Star crossed and not a damn thing he can do about it
Of course there are better things to be doing, but we discount a moment, only to find fault with the next. And the next thing you know you have a VCR with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in it. So, fearing similar circumstances, I find myself heading for the mountains, at the Jetblue terminal at Logan International Airport. A place I would strongly suggest against spending your leisure time at.
A theme of constant motion pervades the place. Douses the walls even. But I am in the middle of it, and I'm trying to remain still.
This becomes especially difficult when one considers air travel compounded by the thoughts of one on the laundry list of French philosophers, Jean Baudrillard: "As for freedom, it will soon cease to exist in any shape or form. Living will depend upon absolute obedience to a strict set of arrangements, which it will no longer be possible to transgress. The air traveler is not free. In the future, life's passengers will be even less so: they will travel through their lives fastened to their seats."
So if I choose to pursue that existential conundrum I am screwed, or at least helplessly fastened to my non-exit row, coach class seat for eternity.
Conversations: A man in a black cashmere coat on a laptop. Immersed. The light reflected off a wing of a nearby plane. Friends meeting, hugs exchanged. Cleaning services brushing the metal railing to an incomparable shine. Ski boots over the shoulder. Sun off the pages. Light shines on a girl in a green sweater. Sadness or destiny - you decide.
Boarding pass in hand - blue skies outside at gate C32. This is easier than you think, but its just too damn short. Across the hall there is a photo. A rather large photo encased in metal trim. A baby with sunglasses stares cryptically out into the terminal. On this baby, a blue patchwork bonnet, and pacifier in mouth. Maybe this is something you have seen numerous times, to me it seemed rather strange, if not a bit absurd - but certainly there are stranger things out there. A stroll through your local mall would certainly supply you with a number of superior instances of weirdness.
Regardless, here you are staring at what clearly is supposed to be one cute, but clearly precocious baby. And beyond bonnet and eyewear, you find a tagline printed under the image. The tagline reads I will not be pacified.
This is one determined baby.
And if this toddler can rise up against his/her fate, or at least collaborate with it - than why cant I? Though I already know this, and don't require a vaguely disturbing advertisement to remind me.... so it goes.
And, really, how many people actually see this pacifier clad child on their way to the beaches of the Bahamas, the southwestern landscape of New Mexico (complete with Taco Bell) and Euro Disneyland? Do they consider it? And besides, I wonder, does anyone notice the irony here for heavens sake? Although the baby - eyes hidden beneath the ignominious reflection of his/her shades - is proclaiming its freedom/independence rather forcefully, it is doing so with...
The damn pacifier still in its mouth!!!!
So time will tell (hopefully very, very soon ) when I will stop writing about prints on airport terminal walls and start chasing more lofty goals. Things that matter, however, cannot be sought out like bread on a grocery store shelf.
Besides, things often fall where they will - particularly so if we listen to classical thought. We are all victims of the deity swooping down from stage left. Fate swinging on a theater cable and knocking us down or out with a mystically and expertly placed roundhouse kick to the head. And when confronted with our response of, "Hey! Now why would you go and so something like that?!", we are granted only an existential, Lebowski-esque shrug of the shoulders. Such is the way of things, and now we know why primetime television is so successful.
Fate - quite capable of ruining your afternoon plans
Now where does this leave us? Shakespeare's Romeo - the victim of being inconveniently star-crossed - suggested we are just waiting perpetually, anxiously, for our destiny: "My mind misgives / some consequence, yet hanging in the stars..."
So you may find yourself at a cocktail party or, maybe even in the living room of your ex-lover. Standing, arms crossed, or, possibly, sitting in a plush vinyl recliner - and you are presented the relentlessly opaque and empty posit, "All things happen for a reason" (given without a touch of irony and in a reluctant but sagely tone).
Although this is the type of statement that should cause music to stop, people to shuffle in their chairs, fine china to be dropped, and dogs to yelp, we can always makes the best out of what we are given. Ultimately, this is all we can desire. And with purpose we are left to focus intently, surrounded by all the beauty in the world - to see the most and the best in everything, and to always be able to say, This is enough...
