Busy Week

Sunday, January 27, 2008. 1622. Gate A4, Thurgood Marshall Baltimore-Washington Airport, awaiting flight to Tennessee. Sunny, surprisingly warm, though not warm enough to forego the overcoat.

Inertia is ruling my life at this point. An object in motion tends to stay in motion. An object at rest tends to stay at rest. I feel like I am constantly in motion these days, especially on the weekends when I must take care of all the things I let slide during the week. Not that this is a bad thing. I think I'm one of those people that need to be kept busy, or else my mind will start wandering, and I'll start wondering. We all know how dangerous thought can be.

Right now, I'm sitting with my back to the terminal windows, four foot glass panes tiered up six-high. The sun hangs heavy in the sky, ready to bust open and leak light every which way. Oh, wait, it is already doing so. Shine on, blessed sun, shine on.

The carpet below me is new enough that it still retains the distinct aquamarine and teal hues in its abstract thread pattern. (I am apparently comfortable enough with my e-sexuality to use the words "aquamarine" and "teal.") However, the carpet is old enough to see where bits of humanity have started embedding themselves in it. A pulled thread where someone tripped. A few strands of loose thread, trailed away from someone's fraying sock. Some of the carpet panels are starting to peel up at the edges, others have tamped down.

I see a man talking on his iPhone. He's taped several pieces of paper to the back, probably his name and address in case he loses it. This man is not concerned about his iPhone being a consumer gadget; the taping overlaps and was quick enough to have taken five minutes. He wears a black and gray plaid scarf around hid neck, as well as a suit coat, dark gray, that reflects as much light as it absorbs. He keeps taking calls. Grey sweater sleeve, an electronic watch, perhaps Timex, a class ring on his left ring finger. Another businessman on the road. As he talks, his jaw works as he listens. Is it gum? Is he talking?

A nun garbed in all white has sat down next to me, save her hood is all black. She has her left hand to her chin, holding it, presumably thinking? I dare not take too many looks, for fear of having to explain that I'm writing on my blog, and taking in what I see. She seems quite contemplative. I wonder if nuns are not averse to reading over my shoulder either, though with the sunlight and reflection, she might not even be able to read what I’m typing. Hell, I can hardly read what I’m typing.

***

R.Y. and I were having a discussion, as we are wont to do. Somehow, It rolled over to the topic of unconditional love. It was my preposition (supposition?) that unconditional love is idiotic, to which R.Y. expressed some surprise. He asked me if that meant that unconditional love was an idiot's ideal, and only idiots could unconditionally love. As usual, I did not use my words precisely, my eternal failing. Ah, blue heaven, teach me how I can use my words more precisely.

What I meant by my words was that unconditional love is, by logical measures, foolish, of or like an idiot, not that it was what only idiots could do. Unconditional love, love without condition, without asterisk. I used the example of parents. They unconditionally love the screaming wet lump that just came out of one of them, but there's no real logic to that. You know nothing about it, it isn't even a person, yet you'll love it no matter what. Remove emotion, and it makes no sense.

Strange thought coming from a self-styled romantic, but romanticism doesn't have to track with naivete.

***

Eight hours of uninterrupted sleep in a dark, quiet room make me a whole new man. I've average four hours of sleep a night this weekend, and I'm burned out and ready to give up and crawl under this seat I'm sitting on and live in the airport for a couple of days. In contrast, during the week, I had the privilege of sleeping full and sleeping well, and it was a revelation. I swear, we get everyone enough sleep, and this world would be a much better place.

***

Thje rental care I picked up had a whole 500 miles on it. Basically a new silver Pontiac G5. Damn, that was nice, driving a new car. The doors' locks weren't broken (Lady Surfer's rear driver's side lock is starting to malfunction). Acceleration and deceleration don't constitute an exercise in patience. I'm sure this car could pass every emissions test on the first run, and the engine light didn't come on intermittently for weeks at a time. There were no dings that I noticed, and starting the car in the morning didn't bring that little dread-lump to my throat asking whether or not the car was going to start.

