Run On


I'm writing to myself in an airport on the outskirts of Berlin, moderately uncomfortable upon the end seat of a row of metal chairs which are situated almost perfectly parallel to a mid-size plane sitting, itself, patiently in the overcast morning sunlight, as if it might be mine and harbors close simply out a fondness for me or a suspicion I have some food for it, even as Belle, my cat, waits for me at my Mom's home in Lombard, Illinois, and sidles besides me most of the day when I'm home, whether I am in the kitchen cooking or in the bathroom peeing; I am writing to myself, convinced that this journal will never become something more, although I am working towards generating a sliver of doubt, word by word choice, edit by ruthless edit, that might drive the piece forward, forward, that is, at least through another single sentence paragraph.

Now I'm squeezed into a row of seats inside the Amsterdam airport, arriving here from Berlin at 10:30am or thereabouts, on route to Chicago, where my Mom will drive us back to her home in Lombard, which until last year was my home, as well, and to my cat, Belle, who may very well suspect today is the day I return from my month long excursion, her intelligence and wisdom unfathomable and limitless.  I am on pins and needles, imagining the intense look in her eyes as she sees me again after so long a seperation.  We will remain in Lombard for one night together, napping in front of the television, going out on the deck late night to smoke and sleeping in my old room before tomorrow when I will buy groceries, stock up on pet supplies and finally meet up with my turtles, Bullet and Lightning, at our studio apartment in the East Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago.