DIA, Denver, Colorado
The airport seems unusually busy for 7:30 a.m.. In the security line, I watch an eight-year-old girl place her stuffed bunny on the X-ray conveyor belt with distracted boredom. They confiscate my 6-ounce unopened yogurt because it’s too large. We stop for a bite of breakfast, and the host sits us next to the bar. A guy with an army pack and cap sits sipping a whisky neat with a water back. Sinatra croons from the ceiling speakers while we wait for our overpriced eggs and hash browns.
I’m constantly intrigued by the human condition. What lies in the collective heart of this meandering mass of humanity, these distracted, texting primates? What am I to make of my own long experience, my churning mind of truth and illusion, making my way from one moment to the next? How do I embrace this mortal expression? One more day, one more sleep, one more spin through the wash of secrets.
Bloody Marys and Mimosas litter the bar. I watch a man with a wooly beard eat a burrito from its tinfoil wrapper, and he looks just like any other animal biting and chewing and lifting its head to keep an eye on the surroundings. Nothing seems real. The present changes so fast that nothing is actually here. And this small computer I hold in my hands and poke out stories is finishing my words and offering the next as if it knows what I’m going to type before I do. Then, a young woman with long, coal-black hair places an omelet in front of me and with a gentle smile, asks, “Would you like anything else?”