Had a strange dream of animalmorphic Faeries cavorting on ocean cliffs during a dark Summer Solstice night.
12 Noon: Waiting in Terminal A2 for our flight.
The planes on the tarmac are kind of loud. I expect we're taking a trubo-prop to SLC. We've gotten food at the terminal because we don't expect we'll be fed in flight.
I have a nagging feeling we've forgotten something, like locking all the windows. If I didn't always have this feeling when embarking on a two-week long trip, I'd be more worried.
I need to force myself to write. I've gotten out of practice and during vacation it will be difficult to focus on writing between all the wedding activities, family visits and tourist stops. This time I'm bringing no electronics and have brought a few manuscript drafts. While we're gone I have to write a Machine of Death story. The Wordos suggested "IN-LAWS" but I figured that would be a good way to get into a lot of trouble.
On the first plane. It's not a turbo-prop. I'm a little jammed into the bulkhead, but I'm sitting next to a good window. There's an extra-loud loudspeaker over my head, and I jump every time the captain chimes in -- which is usually just as I'm nodding off.
Noon-time glare off of the Three Sisters fills the cabin with white. Air travel always reminds me of when I was a skydiver. I look down on the ant-trail highway and feel myself count three-two-one and step backward off of the plane of my memory and into its air-stream. Half the time the soundtrack in my mind is Enigma's Eyes of Truth, the other half it's Uncle Bonsai's Lois Lane.
I miss skydiving. My bank account, however, does not.
Later, looking out the window over the southwest at a tan road trailing along umber ground, it seems as though I'm looking sideways and the road is climbing into the sky.
The circular fields are plowed in labyrinthine furrows. I'm sure there's an agricultural short story in there somewhere.