Travelling (with two Ls)

The worst part about it is airports. Strike that. The worst part about it is people in airports. In the States, the creme de la creme of Bottom Dwellers (and their children) hangs about in terminals. No, I’m not judgmental at all. But listen. For me, to be stuck for two hours before an international flight with the bar not open until 10:00 a.m., sitting beside, across, and among stressed out Americans (perhaps getting out of the country for the first time) donning giant cups of piss-coffee and chomping on various snacks or muffins on steroids, is my biggest nightmare. It’s part of the deal, however, and so I take it. But not without cringing, or jamming headphones inside my ear canals. Various forms of medieval or Spanish Inquisition torture methods come to mind: Iron Maiden, The Rack, acid burning, lancers…but come now, Lx, check yourself; that’d mean aligning philosophies with Pope Sixtus IV and that would be heretical in its own right. At least according to my values–or lack thereof.

I’ve done nothing since I’ve arrived in the great city of Toronto, but drink martinis and read the New Yorker. ‘Cause I’m all intellectual like that, see? And also, one can easily go broke walking the streets of Cabbage Town and handing out weird two-dollar coins to myriad homeless with various ailments, begging for change (note to self: learn Canadian coin denominations before dumping them into spare change cups). ‘Cause I’m all philanthropic like that, see? So it’s probably safest that I stay put for a while. At least until this afternoon when a general, siesta-like malaise seems to take over the street people.

So far, the one thing at which I’ve really excelled has been filling up this ashtray with Marlboro reds. I also seem to have a propensity for procuring really shitty (albeit expensive) wine from the LCBO. It’s as if my sixth sense concerning quality of libation has gone out the window. Complain, complain.

It’s unbelievably cool and crisp here in the morning; nothing like the asthma-inducing soup from which I come. But I’m making up for the Code Reds with inhaling Polonium and God knows what other chemicals they roll now into these 7-minute death sticks. Thank you R.J. Reynolds for contributing to my speedy demise. Ah now, everyone has a weak side. Some of us have several.

Had another strange dream overnight: I was drowning in a vat of whisky, W.C. Fields style. And that brings to mind this: “Death, where is thy sting?”

Shrink to Fit–an Omen

In the truck there are four of us. All boyhood friends from the time we were in middle school. All immigrants. Ian is driving the giant SUV. From the left side a car approaches with an attractive, blonde girl leaning out the window and gesturing at us. It seems like she’s goading us, only we cannot hear her; both cars are travelling fast. Ian looks. “That’s the…” he says. “That’s the girl we met earlier tonight,” someone else says from next to me. I cannot tell who it is. Jay? Stan? Ian stares at the girl in the adjacent car. “Listen,” I say, “you better look ahead and watch the road because…”
For the millisecond that passes between my last word and the impact I can see and think lucidly. I catch the grill of the tractor trailer hitting us head-on: Peterbilt. I know it. Headquartered in Denton, Texas. A division of PACCAR. Founded in 1939. One of its manufacturing facilities is in Sainte-Therese, Quebec. I know this because I just saw something on Peterbilt on the National Geographic Channel. Ian is ejected through the windshield. I don’t know what happens to Jay and Stan. It happens fast, and contrary to how it usually is reported, nothing stands still for me. I see it and process it all within the ferocious half-second it takes place. I am ejected through the roof of the car, going through the metal like a bullet. I feel the burning on the skin from the chunks of the fusible, ductile substance, and suddenly the cuts on my left arm (which had healed) open up again and I watch myself bleed as I fly through the air away from the horrific accident. When I land on the asphalt I make a noise similar to a little matchbox car thrown onto the sidewalk from a second story balcony. A combination of plastic and metal hitting concrete. Strange. I am alive, but I am dying fast. I look up and Ian is gone. He is mutilated and lies in a grotesque position with his neck and spine broken. Oddly, there is no blood. Someone shuts off the lights. Everything does not fade to black, it just clicks off.

Then.

I’m walking with my father through the mud in his village. I am a boy. Maybe 8 or 9. I ask him if there exists a Hell. He does not answer. Suddenly, from below us, an unprepossessing pterodactyl-like giant bird extricates itself from the mud and takes flight. It is monolithic. It looks as if it sprung alive from a Bosch painting. It circles slowly in the grey sky, flying over us a few times–during each pass shaking off mud which rains down on us and hits our skin. It burns and the stench is horrific. I ask my father again about Hell but he still does not answer.

I hate these types of quasi-religious dreams. Especially the night before I’m slated to travel. I hate them even more for their typical, indoctrinated symbolism of Christianity, which I’ve rejected all my life. It seems they’re seeping in to affirm the banality of religion, despite (or in spite) of my efforts to seek better answers.

In all my dreams of death (and I’ve had quite a few) I am never scared, and hardly ever feel any excruciating type of pain. I am not saying that out of bravado, or to be commended. It’s just a fact. In my life, I’ve never been driven (or hindered) by the fear of death. It has always been in the background, waiting. I’ve come close to dying a few times in my (almost) thirty-eight years (Sunday, if you’re interested). Twice in car accidents, once via electrocution, once during an armed robbery, and once choking on mouthwash (go ahead, laugh). What is astounding to me is the clear-cut demarcation between life and something otherwise, as manifested in my subconscious. It’s simple. And easy.

As with any semblance or idea of an afterlife, I believe death is a subjective experience. Tailor-made. For me, all indications are that it will be anti-climactic. Probably as anti-climactic as my life. Which sets me into a tailspin about purpose and reason for life. Which sends me back to re-read Camus’ “Myth of Sisyphus.” And re-read Sartre. And Mann. And Kierkegaard. But I don’t want to. Not anymore. I’ve had enough of them.

In any case, throw some luck–the good kind–my way to-day from around 10:30 am-12:30 eastern. My preferred way to go is NOT in an airplane. It’s un-natural for Man to fly. Or ride in an SUV, for that matter.

I’ll have internets access so I’ll continue to post. I’m due for this 13-day vacation. My birthday is on Sunday. I was happy to be out of the country on July 4th–you all know about my pure hatred for fireworks–only it’ll be no better. I’ll be in Canada, and it so happens July 1st is Canada Day; their version of the States’ 4th. I’m doomed. I cannot get away from these bloody exploding things. Ever.

Ciao babies. See you on some other side.

Annotation: This is very weird. I checked CNN after I posted this, and it caught my eye. Strange, similar details. Just a few tweaks here and there. Bad Craziness.