Airport Dreams

Oh, I should give it another go and start flailing and rushing about and get everything together for  tomorrow, but I’ve come to realize that I could actually come home from work and make sense of what I’m putting into my luggage as opposed to just running down my list and making sure I have at least touched some pajamas, touched a shirt, some shoes and hoping I haven’t forgotten something critical.   That, and then I wouldn’t have to haul all my computers and this box I’m taking tomorrow and I could also, maybe, get this place in a bit of an order before I go to spend the night at my parents so my father can drive me to the park-n-ride for the shuttle (which reminds me that I do need to snag some cash for tipping and buying my excellent shuttle pass which also reminds me that I need to get my travel playlist together, oh dear oh dear how can all of this fit into one person’s head!)

Apologies for recent followers who must find this kind of perfunctory post quite galling.  But this is typically how it goes around these parts. One nice-ish post followed by a hundred posts of me talking about my  packing situations.   You are, of course, in this as in most of adult life, free to answer questions and I am free to decide if I care to answer (though I think my delight over being asked anything at all would override nearly any disturbance with regards to the content of the question itself).

I’m excited about my trip, obviously, but at the moment I’m most excited about skulking about the airport at six in the morning. Inasmuch as one can skulk with the TSA and being herded about like cattle. The sunlight does magical things under the tent of the terminal as it rises. The sleepy workers set out their prepackaged danishes and every now and then, there’s a noise and a gust and hundreds of people shoot into the sky. It’s amazing.

I get the best rushes of creativity sitting there when there is no where to go and nothing to do but wait for the time when we all get to blast off together, this collection of strangers.  So seemingly random, so seemingly disparate and disconnected, but each having this magical thought of spending the necessary time in the heavens to arrive somewhere else on earth and have what they hope will be the best experience of their lives thus far.  Or, perhaps, at the very least memorable.  It always surprises me how far our little caveman heads have thought ourselves.  Up into the firmament.   So that we can be oceans apart but we can suffer a bit of discomfort and disorientation and find ourselves together again.   And then, despite our great affection, we’ll suffer that same discomfort to escape one another again.   Life is essentially absurd.  Camus was right in that regard, at least.

One more day.  I will be pinned to the wall and snakes and flames will find my feet, but day after tomorrow, I have a date with a plane.

Astral Camper

I’ve been saying it a lot lately in a lot of other contexts than my own but emotional honesty is danger.

Hi there, rain.

I am wasting time hoping for an alternate route to emerge.  Time to haul out the machete and just start thwacking.   I have a metric shit-ton to do today and the malaise just is hanging as heavy as the clouds overhead.  Someone has to take their pea shooter and send some rain seed up there and shake things loose.


I will pack:  camera (which is actually at work, so remember that), phone, charger, computer, charger for that, all the drugs and alcohol, oh, I am remembering this great list post years ago in some other blog that I am going to need to track down, Jack (the man who has no visible problems), that car horn when people start jacking me around, at least five dresses, capris, a book (though I may have had a small breakthrough with the terrible, no good book about eating by trying to understand it as a pamphlet on sensualism, but I still want to stab the author and her cooking instructor in the head [metaphorically, which is something this good woman should be duly acquainted with having never come across one she didn’t like]), small, wee little shampoo and conditioning bottles, makeup  (not the whole bloody counter, please), these sweet pellets of rain tap dancing on the skylight, my ability to spell, flowers for my hair and all the bobby pins we can filch off the cops, my headphones, get my sandals, make sure I have a pen and the flight information, my tarot cards, hair things, pajamas, another two sets of actual clothing.   And all the under things one can stuff in a rolling backpack.  I need to bring patience.  Kindness.  A smile.  The werewithal to deal with the WHEN ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED questions without resorting to answers like OH I DON’T KNOW.  WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO DIE? Which would actually be rather disheartening considering my grandfather’s pushing 90 and he has an uncle who is still alive.  YEAH.  NO.  NOT JOKING.  Let’s not joke.

I should:

Shave my legs again this evening.  Wash my hairs and put curlers in.  Paint my nails.  Pack.   Write on the story.  Not play Mass Effect until all of this is done and done well.  Make my playlists on my phone with all the Mumford I can find.  Download some podcasts.   Get the mascara tube out of the couch cushions.   Make sure the purse is transfered into the wristlet.   Make sure I get change tomorrow for tipping.  Pretend my goddamned shopping list and planning materials are, in fact, the exact kind of bullshit people (there is in fact, more than one and none of whom do I know) subscribe to this blog to read.  Pretend you have any clue why anyone reads anything you write.   Plan to get up early enough to take the curlers out of your hair and slap the makeup on your face.  Get the face cleaner, toothbrush, toothpaste, cotton balls, moisturizer and all other manner of feminine preparations and put them in the little polka dotted case.

I will see you all tomorrow for more fun and games.