Friday, August 31, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
There is something about airports that makes me feel like my soul is being sucked out of my body through my head somehow. My throat gets dry, and I become itchy, and I loose my focus as I move from one part of the airport that I have landed in on a plane that is late to another part of the airport where my connecting flight is due to leave from in 10 minutes. The distance between "here" and "there" is about 25 miles, or at least feels that far. As I move on and off moving sidewalks, or on and off trams, or end up just flat out running, silently (or not) cursing, holding my two allowed small bags close to me, wanting to stop for 3 ounces of water or to catch my breath or to use the bathroom, but not doing so, I can feel the Dementors and Death Eaters from the Harry Potter books closing in on me, swooping down from the airport skylights, circling around me and pulling my soul out of my body, resulting in an urgent craving for salted peanuts and tiny, tasteless crackers.
Stumble It!Wednesday, August 22, 2007
There is something so seductive about an in-ground swimming pool. This is not just any old swimming pool, mind you, but a 1st class, in-ground, drinks-on-the-patio swimming pool with a cover that protects and retracts electronically when the day begins and the pool water is heated by solar panels to 85 degrees or higher so that the 75 degree air feels chilly and it is hard to leave the pool, so you stay and swim laps or not; float maybe, or just look out at the amazing view of the Central Valley of Southern California where Mexican immigrants work hard in the fields to make sure that we are well fed and happy. And, oh, we are. We truly are.
Stumble It!Monday, August 20, 2007
He was more to be envied than pitied, for his sleep was not a lull or an interval but sleep itself which is the deep and hence sleeping ever deepening, deeper and deeper in sleep sleeping, the sleep of the deep in deepest sleep, at the nethermost depth full slept, the deepest and sleepest sleep of sleep’s sweet sleep. He was asleep. He is asleep. He will be asleep. Sleep. Sleep. Father, sleep, I beg you, for we who are awake are boiling in horror…
Henry Miller
Tropic of Capricorn
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Stumble It!