Daily Blague

I ought to be in bed, but I can't sleep. If the Marines video (see above or below, whichever) had been set to different music (as they say in the world of the serious), I'd have been able to go to bed. But I am a Steve Winwood junkie. Talking Back to the Night will never surpass Arc of a Diver for me; "Spanish Dancer" will always be one of the perfect songs. But the video opened the window a bit. Maybe it's just that I dislike the name "Valerie" - which is a stupid thing to say on a blog, no? Maybe I really like the song. Maybe I'll be able to stop listening after fifteen replays. 

I actually had to do a Google to make sure that 'call on me' came from "Valerie." What a dinde.

But I'm not in bed because I'm terrified of tomorrow. I'm getting on a plane tomorrow, and if I survive that flight I'll have to survive the one that brings me home. This is how I see what ordinary people would regard as a fabulous weekend out of town. There is nothing rational about my anxiety. I'm not really afraid that the plane will have been improperly maintained, or that sheer statistics will dictate a crash. That's ordinary. That's the way I feel about flying as a rule. My fear of the two flights ahead of me is very different. I'm doomed because I've launched this site, and I love it - it's my baby. I can't possibly be allowed to come back to this desk, this life, this world of meaning. Can I?

It's up to American.