March 13, 2007
It’s 4:46am in the Seattle airport
waiting on a plane.
No sleep yet.
I am paying close attention to people
and typing into my phone.
We are on orange alert.
David Lynch wrote a movie called This Morning.
And I’m in it.
In the mens room I walked in on a somewhat retarded pale kid standing confused under the fluorescent light in the mirror using his jaw to pull his jaw off. Didn’t work, so he mashed his lips into each other and around. He was pretending to not be startled by my entry. He was slow to the startle. He felt so goddamned sad.
There is one thin single-spaced exceedingly long line for expensive bagels and coffee, but hardly anyone else in the airport. They’re all just standing there, three gates long, mooing, quietly. I’m loud hungry inside but the thought of standing with them makes no sense to me.
To get here
I ran down the escaltor by myself
without looking up,
at that stupid window from where people wave goodbye.
Today I believe in ghosts. Again.
I’ve found as much love for airports as I have for myself.
And as much hate.
Synchronicity just kicked in on cue
(e.g. the guy next to me dials his phone and says to someone at the other end,
“This is a voice from your past.”)
I miss his voice.
I miss him so goddamn much.
Fluorescent Fixture, Flicker