My first solo flight since Nelle was born, and a Pacific Ocean's worth of time for me me me. To read, write, watch, eat, flick through magazines, sit idly, do whatever the hell I wanted. And what did I do? Over-think my life. Oh yes, indeed. Where else better, than an economy seat on an international flight where you're stuck with yourself and only yourself for 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 hours? I blame all you writers out there for giving me things to read. And think about.
And breathed life into a story of 300 words.
I read essays about remembering, and elk hunting,
And loved and hated Eve Ensler's memoir.
I (finally) watched Silver Linings Playbook and damn right
Jennifer Lawrence deserved that Oscar.
I missed Robbie and Nelle and Robbie
and Nelle and didn't sleep anyway.
I congregated illegally near the toilet, but
justified it via vriksasana. Trees don't congregate.
It became suddenly, vividly clear to me
how much I blame myself for getting cancer.
My mind got stuck on mothers, damaged by tsunamis
or Congolese militants or inexplicable and unfair things.
So I had to watch The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel and 5 straight episodes
of Big Bang Theory to quiet my mind, and pull it somewhere happier.
I dozed to the sounds of Stephen Fry reading me Harry Potter,
and I can't even remember which book it was - it really didn't matter.
Thank you JK. Thank you SF.
And then, the wheels were grinding down and the plane was wobbling
onto the runway and we were here. LA. The land of stopping over
And warm showers. And getting my head back together.
See you soon in Santa Fe.
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