Hello friends,
I’m writing this letter in fits and starts as I travel to Darlington, South Carolina. I’m currently on my second plane, an American Airlines puddle jumper. The flight attendant welcomed us to the American Eagle flight, which I initially thought was a Freudian slip. But no, the name is plastered along the side of another plane—American Eagle. I wonder if there’s a Hollister plane out there somewhere.
Airports are curious entities, sprawling masses of liminality. Although I wonder if the people who work in airports feel this way. For them, the airport is the destination. And what about the pilots and flight attendants? Do they feel more at home in the air? Does the ground feel temporary to them?
I flew to Darlington for the NASCAR race, but I’ve spent the whole weekend in my motel room with probable food poisoning. This room should have been a liminal space, but it became my world. I’ve walked the path from bed to bathroom more times than I can count. I flew 500 miles just to shit my brains out in Middle of Nowhere, USA.
The race is happening ten minutes down the road from me, but I’m watching it on tv. I’m at peace with that, though. I could have gone to the track with my dad, but I know I would have been miserable. So I’m curled up under the covers and nursing my fifth Gatorade of the weekend. Things could be better, but they could also be worse.
Until next time,
Yardena
Weekend Potpourri
This essay about the power of shit feels particularly appropriate this week
No other potpourri this week as I’m too busy shitting