Saturday, August 9, 2003

I was looking through a notebook for some paper to write on and I found this, written exactly two months ago on June 9th, while flying back from my brother's wedding in Nashville:


"What is it that compells me to write at this moment in time? Is it the warm, oxygen-deficient air of this plane 36,000 feet about the Southwest? Is it the lingering taste of mini pretzels and 7-Up? Is is the loss of remaining men's magazine articles about men I momentarily wish I could act/dress/look/be like? Is it the pulsating sounds of one of my favorite albums (both meaning-invoking and life-inspiring) that is just audible above the hum of the jet engine 10 feet away from me? Is it the sense that I'm somehow alone, in my own den of privacy while my parents sleep and the other passengers watch the in-flight movie? Or is it the lingering, as-yet-unaccepted truth that my adult life has arrived? A wish to document my initial understanding of how it feels and will continue to feel to grow older, brought upon me by the simultaneous meeting of myself, my 6-month-old niece, and those family members who were my age when I was hers? No matter what it is, I can feel it (my writing) beginning to become my own; a satisfying mixture of unexpected and postulated expression."