My room is clusterfuck of various piles of clean and dirty clothes, magazines, CD’s and dirty dishes that have accumulated over the summer months. It’s not so much that I’m a slob because, generally speaking, I consider myself to be a fairly organized person.
The problem is that I can’t stand packing. I vehemently loathe the activity and typically wait until there is little time left to do it in any manner that makes sense. As if there is a manner of packing that does make sense.
Now I’m rambling.
I’m writing on here right now for a few reasons:
1. I’m procrastinating
2. I just stumbled upon something I should post
Here’s how it goes…I’ve been shuffling stuff in my room rather than packing it. You know, moving a stack of magazines from point A to point B and then throwing some other stuff onto my bed. Lots of stuff. Anyways, amongst my pile of magazines I came across an American Airlines napkin, from my previous flight, with the beginning of a short story on it. I like this beginning and I kind of wish I would’ve found this napkin sooner as to continue writing this story.
Nonetheless, here’s what little I have:
He stopped flying, eating hamburger and using public restrooms. It was all too risky. He never used a sponge, went inside a hospital or came within 20 feet of a child if he couldn’t help it. Everything in Flynn’s life was disinfected or disinfectant.
I also noted that I really want this character to have had a pet turtle growing up.
A bird flew into the left engine of my plane. While we rose higher into the night sky, the cabin circulated an air saturated with a scent of smoke. Nobody panicked as the noise escalated. We glanced over at our neighbor, eyeing them to verify that yes, the plane is having an unusual take off and no, this is not normal. Within ten minutes, the noise, the shaking, it is all still there when the pilot buzzes in, “well, this isn’t the first time this has happened to me, but it appears that the left engine has gone out and we’re going to have to turn back around and land back in Dallas. We expect to be back on the ground in about 15 minutes and we will determine then if we need to evacuate. We will be looking for an extra plane, but we may have to stay the night in Dallas tonight. Sorry for the inconvenience. We will know more soon.” Don’t fly American Airlines, apparently birds frequent their engines and engine failure isn’t much of a rarity. Happy flying.
Here’s a story that came to me while I ate a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie and black coffee in the Sea-Tac airport. Tully’s was out of plain old chocolate chip and O’Hare just seemed like a more predictable/busy airport for an old lady wearing paisley…
Never Trust Paisley
The shriveled elderly woman seemed out of place in her paisley patterned sun dress meandering through O’Hare in the wintertime. She didn’t march like the other ants who followed invisible arrows directing and controlling their formation. She didn’t weave in and out of this bodied traffic jam, she just stood there, solid still, forcing the anxious travelers to move around her flesh and bone traffic divide. With the sight of her my book grew significantly less interesting than real life and this was, of course, a serious rarity. There I was, just sitting there, staring through the window of a crammed airport lounge mesmerized by this spectacle. I couldn’t tell if she was lost, confused or if maybe she even had a purpose in her stance. For a brief moment I released myself from this view, peered back into the crevice of A Long Way Down and, once I looked up again, she had vanished into the swarm of hustled bodies, marching one by one. She had no idea that if she would have stood still for but only a moment longer she could have been free. Free to roam wild, from the constraining pressure hovering over us all. If only she didn’t fall into the trap of humanity, the one that guides your spirit along the designated identical path of 5.9 billion. I thought just maybe she was one of us, the unlucky million that saw through it all. Greed. Power. Status. Freedom. Slavery. All the ants go marching, one by one.