stories

Aaaaaaaaaaaargh. So many things to think about.

What I want. A movie camera, connected directly to the Internet, so that I can film takeoffs and landings, and scenes from the air, when I'm traveling. Who wants to see hundreds and hundreds of takeoffs and landings - let's say everybody's doing this - ? If there's something meaningful ... a story. Off line story composition on a smart phone. Here we are on the tarmac, the hatches closed, the pre-flight routine complete, in a little, almost rickety old Bombardier prop plane. The paint peeling on its fuselage, the clunky, grimy parts all clicking with precision, The giant engine outside my window, like the side of a locomotive,  the prop spinning into a knife edge blur just a foot from me. First we go, and then we have to go back, and then all of a sudden we get the all clear, and race down the taxiway, and off we fly, because the angels are with me, in these situations, and they sorted it out with Newark. But we're up in the clouds, and I'm turning green, and barely holding it together. Everyone else seems OK. I'm quite the pansy.

Because of good planning, we have two full hours at Newark, and, recovering a bit, I am able to head off into the great terminal, with its several concourses, under K's guidance. Outside, a storm is blowing through. Inside, it's like a serious party, people hurrying to their spots, or calmly waiting. We walk a long way, to a specific, grimy bathroom for me, and then settle in for delicious sushi, and green tea, and then walk all the way back, picking up lovely snacks at the Super Deli, just amazing, and then we board the plane early, due to our agent's special tricks, which is like a dream, and get squeezed into an incredibly thin row almost at the back, but, oh, blessings! No third passenger! Even some more empty seats around us. And off we go to Phoenix. In the night, through the smooth air, as storms to our north light up with flashing bolts. Fantastic.

Even the taxi back to the house is wonderful, the driver, dignified, courteous, pushing the straining Dodge past other traffic with surging intensity, then heading easy down the hill in the right direction and making the left turn, then checking with me, and I'm saying, you bet, right here, then take the first left, and though there are cones everywhere, a gap opens in the traffic just at the right moment, in the night, and we slip into the neighborhood, and navigate the quite streets, and glide to a stop in front of just the right place.

And there was the lobster roll, at Manchester. I know I shouldn't eat that before flying, but I can't help it! And, before that, my sweet, goofy parents seeing us off at security, and before that, an adventure. What can you do? How can you tell all these stories?

Before this I wrote about taking it to the angels, my problem ...

After this I wrote about stocks.