition of Moses.
The morning of the twenty-fifth arrives. Metal Jesus tears through the narrow streets on his cruiser, his cloak elegantly flows behind him. He brings his bike to a screeching halt and steps off. He grabs his scythe and clears his throat. A stiff breeze sends a chill through the crowd. Michelangelo’s Merry Misfits click their tongues. The Calcium Comrades pivot and salute Metal Jesus as he walks toward Michelangelo. Metal Jesus makes his way toward the center of the crowd that has formed in Piazza di San Pietro. As soon as the two are almost face to face, Moses materializes. Everyone stares forward in silence.
Moses casually walks up to the two statues, examining every minute detail. Both sides invested a lot of time into their creations and their efforts have paid off. Moses huffs and puffs in acknowledgement as he makes his way back to the two leaders.
An awkward pause settles against the cold cobblestones. Moses looks to his left at Michelangelo. Then to his right at Metal Jesus. Another pause.
“And the winner … of this year’s creative expression challenge is …
ME. MOSES. AHAHAHAHAHA."
Capuchin Monk Application
We are very pleased to hear about your interest in joining the Capuchin Monks. Below is the list of requirements you are to follow to be initiated into the cult.
I, the undersigned, pledge to donate my bones for the following purposes:
To The Crypt of Skulls: may my skull be used as a decorative lamp or as a football when the kids want to play.
To The Crypt of Pelvises: may my pelvis be used as a fan blade or as a frisbee.
To The Crypt of Leg Bones and Thigh Bones: may my bones be used as baseball bats for the local teams or as a walking cane for the elderly.
To The Crypt of the Three Skeletons: if I am worthy enough may I be preserved with Jim, Carl, and Jenna. Those three were really funny and I miss them.
To The Crypt of Resurrection: may my body be put on display during Halloween to frighten all of the children.
Neither the Capuchin Monks nor the Catholic Church are liable for any emotional damages you suffer as being part of our religion.
Remember that we’re the church! We can’t be sacrilegious!
Don’t forget to stop by the gift shop and leave us a five star review!
"What you are now we used to be; what we are now you will be."
Signature: ________________________________________________ Date:__________
Taking the Piss Out of Creative Writing
To You Who Need Not Be Named,
Five weeks ago I arrived at an airport I couldn’t pronounce, pacing the lobby looking for someone with a sign with my name on it. I spent an hour just walking around, back and forth, hoping someone would materialize in front of me and lead me in the right direction. It was this agonizing loneliness that, in your words, made you curious enough to approach me that Monday afternoon. Little did either of us know that that precise moment altered the course of our lives so dramatically.
You were curious as to what I would be doing in Japan right after my experience in Rome. Funny how I was already talking about leaving Rome on day one as if I couldn’t bear to be here another day. An odd sense of satisfaction washed over me while we talked and I couldn’t help but feel happy, something that my medication has failed to do up until this point.
As minutes turned into hours and hours into days, you continued to pester me out of morbid curiosity. Again, your words, not mine. You would interrogate me for what seemed like hours on end. What’s your favorite game? What do you do in your free time? What do you normally write about?
Eventually those questions turned into deeper conversations about life and trauma. I still laugh every time I think about how willingly I shared some of the darkest moments of my life with you as if it were a charcuterie board. “And here you can taste the abusive family. Oh, and these right here are some medical issues that will plague you for the rest of your life. Aren’t they delicious?”
Five paragraphs in and I still don’t know what I am talking about. Is this boring? I feel like it might be. I’ve started and scrapped this “memoir” twice already and am hoping that this draft doesn’t get the same treatment. But I can’t help but feel like you would love this part. That, if and eventually when you read this, you’ll take a moment to glance over into my eyes while I quickly try to avoid eye contact like a child who knows he did something wrong; like the time I drove my remote control car into the window and blamed it on my dog. You say you enjoy my writing style, the Mullinian style as it is apparently now known as. As long as it makes someone happy, that is good enough for me.
Okay, enough sappy shit. I have a few things to get off my chest before I forget. First and foremost: fuck you. Fuck you for bringing all of the mosquitos to me. I was perfectly fine the first three weeks. Now my legs look like a Christmas tree. Also, fuck you for completely eating up my free time. You know how behind I am on season anime now? And the summer season is literally right around the corner. OML imma have so much to catch up on. Also I am NOT old for saying OML. My brain may be about as efficient as a hand crank and my knees might be about as sturdy as wet cardboard but I am not that old … yet.
Anyways, back to the happy/sappy shit. It’s hard to believe how much two people can grow in the span of five weeks. You have taught me so much about myself and I have taught you so many new swear words. You’re welcome. You have no idea how proud I am to hear that I have corrupted you. That is one of my lifelong missions, so thank you for making that possible.
Okay, I know this is an odd segue but shut the fuck up, this is my memoir. This next section is addressed to the other “you” who is reading this. “You” know who you are. I cannot recall an experience quite like this one. The past five weeks here have felt like a fever dream. I would have never imagined that I would be telling my professor to go fuck themselves on an almost daily basis. I would have never thought that I would have the space to experiment with the Mullinian style. I would have never thought I would make my professor the wallpaper for my phone and have them laugh at it instead of chasing and throwing shoes at me. For giving us the space and opportunity to do exactly this, I thank you from the bottom of my cholesterol-encrusted heart. This is like the moment in How The Grinch Stole Christmas where you see my heart grow three sizes. This is, without a doubt, the best academic experience I have had and ever will have. Are you getting a tad bit emotional now? No? Good, fuck you too.
I feel as if there isn’t much more to write. All of the important things have been said and all of the important feelings have already been conveyed in one way or another. Everything else needs not be repeated. So … how to wrap this up? Perhaps with a new poem. Sure! Let’s do that.
Most Sincerely,
Nicholas Mullin
if you would have told me
five weeks ago
that i should buy a lock
for the river tiber
i probably would have
punched you in the nose
but now
i am the bigger fool
for thinking that
you may have been right
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