Sunday, January 27th, 2002, (9:43 pm)
It’s Sunday night. All is quiet. My stereo plays the music of Edward Shearmur softly in the background. The room is lit by candles for ambience, their dim flickering light supported by the warm wintery glow of the street light that shines through my lounge window from over the road. The street below is motionless.
It’s one of those moments that would perhaps be more rewarding if I simply put down my laptop and just relaxed. It’s a melancholy moment, but such for no reason that I can grasp. My eyes search the room and settle on the branches of the leafless tree outside.
I suddenly feel quite alone, in every way. Maybe I should abandon this ‘meanwhile’. If I have something to say then it isn’t manifesting itself through my fingertips and I can’t imagine that trying to force the issue will help.
So many words to choose from, yet not one is able to lead to another. There is no rhythm, no flow. The life in this text is lifeless. It will simply fade out when I finish typing. What good is that? There isn’t any point writing when the task is a task in itself.
I’ll come back later, maybe then I’ll have been able to grab and hold a thought long enough to make some sense of it?… [Click here to continue reading this article at ‘Meanwhile’]
Tuesday, January 1st, 2002, (7:30 pm)
IT’S SEVEN THIRTY
Some four hours to go here at Atlanta International Airport until my UK bound flight departs. Four hours to kill.
I’ve already walked around the various retail offerings scattered around terminal E and terminal D. I purchased a magazine and came here to the central concourse area of terminal E to have a Starbucks coffee and sit in a comfortable chair.
It’s new years day. The year is now 2002. I’m going home, or at least I am going to the place I live. I suppose I’ve yet to lay my hat somewhere and call it home. Boston feels like home. When I flew there just this last week it felt like coming home as I landed at the now so familiar Logan International Airport. Maybe one day it will be home? Who knows?
So what shall I do for the next four hours? I’ve got my head phones on and I’m listening to music by Brian Eno. I believe that this particular album is called something like ‘Music for airports’. An apt choice more by chance than design.
I’m sitting right on the edge of a large seated area. I managed to get a comfortable armchair vacated by a suited lady just as my White Chocolate Mocha was ready. In front of me across the concourse a deserted information desk below a clock. It’s six thirty three.
Fake trees line the brightly lit expanse before me. People walk in all directions, some slowly, some fast. A man approaches the information desk and looks around hoping to attract the attention of someone who might be able to offer him some… information. No one is there though, but still he waits. It’s six thirty seven.
Have you ever just stopped and looked at the people around you in a busy place? All of them strangers. Everyone here is… [Click here to continue reading this article at ‘Meanwhile’]