of jinxes that persist

I suppose it's really too much to ask that I arrive at my destination on the same date that my boarding pass lists. After all, these dates are clearly mere suggestions to the air travel industry.

Tonight, I was scheduled to go back to Nashville to spend 9 days going to the NaFF offerings and hanging out with my baby schmogface Noah. When I arrived at the airport, it was sunny and lovely and still outside and the signs at the gate indicated that everything was running on time. Soon however, there was a delay... and another delay... and then, they pulled off the plane, saying that there was no way I'd make my connector... and, well, it's the same old tedious story all over again. I am an airplane jinx and really, the sooner I learn to accept this, the less stressed out all of this will make me, I'm sure of it.

Needless to say, I'm back in my apartment in Alexandria tonight. I have a rescheduled flight at 6 AM tomorrow.. which means I have to be at the airport between 4:45 and 5... which means I have to leave my apartment no later that 4... which means, in order to get my ass out the door at that hour, I have to rouse myself no later than 3. 3 fucking AM. I may have seen 3 AM on the other end of the day several times in my life but I have not once begun a day at such an ungodly hour. And by "ungodly," I mean that I assume that even God is on hiatus at that hour.

Now, I really don't know what the deal is with air travel these days...but this is really getting ridiculous. My dad suggests that I invest in a horse in hopes that he/she would be a more reliable mode of transportation. However, I don't know that my coccyx is up to the challenge. I'd be one serious mosey-er subsequent to one such trip.

This sucks. I fucking hate being a jinx.

Jinxes of another nature

In the swollen seasons, you only ever break your own heart.
This is why the pangs of the baby are all long-forgotten.
You may never fully harness that which repeatedly unbridles itself;
that, needless to see, is the desire of a woman, as opposed to the desire for her.
After all, the horses of the occasion are left to fend the rapids.
Neither foalers nor mounts, they.
Let this be the punch to your gullet that I intend.
And a loose scarf eeled out the car window: that, too.
I find it humbling that I’m the same dumb fool-for-love I was 10 years ago.
Some babies are born and born and born and born.
This season swells.
We ain’t found bedrock yet.


It seems the only way I can keep my lines in blogger is to make things tiny. Sorry!