The problem with time is that I can't seem to capture enough of it on my phone to keep up with a continually slipping present. By the time I've downloaded the moment, it's gone. Be present they tell you, so seemingly wisely. How? How?!?Keeping abreast of the Ever Changing in our post Star Trekkian "warp speed" world is like trying to capture the nano second luminescence of a firefly in June, or maybe recalling all your passwords simultaneously, which also brings me to the subject of travel; endless words and codes by which to pass through time zones, the particular joy of airports and their fluorescent-y beaming lights at all hours. It's astounding that people do this not because they have to, but for fun.
So there I was, traveling 'cause I had to, and desperately trying to get my bearings. If it weren't for the coincidence of the Brat Kavanaugh debacle splashing across the media the day of my arrival and filling the giant hotel screen 24/7 from there on, I'd have been sitting in the room each morning staring blankly out the window, wondering where in the myriad compartments and ziplocs of an over packed roll-ee my stuff was hiding; anticipating another bout of weak shower pressure, crazy, hard water hair, and planning a hectic and jet lagged day.
But thanks to the ineffable Brat K, I was able to take my mind off all that. His dark story of Animal House romps, relentless, unwarranted persecution, tearful, angry denials, a sworn history of intense moments of deep prayer, unbelievably honest hard work, obsessive calendar notating and a moral compass so accurate it practically made me ashamed to be alive on the same planet with the guy provided constant distractions to busy the mind. This spectacle seemed designed to hypnotize my American, bible thumping, TV watching, provincial, travel loathing soul, and so it did. Just about every network blared the "job interview" for the Court of Supremity, non stop.
Yet the Brat refused to confess, and hell and damnation were palpable in the pixels. The extravaganza alternately was portrayed as either akin to the Salem witch trials or a cautionary tale of extreme ferocious-frat boy-fumbling-fishiness and then some. Any way you cut it, Justice Boy Wonder was looking like an unrepentant sinner who just might not be believed, much less saved. . . .
All in all it was a particularly resonant moment with the Thanksgiving holiday right around the corner and pictures of sugar plums and puritans bouncing dreamily at the edge of the crisp, autumn air soon to be blowing through our streets; sex, beer and rock & roll. . . . All that was missing were the orange and reddish leaves, cut outs of folks dressed like Miles Standish, images of reprobates in stocks, and decorative, farm stand corn husks, mainly because it was still a bit early in the season.
If only I liked beer, I thought. Apparently some really important people liked beer, not just ordinary slobs. If I liked beer I could imbibe one and be convivial! Take my mind off the red eye that loomed quietly but menacingly at the end of the week. Get high in an acceptable, collegial manner. Feel really down home. And all in innocent, collegial fun. Whatever happened, happened. I'd be in a good company. Is it not obvious by now that a lot of educationally privileged ivy league-ers may spend a good portion of their halcyon years in the halls of learning passed out, blacked out, and stone cold, knackered, drunk?
But unfortunately I don't care for that particular brew, never have, mainly because I am probably allergic to it- it always makes me a little sick. I think it's the hops or something, or maybe the grain, of truth.
I eat cake instead.
I like cake.
Oops, time to go.
