Encounter 5

Savannah airport, 7am (ish). I am trying to nod off in one of the rows of seats that are all joined together but you try and leave at least one seat between you and the person next to you.

Eyes closed. Drifting…

Then this lady sits next to me. Sits there for a few seconds. Says:

“Are you sleeping?”

I keep my eyes closed, not sure what’s happening.

“Are you sleeping?”

I opened my eyes and looked over at her. What does she want? Turns out she was on the phone with someone else. But we almost had this connection.

Maybe this one doesn’t count.

Encounter 4–The men’s room and mystery

OK, so this one is a little crude.

A few weeks ago I was in the men’s room. (You can stop reading now if you want to.) I was in that unique isolation afforded by the drab yellow walls of the stall that begin a foot off the ground and don’t reach the ceiling. It’s a big bathroom, with a long row of such stalls.

All was well.

Then I began to hear some guys in the stalls around me. I thought I heard someone cough, or sneeze. Then I heard several guys together at the same time. They were not coughing.

They were laughing.

They were doing the laugh of people who know they are not supposed to be laughing but can’t help it. The math class laugh. The library laugh. The business meeting laugh. The complete inside joke laugh.

Clearly these guys knew each other, and might have all been talking before I came in. They were sitting in their stalls and trying with all their might not to laugh, and not quite making it. There was definitely something funny going on. I had not heard any huge bathroom-type noises or anything. Besides, if there’s any place those noises are OK to make and not all that inappropriate, it’s the men’s room. No, this was something else.

As I exited my private mini-room and began to wash my hands, the suppressed hilarity continued, now from one stall, now from another. Other men had come in and left. But they stayed right where they were. I got the feeling that as soon as all of us outsiders left, the laughter would explode like–well, let’s not risk any analogies in a men’s room story.

I knew there was something funny, but I didn’t know what. I was strongly tempted to make some kind of comment on my way out (like “hope you guys enjoy whatever it is you’re doing in there”) to see if I could precipitate the outburst and maybe find out what was so stinking funny (…and the unintentional puns continue).

So I threw away my paper towel and left. As I was walking out, it occurred to me that I will never ever ever know what they were laughing about. Not a big deal in the larger working of the universe, but it just made me stop and think about my own limits. I will never know some things.

Ever.

Mystery is something I am comfortable with, as long as I am on the inside. But when it’s me, I don’t like thinking of surprises never revealed, or secrets never disclosed. But that’s just too bad, isn’t it? Nothing I can do will change it. I probably need to hit more of those walls more often in my life. I bet they’re really good for me.

Encounter 3

If you’ve never been on a two-lane state road through South Georgia, it’s sometimes lonely, sometimes boring, sometimes beautiful. They wind through the endless pine trees, and often open up suddenly on some tiny house or farm that is nowhere near anything, or lead into an isolated town with one traffic light–an island in the sea of woods. I usually end up thinking about what it would be like to live there.

A few days ago we were driving through somewhere, on state road three-digit-something, and there were a few houses on the right. As we blew by at over the 55 mile per hour speed limit, there was this lady.

Blonde, wearing an off-white coat. Standing at the end of her driveway, facing down the road away from us. Just standing there, looking down the road. She didn’t seem to mind the cars going by, or even be aware of them.

She didn’t look impatient or angry or anything. She didn’t move; she just kept gazing down the road. She might have been sad, or maybe that’s just how she struck me.

What was she waiting for? I really wanted to know. What would make her stare like that down the road, oblivious to the cars going by and the people (like me) rudely staring? Was she waiting for her roommate to come back with the car? Her sister to come in from Alabama? Her dog to be returned by someone who found it? Her kids to come home from visiting their Dad? Her husband to come home from war? Maybe just the UPS truck. As we drove by, she just stood there, staring down the road.

“Forlorn” is just not a word that jumps to my mind too often. But that day it did, as I drove by and got an 8 second glimpse at the waiting lady of GA Route three-digit something.

Encounter 2

This one was equine.

