as i got off of airbart on friday afternoon as i have done so many times in these past several years, i had to stop in my steps even though i had less than 20 minutes until my flight. in between the row of cabs that waited outside the terminals hoping to catch some post-thanksgiving traffic was a man on his knees.
with his head pointed east — towards mecca — he was praying with a well-worn rug beneath his knees.
as i started to pull out my camera, i caught myself (but now wish i had still taken the shot) and was simply thankful to have shared this moment, however indirectly, with a man living out his faith, no mater where he was.
when people used to ask me what i did, my automatic response would be “transfer pricing.” realizing that no one had any idea what that was even after i tried my big mac example, i resorted to “economic consulting.” much more satisfied nods followed.
and then i began to pause – as i contemplated saying “freelance journalist” or “economic consultant.” these days, there’s not much reason to pause anymore – really, i’m just another writer / dreamer at heart.
and looking for the spirit within
part of an anthology of short stories i used to contemplate writing … 😛 crazy. as inspired (i think?) by “spring subway”
“good morning, sunshine. this is your flight destined for the golden road to happiness. please fasten your seat belts and let us take care of you for the rest of this flight. we know you have many choices when you fly, so thank you so much for choosing and trusting us. Let us know if there’s anything we can get for you, and know that we will always be there in the end.” this is the way it should be, she thought silently to herself, at last, mutual compatibility with timing that was just perfect. she opened her eyes and found herself not in the plane of the newest model that the silky voice over the intercom so suggested, but in the familiarities of a plane she had already been abroad, many times — the plane where she became a part of the mile-high club, a plane which brought back a flood of memories that brought tears to her eyes. how did i end up here? she murmured to herself. ＂六年了， 还有爱情吗?”
she woke with a jolt from this phantom-dream; i really need more coffee, she told herself as she stared at the mockups her assistant had just brought in. the phone on her glass desk showed two missed calls; one from a client and one from him. even after six years, she still remembered his number as if it were yesterday. “it was just a dream,” she told herself as she picked up the phone. he had left her a voicemail in a way only he could — californian to the core with the same childish enthusiasm she had loved so much about him. he was in town for the weekend and wanted to see if she would be free to just hang out.
“it’ll be just coffee …” she told herself as she dialed back. but in her heart, she knew it never was just coffee.
circa november 2006