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I have flung open my window to hear the thunderstorm, to see the lightning. I bought groceries and came inside just in time to miss the floods and am now making pasta and salad but really craving the coconut cake in the fridge that Miriam made. This past week of life was spent back in California as a bridemaid in my old roommate and dear friend's wedding. I cannot believe that I have been away from New York for a week and I cannot believe she is married.
On my flight to California, Ontario airport in specific, I peeked past the sleeping buisness man on my left and out window. What were we thinking when we invented aircraft? Such clunky metal beasts will never compete with even the most awkward of mallards or Canadian geese. The clouds were unbelievable, and I use that term for they really were just that...as if cut out from one of those cheesy Romanitic landscapes that we all hate but secretly love.
So I am back in Manhattan and glad of it. Time seems to disappear here and unless asked or of my own desire, I do not have to voice my thoughts and opinions. A nice break from the world of academia. Yesterday I spent nine hours in the Dallas/ Fort Worth Airport, dealing with cancelled flights and bad weather and left with only one way to pass the time. People watching. In those hours I discovered the worlds hairiest man, the most hideous child-mullet ever publicly displayed, the fickleness of women and bad-mouthed business men and a few attractive men that I would never bring myself to speak to. I had two cups of coffee, nearly finished my book, read the LA Times and typed up a few notes from an interesting article therein, spoke to my parents a LOT and admired the patterns the rain made running down the terminal windows. Music was good company and I found I have a higher tolerance for boredom when alone. The woman at the front counter, as she assigned me a different airport to fly into, told me to view it all as an adventure. My mother told me to go buy a silly novel. Marquez, in Cien Anos de Soledad, speaks of time as a circular thing, that everything repeats itself. Although Marquez is lumped together with the imaginative magic realists, his visual language holds a lot of truth. I am drowning in Merton's "New Seeds of Contemplation" for his writing is just that, circular, and it makes me feel tired and tied down. Constantly running but never ending up anywhere but the insufficient 'here' that Merton seems to be fighting against. Anyway, I got on the train when I finally landed in New York (4:00 am) and drew a sleeping man to help my eyes from closing.
Chris took off for Germany this evening and I have two weeks to plan! Time to get down to buisness, I have lists of "must-dos" from wise, New York loving friends. Also time for some of that coconut cake.
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