Driving a few days ago and I saw some horses in a field. It’s crazy cold, like in the 20’s, and they’re just hanging out outside all day. (Sometimes they have green horseblankets, but I don’t think they really need them. Maybe the green horseblankets are really to make owners feel better. Greenownerblankets on horses.)

So this one almost black horse who really shows up against all the snow just starts rolling. Horses are great to watch when they roll because they are built to stand up, and when they roll they combine grace and awkwardness in this weird blend that I just can’t not look at. He rolls, legs kicking, and I think maybe something’s wrong with him. But then he stands up. Then he drops and rolls again. Leg kick. Up again. Roll and kick again.

He may have been scratching

–interruption: sometimes when I talk I use the word itching when I mean scratching, which annoys me when other people do it but then I do it too. I wrote “he was itching” and then had to correct it. Maybe he had been itching which was why he was scratching–

He may have been scratching, but it looked more to me like he was just feeling good to be out there in the cold. Maybe running had gotten boring and he decided to try a roll. Maybe he liked it, and rolled more often than ran, and was a slight embarrassment to his green blanket owning owners.

Anyway, it was a nice moment. Sometimes I feel like that, right when I step outside into the cold from an overheated room. The feeling fades when the cold and numbness sets in, but that first crisp jolt is great. I can almost hear it.

Encounter 1

So I’m sitting on a plane at night. We’ve landed and we’re waiting for the gate monster to latch onto our door like those suck-fish on the side of aquariums, and the first classers to get their black leather articles and de-plane.

I’m in the window seat and looking out. It’s snowing–the first big one of the year–and I’m watching it fall, when I notice the plane next to us. It’s dark outside and I can see inside the plane’s windows. Apparently this one was beween flights, when they do the mysterious and sometimes inadequate cleaning of your seatbacks and tray tables in the full upright and locked position. I saw some torsos walking up and down, doing the cleaning thing. I went back to snowgazing.

I looked over a few minutes later and I saw a flight attendant, slowly walking the aisle in the abandoned plane. He had a bottled water and he was casually making his way down. He found a seat–an exit row seat–and sat down. It was the ’sit down’ we all do when we’ve been on our feet for too long. Saw his face: middle aged guy, balding.

He took a long drink and just sat there. He looked around, and looked outside the window. I think he saw me, but we didn’t wave. He turned back and took another pull on the water bottle.

I guess I never wondered what they do when they get their breaks. This guy had the plane to himself, and enjoyed a little of what his clients did earlier. A seat, a sigh, and a drink. It was kind of nice to have a window glimpse into that moment.

I could relate.

from the foxhole

…quick note.   I am writing this on the sly.  There are four women around me all talking at once about their lives.  One of them is my wife.

And here I am writing this blog entry.

…It’s like you’re here with me now.

They can have about six conversations at one time.

This is the most famous blog ever

Today, for the first time ever, my blog stat counter thingy recorded a record 10 views. A milestone, to say the least.

Being in the stratosphere of blogland popularity and national support gives one that heady feeling that, well, I’ve finally arrived. The double-digit view mark is seldom seen in today’s blog-infested inter-web world, what with tens of millions of blogs and only millions of viewers with limited time to search around.

Of course, the phone was also off the hook. Mostly advertisers wanting to turn this pristine cultural icon of intelligence and class into some suburban shopping-mall equivalent of cheap ads for online dates and German philosophy chatrooms. As if. I told them that they represented the death of the American blogdream, and that their imperialist tactics would not work on me, no matter what their potential buyoff would be. I am not using my newfound worldwide blog-clout as a weapon for the forces of commercialism. I know it will be a tough road without the tremendous financial support of the Nikes and the Gatorades and the Ricolas, but I plan to keep it real. For the little people. Like you.

Ah, yes, I remember those days when my blog was visited by nary a soul. Those were the tough days, but in a very real sense, the days where my vision and sense of purpose were forged steel-hard on the anvil of adversity and virtual unknown-ness.

