Vertigo

Hello, hello
(¡Ola!)
I'm at a place called Vertigo.
(¿Donde este?)
It's everything I wish I didn't know.
Except you give me something
I can feel.

Vertigo/U2

The flight back to Washington from Phoenix couldn't be more mundane. It helps having the acquired skills of the seasoned traveller: you learn the equipment you're flying on, figure out the right row in which to be seated, how to chat up the ground crew and security staff to minimize the disruption of post 9/11 security. No matter how good the barbeque smells in the Memphis airport you avoid it (besides, the line is too fucking long). Since you didn't buy tickets at the same time, your partner is flying a different, somewhat eccentric path across country. Will he stop at Luke's and have a sausage and cheesesteak? Will the hand of God swat his flight from the sky, leaving you even more bereft than you already are?

Lest you, dear reader, think I've come completely unhinged, just know that what you've just read is the worst of my thoughts. My grief is present in a lack of patience and a profound fear of any more loss. I want a vacation from drama, and I want it now. I want a Sazerac and a thick steak and a Caesar salad. I want to smoke the cigar I bought to honor my father. I want to hang out with friends and talk religion and politics and ogle hot men. I want to wear my new shirt -- the silk and cotton shirt the color of my father's eyes that feels better on me than any piece of clothing I've ever worn -- and go to Cashion's with the DP. I want to fly a model airplane again. I want to be observant during Lent in a way that honours my father and to know that I will celebrate the Tridium at Holy Trinity, repeating a liturgy that has in part been observed for four thousand years. I want to know first hand that my father wasn't pulling my leg when he said Rio de Janiero is more beautiful than San Francisco.