For all of you out there in TV land please be patient as these posts are eventually finished (and reposted in their completed, whole state). In the mean time, enjoy my recent attempts at greatness and beating back torrents of laziness.
Wedged into the middle seat of a transatlantic flight, 15 hours into a 35- hour journey, one recalls a conversation from hours earlier. The magic of the journey, and the buzz of the airport, long faded, has left only an uncomfortable piece of airline property, serially too small, and one’s mind, fatigued by the closeness of strangers, to grapple with all the journey represents. What began as a chance to witness the doings of man in new places with new names, employed by foreign people with foreign features, slowly and deliberately devolved into questions of One’s place in the universe. Lost in the distant fray of a self-imposed, indulgent willful ignorance a rusted, squeaky door argument beats its drums of war. A Voice, the unrelenting burden of those who are forced to seek what lays beneath, disgusted and distraught at the natural inclination all have for the need to drink colorful liqueurs that drive home the point paradise must be near, drifts delicately to the fore. One’s rhythm, swinging gladly between fanciful imaginigs of swashbuckling heroism and sun kissed bodies, is on the verge of taking a decidedly more serious turn. The steady onslaught of consciousness, at first a gentle lapping at the shores of paradise unkown, will in turn transform into a personal realism. A void or vacuum never materializing; rather, a gradual sense of truth bubbles to the surface offering a perspective unencumbered by fanciful over activity. In its place, the Voice, logical and slightly detached, offers a casual observation, points out that a plane flight alone does nothing to change a person; that, in fact, one must choose to change oneself.