September 11, 2008
Flight 3308 STL to PHL
Where: Over Illinois, I imagine
Listening to: Nothing but engines. I left my iPod at home…
It's raining below me. Raining hard, actually. Above are white, fluffy clouds which make the overall terrain look like Alaska in late winter by rail. Sure, THAT seems familiar… Two weeks ago I got lost twice in my own neighborhood.
This flight is usually filled with "regulars;" the same people I travel with every Thursday. Today, this is not the case. Today the flight is filled with talky, unusually jovial non-regulars, who actually purchase beverages and eat Cheezits (I can smell them). There are only two familiar people onboard: one in 1F, the other in 15F. I take my usual place in 7F. There's an interesting symmetry to our arrangement tonight. Interesting, that is, if you have absolutely nothing else to think about.
It's almost palatable, the one thing that no one is "thinking" about. In some weird nod to the date, the TSA security personnel at Lambert Field – that being the name of the airport in St. Louis – donned new uniforms.
There are empty seats on this always oversold flight. Yes. I thought about it, but I'm confident that barring unforeseen mechanical failure, this is undoubtedly the safest day of the year to fly. And apparently still the roomiest, even after 7 years.
I watched the unveiling of the Pentagon memorial this morning. I found it morbid that they would arrange the benches on the plane's trajectory, then sort the victims names on each according to age. I suppose I would have preferred something more random by way of positioning – like the random way those people ended up on that flight. And perhaps engraving the names on each bench alphabetically, rather than pointing out that the youngest passenger was three years old.
Morbid…
The benches and their little pools are beautiful, though.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Above Illinois
STL to PHL
iPod: The Spring Standards
Below: Illinois? What time is it?
Some thirty thousand feet below me there are people living a Midwestern life. Passing the time doing whatever one does to pass the time in the Midwest. Drive-in movies? Walks to the fishin' hole? Double dates and double scoops? I suppose as incredulous as it seems to a city girl, folks do like that kind of simple life. I'm not sure where the "life" part happens or how one knows they're actually having one, but I suppose with enough wine I could muster up some vague understanding, if not the sense of purpose.
To be clear, I don't find a return to the 1950s ideal, but I do rather like the bits where women don't HAVE to work, and we wear high heels and day dresses with pearls. When the thing presenting the most stress on any given day is making sure the roast is in at 3, and the martinis are cold at cocktail hour. Of course, I would want to do that from my pre-war classic six on the Upper East Side.
Clouds now obstruct my view of middle America and I somehow feel less depressed by those people. I know they're still down there, but now I don't have to look at them. It's like looking into the face of poverty. I know it exists but I'd prefer to pretend it doesn't because it makes me feel guilty. And frankly, I create enough imaginary guilt in my life. There's no reason to self-inflict. I'm not sure what it says about me that I'd rather look at fluffy whiteness than think about what could possibly be happening in the lives of farmers. Probably nothing.
I wonder what it says about the guy next to me that he's reading about the "boyfriend" jean cut in a gossip magazine. We could jump on the gay bandwagon… or, we could consider other options. Like he works for a fashion house. Or he's en route to New York to interview for an apprenticeship with GQ. Or he's just gay and there's nothing more interesting going on there than that.
It's dark now. I've played a couple of rounds of Freecell and eyeballed Boyfriend Jeans' confidential software application documents. Usually I'm sleeping now but tonight I can't keep my eyes off the clock. 7:58:29….31….40…46…48…51…57…7:59… that's Central time.
Two rows behind me is a guy I once worked with. That was an awkward gate conversation.
iPod: The Spring Standards
Below: Illinois? What time is it?
Some thirty thousand feet below me there are people living a Midwestern life. Passing the time doing whatever one does to pass the time in the Midwest. Drive-in movies? Walks to the fishin' hole? Double dates and double scoops? I suppose as incredulous as it seems to a city girl, folks do like that kind of simple life. I'm not sure where the "life" part happens or how one knows they're actually having one, but I suppose with enough wine I could muster up some vague understanding, if not the sense of purpose.
To be clear, I don't find a return to the 1950s ideal, but I do rather like the bits where women don't HAVE to work, and we wear high heels and day dresses with pearls. When the thing presenting the most stress on any given day is making sure the roast is in at 3, and the martinis are cold at cocktail hour. Of course, I would want to do that from my pre-war classic six on the Upper East Side.
Clouds now obstruct my view of middle America and I somehow feel less depressed by those people. I know they're still down there, but now I don't have to look at them. It's like looking into the face of poverty. I know it exists but I'd prefer to pretend it doesn't because it makes me feel guilty. And frankly, I create enough imaginary guilt in my life. There's no reason to self-inflict. I'm not sure what it says about me that I'd rather look at fluffy whiteness than think about what could possibly be happening in the lives of farmers. Probably nothing.
I wonder what it says about the guy next to me that he's reading about the "boyfriend" jean cut in a gossip magazine. We could jump on the gay bandwagon… or, we could consider other options. Like he works for a fashion house. Or he's en route to New York to interview for an apprenticeship with GQ. Or he's just gay and there's nothing more interesting going on there than that.
It's dark now. I've played a couple of rounds of Freecell and eyeballed Boyfriend Jeans' confidential software application documents. Usually I'm sleeping now but tonight I can't keep my eyes off the clock. 7:58:29….31….40…46…48…51…57…7:59… that's Central time.
Two rows behind me is a guy I once worked with. That was an awkward gate conversation.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Restart.
Entry One.
Blog Two.
I'm so pissed I could spit. My previous site has collapsed in an unexpected poof of electronic dust; jettisoned into internet ether.
What? Didn't I have a back up...? Well, kind of. Not really.
I have a couple of rough drafts, a couple of bits I'd discarded altogether, but no, not everything. Not half of everything. Maybe it's The Universe's way of telling me to just stop. I probably remember all those words as being much better than they were, anyway...
So I'm going to sit a wallow for awhile. Try to come up with a plan. If you're new here (well, at the moment EVERYONE is!), I'll try not to reference stuff and stories you'll never be able to read - because that's just rude.
And I hate rude.
Blog Two.
I'm so pissed I could spit. My previous site has collapsed in an unexpected poof of electronic dust; jettisoned into internet ether.
What? Didn't I have a back up...? Well, kind of. Not really.
I have a couple of rough drafts, a couple of bits I'd discarded altogether, but no, not everything. Not half of everything. Maybe it's The Universe's way of telling me to just stop. I probably remember all those words as being much better than they were, anyway...
So I'm going to sit a wallow for awhile. Try to come up with a plan. If you're new here (well, at the moment EVERYONE is!), I'll try not to reference stuff and stories you'll never be able to read - because that's just rude.
And I hate rude.
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