Two friends and I were on a flight to Korea. It was a big plane, lots of room—like the child’s idea of a spaceship. I was sitting next to him and we were going together. We took off over the city and we flew to the metal studs of a building that hadn’t been built yet, way up high, so high we twisted around so the horizon swirled and we couldn’t tell the difference between the stars and the city lights. A nice dream scene, with a tinge of danger.
I was supposed to fly south the other night but because of the snowstorm, have been stuck in my childhood house for a few extra days. It’s not so bad; last night I re-learned to play Cribbage.
This extended vacation is a nice break from my routine in the West, and makes me wonder which life is a dream and which is reality. This is something I always wonder while I’m home. I’m experiencing the winter and seclusion that I know is a part of my body and its history.