A Post About Nothing.

I don't have a focused topic for this post. In fact, I dont have a topic at all.

I know! Here's what I'm gonna do: Mix a whole bunch of real things, fake things, true things and made up things and cram it all loosely and illogically into a structure for a story I wrote while severely sleep deprived on a plane. The aerial kind.

Part I

"I'm so tired. It's a deep, satisfying, and effective kind of tired. I'm so tired ("how tired are you!?") that I can't put her into words. But don't worry this isn't one of those kind of books. The plot, if you can call it that, is nothing more than a reflection of a series of moods arrived through the moments' unique combination of the music in my ears and the amount of sleep I've most recently enjoyed. I'm so tired. The music is happy, but the lyrics are lonely. See?

Actually forget that last paragraph. I'll get closer to the point: I'm so tired that even as I walk around in what I'm reasonably confident is reality, I feel like I'm dreaming, like I'm not actually where my senses insist I am. Let me say this: it's great fun. I am detached from the world, and every glance around, every request for access to the aisle so that I may walk to the restroom, every step in front of the other must be deliberate. They all must be explicitly conscious. It's far from wholly unenjoyable.

I'm on a plane. Weather is messing up everything. But you know, any sentence that begins with "Weather is..." is a statement built on shaky ground. The point is that the music is building when we should have been landing in Detroit. But a crazy looking storm kept us out and so now we're off to Cleveland or Pittsburgh. No one is really sure. The pilot mumbles as pilots must. The most iimportant thing to know is that it feels like we are going to land soon because we are still flying very low. I'd be scared if I was fully awake and if this song weren't hugging me with it's warm guitars.

God, she gives great hugs. Not slow motion hugs like Hollywood or soap operas or the hugs girls give each other at the end of the prom. You know what I mean. The hugs that say, This is our last big moment together (even though it isn't), and we'll always be friends (even though we won't) because somehow, we are deeper than most. More real, more here, more now, just more. Almost as deep as the clothes models fronting as actors and actresses on whatever teen dramedy currently occupies the hearts and minds of America's most voracious consumers. But I digress.

God she gives great hugs. There is no slow approach, no melting into you. She just puts her arms around you and is instanly buried in you, but only for a moment. It's awesome. Very authentic, very honest. Very garden salad. Not fast food garden salad, but more like a garden salad made from plants you grew in the backyard.

The plane has landed in Pittsburgh and no one has died. At least not on this plane. The once energetic young boy sitting to my left has fallen asleep on me again. His father, also sound asleep, has yet to peel him off. Am I imagining all this? The plane bumps a couple times before really finding the ground and that wakes everyone up. Now the little bugger is bouncing off the walls again. But he seems like a good kid, not getting into trouble, just bouncing like a re-enactment of this triple long plane flight in super fast forward."






I meant to write a Part II and III, but never did.