an image diary

"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? ... You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream! If that there King was to wake you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"

"Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well it's no use your talking about waking him when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

Wednesday, December 6, 2006

. . .


In the aeroplane over the sea.


I'm in Atlanta. In the airport. It's too warm for a coat and wool sweater. I have both.


I absolutely lost it on the drive to the Peoria airport when for whatever reason the airport traffic was rerouted from the highway through some mysterious out of the way neighborhood that brought us all to a 20 mintue crawl. We passed police cars with siren lights waving us forward though we could not move forward, could not avoid maybe missing our flights. I lost it big too--I couldn't stop crying once I got started--not because it was frustrating but because I didn't know where I was going. I was lost and trapped, and there were no signs along the way announcing "airport this way->" or even a road sign I could reference on the map. I was this close to getting on a plane home, but before it could happen I would be lost on the outskirts of Peoria in long lines of traffic going nowhere...

So by the time I arrived at the airport and had a minor dispute with the guy who wanted me to transfer four pounds of something from one suitcase to the other (to which, after failing to find four pounds of something--"that was like one pound," he said to me after watching me sweat and scramble--I said, "you know what? charge me, just charge me"), I realized I'd start crying again when I hit security and there was nothing to be done about it. It finally hit me: I hate flying. At least everything up to the moment before you step on the plane. I resent undressing in front of other people, my belt, my shoes, my coat, my laptop, my empty water bottle (targeted today a total of four different times just walking through the security gate), and the fact that invariably, someone pulls my bags aside or pats me down. But why should I let myself feel so vulnerable? Well, because it's the truth brought to the fore. We are vulnerable.


"and what is the use of a book...without pictures or conversations?"

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers