Two hours into the flight. Two and a
half to go, or something like that. What I affectionately refer to as
my cyborg assembly- the collection of titanium rods and screws and
bone grafts and denuded bone tissue that makes up my lower spine and
left hip- is starting to throb. It'd be nice to get up, stretch, walk
around, maybe pee.
 |
| That's Lake Tahoe. |
But I got the window seat this flight.
Don't get me wrong: I'm glad I got the window. It's been a while
since I did, and it's actually been more fun than I had thought,
peering at the land below and trying to take pictures. But it also
means I'd have to wake up sleeping guy in the middle and disturb
largish guy on the aisle if I wanted to get out. So. In the future, if I had to choose between window and
aisle, I'd rather someone just knock me out and stow me in the dead
guy room and let me sleep the whole way.
I have been trying to take pictures of
other planes I see flying by. I've seen five so far, most of them
traveling the opposite way. I have no idea how far away they are, but
they're close enough that I can see what kind of plane it is, what
airline, and all the little windows. And even though we're
approaching each other at somewhere around a thousand miles an hour I
have time to see it, get my camera out, and point it out the window.
Then it's gone.
 |
| No plane in this picture. BUT! If you type "Green River Utah" into Google Maps (or the map thingie of your choice) and then scroll south of there a little ways, you can clearly see this soon-to-be-an-oxbow-lake. |
Turbulence doesn't really bother me
that much, but I don't like looking out the window and seeing the
wing bounce and flex. I want to think of those things as strong and
inviolate, not bouncy and flexy.
99th post, huh? Pretty cool.
I wish I'd have been more up on this the past few days, I could have
done my 100th one a few days ago. But I've been down, or
amotivated, or drunk. Maybe all of those things, each of them feeding
off the other. Megan thinks I might be having some depression, and
she's pretty smart about such things. But I think, I hope, it's just
temporary. There are some big whacks and upheavals that poor lil' ol'
me is dealing with, and apparently that's not conducive to my
writing.
Plus our apartment is thrashed. We're
half moved in, half still boxed, and we've got more stuff than we
have room for. I worry that the Riddler- the title I have decided to
bequeath upon our new internet-leery roommate- is getting frustrated
at the cardboard explosion we've visited upon what was, until we came
back, a quiet, idyllic, apartment. I don't really have a workspace,
which makes it hard for me to get down to business. And then we've
had friends visiting... it's so difficult, you know?
I think I was expecting to get back
from France and the NC tour and just sort of...slip back into my
old life. But of course that's not happening. It never does. And now
I've lost my pencil. I have no idea what happened to it. I mean, it's
somewhere on this plane, but...it may just be gone. Like the past.
I write this sonnet with a ball-point
pen
because it seems my pencil's been
misplaced.
The use of ink does not disturb my
grin;
to lose that pencil, though, makes me
sad-faced.
Mechanical, but really nothing rare,
it's just a pencil that I've had some
time.
To France and back, I kept it in my
care;
perhaps that's why this hits me like a
crime.
We're home, but I still feel I'm
dangling loose:
I'm waiting for my old life to resume.
My train of thought hides truth in its
caboose.
I need new rails; the past I can't
exhume
My pencil represents some different
strife
that makes it hard to start this brand
new life.
more please.
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