A concern, however, comes to mind: Am I, by being such a bloggernaut, robbing the ‘average joe’ blogger of potential viewers? A valid question, when almost more people than I can count on BOTH hands have been literally frying the circuitboards in electrical overload of whatever digital entity actually carries the technical burden of this virtual tsunami from Carrell 13.

Though it may be true in the short run, it may help to think about the long-term impact of my blog on the eco-blogo-kosmos. More viewers here (could it go even higher?!?) means more load on the server-computer-thingy. Which means slower times, generating more frustration for those (almost) dozen of folks who are craving the next installment. This, in turn, opens up the door for “copycat” bloggers to make their own mark. (“Notes from Carrell 14″, for instance). Building off of my staggering success, they eventually branch out on their own, with their own viewers. Traffic slows on my account and more can have access to my posts again. This self-regulating feature of the “blog event horizon” thus ensures that actually more people will have more success in the long run.

In the meantime, this guy is going to have a nice celebration dinner of corned beef hash. And to you, faithful reader(s) (in the plural!!!)…I wish you a pleasant evening, and the warm satisfaction of knowing that you are a part of the next swelling movement of humanity.

A Homesickness Haiku

It sneaks up on you.

Homesickness jumps out, slugs you.

It really sneaks up.

I can’t shut up

So I’m in this class.  Small class.  Young professor.  She’s really nice, but she throws these really easy questions out there just to try and get some discussion going.

Like, really easy.

Only the problem is, you almost feel embarrassed answering a question that simple.  Like telling a dog to sit.  There’s no reason for it to sit, you both know that he knows how to sit.  Why sit?  Just to be doing something, maybe.  Maybe to show who’s the boss?

So the class, pretty much, refuses to sit.   We want content and tough stuff, not underhand pitches.  But then it gets worse.  Since nobody is talking, I think she thinks the questions were too hard.  So she makes them easier.  See where this is going?

So I don’t want to answer the questions either, but I’m really pulling for her.  She’s working hard up there.  I try encouraging nods, or understanding nods.  Nods of all varieties.  But they don’t seem to work.  So then I do the worst thing ever and answer the dumb question.

Good dog.

And of course it makes it worse.  I am enabling a process that I hope will end, but I am not allowing it to end, because I’m pulling for her.  (Parents:  take note.)  And then all of a sudden I realize that I am that guy, the jerk in class who answers all the questions and dominates.  Because later when I actually have something to contribute, I’ve already used my quota of talking out loud in class for the day.  One more puts me over the line into obnoxious territory.

Why can’t I just shut up sometimes, and realize that not doing something is the best thing to do?

Dragonflies and truth

So I was sitting on a bench yesterday late afternoon, and I looked over and saw some dragonflies (red ones) buzzing around and hanging out like they seem to like doing.

It occurred to me that half the time I think dragonflies are beautiful. They sit completely still like a statuette, with paper thin wings held out at rest. They’re built with impossible grace, thin bodies and huge eyes. Then they hover in mid-air somehow, just to show off, and then they take off faster than you can even follow them with your eyes. You know you’ll never catch one or kill one, and that seems to put them beyond the realm of what you have control over, beyond the concrete. They’re little bits of surreal that get as close to you as they want and disappear at will.

But then at other times, when I look close, dragonflies are kind of revolting. Scaly, huge ungainly heads, and eerily quick. Little demons. Have you ever found a dead one? So light like they’re not there, but scaly-greasy too. And then I think about what they look like to other bugs, and the name clicks–dragons. Huge, fast, deadly. Unstoppable. Red.

In my eyes dragonflies live on the borderland between beauty and horror. I want to think of beautiful and ugly as separated by a wide brown plain of mediocre, boring, plain worlds. Polar opposites. But these fairy-demons force me to acknowledge that there is a border between the two, and it’s small enough for a dragonfly to straddle.

It’s creatures like dragonflies, maybe, that make me look more closely at truth, and the sloppy ways I conceptualize an intricate world. Are there razor-thin boundaries between love and hate, with little people dancing across the lines? Good and evil, with all men strewn out on the balance beam?

I guess that makes me thankful for dragonflies.