I love to travel and though I’m claustrophobic and scared of flying I do it anyway, holding my eyes tight focusing on the forward and the new. Once in the air I usually put it aside not looking directly at the fear. I used to be fine, sleeping and enjoying the process and difference in airports and planes. Maybe now I drink too much coffee, or I’m winding tighter as I grow older.
The last two trips came quickly and one directly after the other. From sitting on Rousay in the Orkney Isles among ancient buildings with no one in sight, the indignant birds tracking our progress across their home patch, I took the nerve shattering flight to NYC and charged about in one of the largest cities in the world.
Now home I’m reassembling, recouping and regrouping, what’s next and what’s now forefront in my mind. How will I make a living? Where will this living be made? Will summer be all that (or should I go away again to ensure it)? In any case things must be a bit off at the moment, because I’ve found time to write something for this thing.
New York City, April 2016