supposed to
supposed to sit here in a chicago airport. waiting. supposed to pretend i can’t hear the crappy tv. god-awful night-time “news” programming. supposed to imagine i’m not freezing under forced air. (why can’t we open windows in this country?) supposed to ignore the cinnabons floating from over there to over here, where my nose is. normally i don’t even like those things, but somehow feeling a prisoner in a place makes you a prisoner to all of its assailants as well.
like in-flight to this place.
detroit to chicago is usually whisper quick. not tonight. i got stuck in the seat smashed between two characters. window side: a psychiatrist named mo. (“like moses, not like jesus,” he noted.) huh? on aisle side was no-name. i had a hard time with him because he showed up at all and booted me out of my preferred seat into the one next to mo (“like moses, not like jesus”).
supposed to be, seems to me, when someone has a pen in one hand and a packet of reading material in the other, her eyes downcast and concentration creasing the corners of her eyes, seems to me you’re supposed to assume she’s busy. and seems to me you’re suppose to, therefore, leave her... well...alone.
but no. take mo. mo, who kinda looked like a paperclip with a suit on – all hunkering and twisting skinny angles, and kinda acted like a dude with a very serious compulsion to dig through his bag. over and over and over again. and who had another compulsion to talk. quietly, barely audibly as a matter of fact, incessantly. unfortunately. to me.
interruption:
there is a smooth-faced, good-looking man sitting down the aisle from me in the airport. at the chicago-to-tulsa gate. he’s looking this way and it’s strange. as i type i’m facing him. people behave. do we notice how?
back to mo and no-name in the airplane on the way to this place:
chicago was sloooooooow in coming’s all i’ll say. then neighbor number two, who shared only a “hello” with me when he stole my preferred seat, told me “good luck with [insert topic one mo drilled me about] and [insert topic two mo drilled me about]. and have a good time in [insert eventual destination mo drilled me about].”
eavesdropper!
now kirsty alley is on tv... (“fat alley” says the tabloid tv show making fun of what the other tabloids call her. mind you, the topic of this tabloid news program is that exactly that same topic.) someone kill me.
if you sit long enough in an airport, you begin a study of people. do you know that when you look at someone, s/he knows it. they'll look back at you. they may not know who's looking at them, but they sense it. then again, you know that, don’t you.
isn't that why women, (usually from the (middle) east and other places americans tend to not talk or know so much about, have downcast eyes. looking means too much.
so my body temperature has fallen dramatically. (still under forced air.) and, based on my airport fashion poll, black shoes are de riguer in spring in chi-town. those -- or black leather jackets with flip flops. someone kill me again.
we’ve now reached the point where kirsty is a coke head. ope, moving on to scientology....
the cute guy is looking at me, which causes me to look up. i didn’t even realize he was looking at me. behavior. weird.
eew. who made white high heels fashionable. i hate them. maybe that means i should try on a buncha pairs. like therapy. go to the center of the pain. you know, like how i got over the affect of the word “cunt.” behavior. weird.
eesh, my flight is nearly ready for me. gotta scoot.
check ya soon, after kirsty gets through 1991 and on through to today. c’mon, kristy -- yoooou caaaan doooo iiiit!! ope. kirsty and parker: 9,000 square foot home, full time chef, fao schwartz...wealth is supposed to be heaven, right. poo. they divorce.... you know...supposed to don’t always cut it. but it sure seems good for prime time tv...
my friend just put on his coat. he’s on a mission. he’s at the airport, you know. goodbye, mr. bow-legs. people swarm around his seat but do not take it. the seat holds the memory of him, stays empty, until all the people who remember his sitting there move like cattle onto their planes bound for who-knows-where. then, it's tabala rasa. up for grabs. as if it were put on the earth this morning. and just for that new person. just for a little while.
behavior.
weird.
like in-flight to this place.
detroit to chicago is usually whisper quick. not tonight. i got stuck in the seat smashed between two characters. window side: a psychiatrist named mo. (“like moses, not like jesus,” he noted.) huh? on aisle side was no-name. i had a hard time with him because he showed up at all and booted me out of my preferred seat into the one next to mo (“like moses, not like jesus”).
supposed to be, seems to me, when someone has a pen in one hand and a packet of reading material in the other, her eyes downcast and concentration creasing the corners of her eyes, seems to me you’re supposed to assume she’s busy. and seems to me you’re suppose to, therefore, leave her... well...alone.
but no. take mo. mo, who kinda looked like a paperclip with a suit on – all hunkering and twisting skinny angles, and kinda acted like a dude with a very serious compulsion to dig through his bag. over and over and over again. and who had another compulsion to talk. quietly, barely audibly as a matter of fact, incessantly. unfortunately. to me.
interruption:
there is a smooth-faced, good-looking man sitting down the aisle from me in the airport. at the chicago-to-tulsa gate. he’s looking this way and it’s strange. as i type i’m facing him. people behave. do we notice how?
back to mo and no-name in the airplane on the way to this place:
chicago was sloooooooow in coming’s all i’ll say. then neighbor number two, who shared only a “hello” with me when he stole my preferred seat, told me “good luck with [insert topic one mo drilled me about] and [insert topic two mo drilled me about]. and have a good time in [insert eventual destination mo drilled me about].”
eavesdropper!
now kirsty alley is on tv... (“fat alley” says the tabloid tv show making fun of what the other tabloids call her. mind you, the topic of this tabloid news program is that exactly that same topic.) someone kill me.
if you sit long enough in an airport, you begin a study of people. do you know that when you look at someone, s/he knows it. they'll look back at you. they may not know who's looking at them, but they sense it. then again, you know that, don’t you.
isn't that why women, (usually from the (middle) east and other places americans tend to not talk or know so much about, have downcast eyes. looking means too much.
so my body temperature has fallen dramatically. (still under forced air.) and, based on my airport fashion poll, black shoes are de riguer in spring in chi-town. those -- or black leather jackets with flip flops. someone kill me again.
we’ve now reached the point where kirsty is a coke head. ope, moving on to scientology....
the cute guy is looking at me, which causes me to look up. i didn’t even realize he was looking at me. behavior. weird.
eew. who made white high heels fashionable. i hate them. maybe that means i should try on a buncha pairs. like therapy. go to the center of the pain. you know, like how i got over the affect of the word “cunt.” behavior. weird.
eesh, my flight is nearly ready for me. gotta scoot.
check ya soon, after kirsty gets through 1991 and on through to today. c’mon, kristy -- yoooou caaaan doooo iiiit!! ope. kirsty and parker: 9,000 square foot home, full time chef, fao schwartz...wealth is supposed to be heaven, right. poo. they divorce.... you know...supposed to don’t always cut it. but it sure seems good for prime time tv...
my friend just put on his coat. he’s on a mission. he’s at the airport, you know. goodbye, mr. bow-legs. people swarm around his seat but do not take it. the seat holds the memory of him, stays empty, until all the people who remember his sitting there move like cattle onto their planes bound for who-knows-where. then, it's tabala rasa. up for grabs. as if it were put on the earth this morning. and just for that new person. just for a little while.
behavior.
weird.
posted by stacy muszynski at 9:40 PM
1 Comments:
supposed not to feel too giddy that i finally heard from you. finally. bu i am giddy. giddygiddygiddy. your observations are razor-sharp and your perceptions on the mark. fly high.
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