airports induce writing.

7/16/2010

Molly Hatchet Band – in white Reeboks – who are they?

Middle of the terminal is a mosaic in shades of blue tile, and everyone stops right in the middle to look around…moving or trying, dodging wheels and legs and small heads that dart about at knee height. Older woman almost knocked over in the bathroom by someone with suitcase. We are all just running around.

Once again in an airport and naturally inspired to write – but it has been awhile and it feels good.

The man with the ugly cardigan tied around his tiny waist and his LV bag doesn’t realize there is a line behind him and takes his time. He also doesn’t seem to notice the haze or 85+ degree weather.

Book stores smell familiar and I love it but none appeal. My protein yogurt smoothie hits the spot and the baby next to me is smiling up a storm.

My mind races from what happened since Monday – suddenly I’m headed to Denver and meanwhile my heads wraps itself around kindergarten – 4 years olds who don’t know up from down and left from right but by the time they leave me, will know the basics of reading and math skills not to mention they will have acquired a level of responsibility, personality, and independence. Yikes.

First class is seated….time to pack up and scope out my seat mates, yet again. Converse? Possibly. Get lost in my book? Likely. Write? Probably not where wandering eyes might judge my interest in musing. Later perhaps.

the bus stop

Arriving with a passing glance over the shoulder, seeking the white rim of the large squealing bus with its neon green banner. A studious glance at the waiters...ipods in, eyes on the ground, hands shoved in pockets - occasional glance down the road for the same white rim. Curious about how long they've been there - whether it's worth waiting or whether walking would be better, seems to break the code of silence.

I ask.

one girl pretends to not see my lips moving in her direction through her blasting soundtrack. A guy looks at me, realizes I'm talking but considers turning his music louder - so I ask again, has the green line come yet? He stops his music, laboriously takes the headphone out of one ear and says "huh?" I repeat my question "dunno, been here a couple minutes." Headphone back in, eyes down, finger monotonously pushes play. Waiting resumes.

Wait, watch, eye the faces passing, trudging, skipping, jogging, leisurely strolling. Another waiter joins the crew of now four and stares at us, pondering whether she should wait or walk I'm sure. We stare in the same direction, heads cocked oddly at the distance, watching every non-white rim of every car, suv, and van as they proceed at a stop and go pace pausing for pedestrians and continuing on by, unnoticing of the waiters at the plexiglass hut.

Who made those rules? Why do we wait and stare and not speak and awkwardly all do the same thing and then all do the same shuffle as the bus approaches, side to side, forward then back, forward and glance - can I step ahead of this person, side to side, preparing hands to grip handles in the doorway, barely awknowledging those already on the bus who also did the standard wait. Sit and stare - knowing the route but staring as if something new might pass and anything to avoid the eyes of others.

Leave the bus past waiters who stand in a familiar fashion and eye the departing passengers waiting their turn.
Walk away, hear the bus - dismiss the experience, it was just a bus ride after all.

March Comes in Like....

a warm glow
wind through cracked windows
throw them wide.

Gamble on the weather, give the dice a throw
Curtain twirl and billows.
There's no need to be inside.

Just this day and maybe the next
trust in the sun
breath in the life that fills the air;

the sounds read like text
as I'm tempted by fun
and cannot help but stare.

Hope and a smile
sneezes and a giggle
at the sillyness of feeling so alive in the light.

and a very poor attempt at putting it into words.

Is it the wrong side of the bed - time conversations
without resolution
New Year's or not
ready to start a day
that's almost impossible to tackle
even armed with faith and friends
who try but can't understand entirely
the way you can
but can't
seem to find peace
or rest
And the wave has to break
or break you and it rolls
but it swells and instead gets bigger
as you get smaller
than the problems you are facing
with eyes that are burning with tears
which threaten to spill over
the hours and minutes and seconds that add
together accumulating
a power not their own and a misery not determined by the circumstances or people or places or sleep
but the choice to react
to the terrible horrible no good things
make us tired and angry and grumpy
was a dwarf
but the day is not, it's a giant
until it falls
like the sun and snow and the water
streaming from the shower head with my tears
which clean and refresh like sleep
which comes
like the sun with tomorrow

which is, after all another day
that brings hope and joy, peace and promise
of opportunity and security
is knowing that it will be

another day.

flail
sweat
flail harder
drip sweat
stare at the time
try not to breathe through the mouth
flail more gracefully
fling sweat from eyes
try not to pant
attempt to drink without falling
stare at the time
stare at the calories
stare at the distance covered
will legs to keep moving
stare at people nearby
watch old men lift weights
watch muscular sticks run fast
wipe sweat
lick lips
feel thirsty
up difficulty
flail a lot
stare at one minute remaining
cool down