When I returned from my trip, damned if I didn't almost decide right then and there to buy a new car. Never had a new car of my own, and yes, it is a luxury, but oh, to luxuriate in My Own New Car.

Then, I took the shuttle to the parking lot, found Lady Surfer, stowed my gear, and hopped in. And I noticed several things about her, things that I never noticed until the drive in the rental car made them more obvious. The seat, for one thing, was configured correctly. I didn't have to keep adjusting it back and forth every day. The wheel also felt just right in my hands, not that chunky wheel with all the ridges and grips that made it hard to let go of. The funny sounds during the drive back to Virginia that I drown out with the FM radio (no CD player). Even the way I had to pull up and brake early in the parking spot because Lady Surfer's getting old, too old, felt right.

I can wait a little while longer.

***

For the entire month of January, I will have spent at least some part of every weekday, if not the entire weekday, in a non-DC metro area state.

***

Why is there MS-13 in Tennessee?

***

At the hotel, I held the door as two men sporting the Bluetooth headsets (a matching pair) stepped on. One was discussing something to either a ghost or a voice in his head (and isn't it wonderful that technology has legitimized schizophrenia by making it OK to talk to yourself in a non-prayerful way?). I asked them "Floor?" He responded "Two, er, dos." Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he thought I was Hispanic. Some people see what they want to see. Next time, I will ask a person, "Hey, mang, what floor joo want?"

***

Highways are all the same: long stretches and expanses of pavement, highlighted with bright green signs emblazoned with large white letters that are supposed to tell us something.

***

On the flight back to BWI from Nashville, the cabin was not sold out to capacity. This meant that all middle seats were left unoccupied, allowing everyone a little space. I turned my head and looked all around, because my group of three had just me. Each other group, save for one or two in the very back, had at least two people. Ah, subtle racism, how you have your slight advantages.

I still stayed in my window seat, and looked out the window when I wasn't asleep. The lights below, they looked like bunches of silk strands stretched out across a black sea, light clinging to each as if they were dewdrops. Was man meant to beat back the night in such a brazen manner? Was man meant to appreciate this attempt to beat back the night? If you took someone from the middle ages into a plane and showed them Baltimore at night, what would their reaction be?

I turned to my right to get someone's attention, but alas, there was no one there.

***

The sun's near the horizon, like a blood orange ready to bust wide open. As it sets, the sky above fades into a powder blue rolling into dusky night. On the wall in front of me, everything is silhouetted against that same orange-redness.

***

Last week at the client site mentally tasked me like I haven't been in a very long time. I didn't realize just how burned out my mind was until I was sitting on Friday listening to someone, concentrating on what they were saying, and none of it stuck. Didn't think it would be that bad. After all, all I'm doing right now is learning business processes and charting workflows on the white board.

Of course, my poor handwriting plagues and curses me. No one has a problem comprehending my Baltimoron accent, but everyone looks at my handwriting and just sort of shakes their head. Hell, when I look at it right after, I shake my head. Even when I transcribe onto paper for future use, when I show it to others, they still shake their heads. It really is a mess. Were the information not proprietary, and were I not afeared of the consequences, I'd snap a camera phone pic and show you just how bad the handwriting is.

This just contributes to my local legend at the client site. They see me as an aberration, though not because I'm Hispanic. T.K., my project manager, sold me out at the kick-off meeting. I forgot to mention to her not to say anything, but I think part of me thought she wouldn't say anything. Instead, when she introduces me, the first thing she says is "[K.T.] is the business analyst, and he's also a lawyer barred to practice in Maryland."

Bloops.

People behold me with wonder and confusion for these things, this strange career path, this illegible handwriting, this childish wit (can wit be childish?). I am really strange, my life is really strange. It's gotten to the point where I don't need to worry about racism, because once people get to know me, they'll find plenty of other reasons to look at me like I've lost my mind. Because I have lost my mind.

***

I really should iron my clothing, but this entire day has been filled with constant transition. Just want to sit here and do nothing.