SHEELA NA GIG.

Yesterday, when I arrived back into San Diego, I found myself standing in front of the baggage carousel. I stood for a good half hour watching Carousel #1 rotate. It whirred and spun, mimicking me just standing there. Reunited families gathered their horrendously ugly tan floral luggage, their camping gear, their boogie boards and each other and headed out. The belt kept turning, eventually spitting out a lone piece of luggage that swirled and swirled, me its sole audience (but appreciative, as I was really too jetlagged to do much else). I was fascinated and stood for awhile watching it (medium upright roller -- black) tour the belt purposefully. The pace stayed the same, but I began to lose hope that it would find a hand to haul it off.

Eventually I realized that my bags were probably shelved somewhere, as I'd been bumped from the previous night's flight, and let my pensive moment by Lindburgh Airport Pond go.

Tonight I have this one thought that keeps going through my head. Each time it disappears around the corner, I convince myself that it will come back differently. That I'll see it in a light that won't be as nauseating and frustrating and breathtaking and.. revealing... as the one I now see it in. Watching the black suitcase go around, I somehow convinced myself that it might return in the blue and red form I was seeking. Freshly practiced, I'm doing that now. I'm squinting into the past and trying to play a game of revisionist history with myself. For some reason, I can't help trying to give this person and this situation a chance at reappearing in shades that don't clash so much with the hues of truth I credited them with.

No one wants to be played for a fool. And no one wants to play the fool so well.