excerpts from a journaling nomad passing the time in the airport:

…………………………..friday february twenty-third, two thousand and eight

he lifts high the black bag of coffee beans and i inhale greedily, hoping the sweet incense will placate my caffeine addiction for the moment, willing my eyes afire to stay open, as i sit in a completely unfamiliar airport, surrounded by completely unfamiliar people. one restricting shoe dangles precariously off my toes and i hope it doesn’t smell; the redness pulsates. the foot on the left has gotten ahead of the rest of me and fallen fast asleep. i attempt to read, but the pages are so potent, so packed, that my energy quickly wans, my eyes droop, and half the paragraph is missed; tis a predicament, for my soul is clammering for such poetic inspiration, but my brain isn’t awake enough to absorb it fully; the potential for powerful profundity is lost in my foggy state. my left foot awakens abruptly, painfully, all prickling pins and needles. the man ahead of me cracks his neck and i shiver in horror. a table of staff snacks cruelly tempts me as i stare dully at the crumby remains of my roast chicken sandwich, whole wheat. my camera’s battery is dead already and i haven’t even gotten on the plane. i am neither worried nor nervous to go to lisbon on my own. merely anxious. anxious to arrive… anticipating the unknown, the unexpected…


…knee deep? in over my head? truly, though, i think the majority of the time i am caught up consumed with rather shallow thoughts, as it were, a fascination with the slick rainbow oil that swirls surreptitiously on the surface of a puddle, as opposed to the dazzling microcosm of life, the miniature cities that may lurk beneath. i think far too often i skim over these subterranean secrets when i become distracted instead with the delicate kinetic painting sparkling on the surface… or i don’t know, maybe it’s the opposite… regardless, i get distracted easily…


…sometimes i will sit and sigh or sing scenarios in my sleep to the soundtrack of sigur ros…


…i pause mid-sip as i recall les mis. les mis! my masimmo late has been reduced to nothing but a foaming caramel puddle in the concave depths of a ceramic mug large enough for two handles, masking entirely my face so fatigued… the daughter of coffee, which is now drained; so too am i, but last night’s show was brilliant. regarded from the uppermost balcony, it seemed almost too perfect, too flawless, with its pre-arranged forms, pre-planned movement, notes of anticipated highs and lows, perpetually practiced dramatics. but they drew me in with the chilling power and beauty of their voices: trembling, groaning, soaring, whispering, to paint one of the most stunning stories of human struggle and courage. the stage floor held a large rotating disk almost continuously in motion; time spun on with actors weaving, turning; props sliding, rising; the orchestra resonated from the great bowels beneath. the pivotal scene of the candlesticks unfolded gleaming with God’s mercy and grace: the humble granting of a man’s freedom, a simple act that would affect countless links in the chain; eponine’s pain of unrequited love shown so bravely unselfishly, nearly unnoticed by the loves-truck Marius, the noble jean val jean, his strong, fatherly dedication, a man redeemed to rescue others, a story of love and loss and sacrifice; and the boy! sly and street-saavy, his life short-lived to a sad end, never knowing anything more than the filthy alleyways. perhaps he dies there fittingly then, a tragic testament to the horrific loss of innocent life. my heart wept. too cruel, i said. ahh and when eponine dies content that she is in marius’ arms, after she had delivered his note to cosette for him, i became overwhelmed with an incredulous pathos, allowing every sinew of sorrow to seep straight through my soul, sharing in the sweet and senseless passions, to partake in her pain, my ribs constricting the pulsating of my most emotive organ. breath in, in, sigh shuddering out. a part of me resents cosette for her beautiful ignorance; her ignorant beauty. it never seems as though she fully grasps the sacrifices that have been made for her. nevertheless, i was entirely swept up by it all; sad when the applause broke the spell.


nonsensical stream of consciousness:

…with my words i shall assail your imagination with a probing to paint, to create the most unfathomable, impossibly attainable beauty of art, perpetually perfecting, imperfecting, barely beyond your grasp, never neither constant nor content with the current status of slant and style, yet your mind’s eye will find its satisfaction in the simple act of careful construction, of reckless ruin. never will it remain the same in the next moment as in the former; under constant mutation, progression, erasing, fresh, full: raw canvas. with the same words your own individual vision, your creative magic will stand incomparable to the lady next to you on the bus, the man on his bicycle, the child flung into the air. each has the freedom to become encompassed in their own inimitable enchantment:

begin with the biggest blur of blue you can believe. hurl it into the heavens with all your strength, say a prayer, and watch it soar, stop suspended for a second, then sink, dissipating, evaporating, escaping any spectrum of colour. circular shots of satin purple follow, filling the sky, vibrato, pulsating strobe light, inward out and back again, from violet to rose, sky to tree, skipping leaves. a gaggle of green bees swarms buzzing by, each trailing a ribbon of red, yellow and orange, lighting the forget-me-nots on fire. a curtain of pale yellow washes down dripping, dawdling deliberately, a coat to conceal the chaos; fails in opacity. a second roaring layer thunders in like the tide, the glowing fireball melts, gliding over the ocean’s bottom, revealing red, rectangular rocks and teal sand glistening. two lovers are scuba-diving for sunken treasure. their figures spin and dance through flocks of fish clothed in scales of rose petals, their fins lit with thorns, their figures contorted by the water’s inconsistency. coral shivers in a cold, grape gelatine. bubbles pirouette in flawless ballet. a boat casts a shadow cross the deep. the lovers are drowning; their air-supply depleting; their faces turn a sickly shade of orange. the grateful shark bites and salty sea seeps blood, red, thick, darkening to black. gold Russian coins drop down from the surface. invert; reverse; flip it upside down. gold Russian coins are sprouting into flowers in a billowing field of indigo blue moss. a little girl and boy prance barefoot cross the subtle softness, snapping the stems and chipping the flowers into their large, wooden treasure chest.


…when i happen to be sitting on a stationary train and another hurtles ferociously past the vast windows, i frantically cover my face with a fan of fingers, for the metaphysical phenomenon, the illusion of movement, when in fact we’re frozen still, makes me dizzy, dazed, disoriented, sick.



airport sensory overload:

the sputtering hum of generators; the obnoxiously loud laughter of middle-aged women; low, deep-throated mumbles; buttons beeping; the rattle of carts; the pestering squeak of rolling suitcases; the flickering ticking of a light; a distant child wailing; quick, calculated clips of heels clopping cross the floor; security alarm activated; continuous unknown bleeping bombarding my sleep-deprived brain; i attempt to distinguish one language from another and fail at my own game.

artificial air tinged with astringent, coffee, and fast food.

bright yellows offset by royal blues against a backdrop of beige. the screen reads 14:11. one lone rectangular, green sign indicates the direction of the emergency exit. handsome irish boys stroll by. float by.

cold, uncomfortable chairs. head resting heavily upon my palm.

remains of mango linger. i search and find some leftover coffee as well. i should brush my teeth.

conclusion: boredom.