Movement

These are the strange, wonderful days that happen too far in-between.  Life becomes lulled by redundancy, predictability, aided and coddled by routine. 

The Las Vegas airport looks as if it were the basis for the first season, some sort of B—grade cable-going pilot episode of a Sopranos spinoff. There are brightly colored neon lights surrounding the top of a faded soft pink wooded ceiling, curvy cursive blue and red neon letters spelling “cocktail lounge” and “Las Vegas Restaurant and Bar.” There are pockets of noisy, gold and white gambling machines with the old pull down levers. There is patterned blue and pink carpeting worn from foot traffic. This is a place of movement; it is the grey area that exists solely to give meaning to the destination. And.  It is in the middle of the  beautiful Nevada desert’s nothingness and open space. 

For some reason, in-between the coming and  the going, the goodbyes and hellos, the escapism and reality, I feel good about where I am. There is a lot to be vocalized about America, and for some reason, the glow of the slot machines in the afternoon December Nevada sun, comfort me. I am supposed to be here, and no where else right now, living in the grey, the in between. I am movement.