Sink Her Fingers

I was talking . . .  As I write that line I suddenly hear George Harrison’s voice and a sitar.  We were talking, my colleague and I, on the phone today.  A last minute call before I flew off.  Up ahead I must have caught the impact about two seconds after it had occurred.  I did hear anything but an SUV had just gotten the worse of it.  A black Mercedes was now pulled up, alongside the road's shoulder.  First we past the grey Cherokee and a woman in the passenger seat was cradling the driver's head in her hands.  He was conscious.  But he didn’t look good.  The Mercedes driver had his phone out and appeared unharmed.  What dangerous things these automobiles are.  What a dangerous place to drive, Beijing remains. 

Up over Canada somewhere, now.  Flying, certainly statistically safer.  Have had a pleasant journey thus far.  Two hours to go, before we land in Chicago.  I spent the first few hours diving into Robert Service’ biography of Lenin.  I’m digging into all things Russia these days and a colleague who’s opinions I respect had suggested it was particularly good.  And so it is.  I suddenly care a lot about the man.  I suddenly care to find out what happens next to this intense, selfish genius.  I probably won’t have time to follow the course of the Volga when I visit, from somewhere north of Moscow down to the Caspian Sea, but the descriptions of the estuary suggest a beautiful vista of towns that were once a part of Vladimir’ Illych’s world.

I’m sleepy suddenly.  It’s been a while.  If I nap it will only be for an hour.  They’ll wake me and say its time for the omelet I don’t really want.  But there is much more to do.  It’s probably best I get some rest.  Chicago will be a bustle and a weakened body is more susceptible to a raging flu, if you’re weak.  Apparently the U.S. is alight with a particularly nasty flu this year. 

My worry is that the sleep time goddess will sink her fingers in deeply and not let me go so easily.  I can hear her, even though like Ulysses, I’ve taken precautions to put ear buds in my ear canals.   She’ll grab hold of my frame hard, if I let her, demanding the deep sleep that I've denied her.  And if don’t she won’t care.  She’ll lay claim to it some other moment when I lay my guard down and read or sit, or write.  And she'll demand her full-fare and shut me down regardless of decorum.  She won't mind, nor care if I put new contacts in though.  My focus is blurred because my eyes are tired in these day-old lenses.  The next flight then, will be the time I'll plan to meet her. 

Sunday 01/28/18