colby caldwell

Jaye Bartell - Day Three

colby caldwell
Jaye Bartell - Day Three

Here I am, transubstantiated, or just resubstantiated. Early flight from New York to Asheville, and it amazes me, however naively, how so many bodies can move through (seemingly) so little space with collision or incident. Pictured are the vehicles of my day: walking, the L train, the C train, the Newark airport shuttle, an airplane, and the great Adam McDaniel's car. I regularly think of an article from The Onion, especially when I'm traveling, with the headline, "Life Put in Hands of 2,000 Complete Strangers Everyday." We manage to take care of and trust each other, and as such an impersonal matter of course it's almost magnanimous. Something to keep in mind, although I'll forget it immediately when I next drink from the faucet, or just pick up some thing and just eat it. 

Why am I afraid to die, is what I dwell on about 15 minutes into most flights, and today's too, all 90 smooth, completely routine minutes of it. I'm not so much afraid of flying as I am unnerved while it's happening, as in, something is fundamentally wrong, like nausea. It's hard to read a magazine. It's the event itself of dying, maybe — what can be imagined. And it's a meloncholy vulnerability. there's much more to life than me, and I'm hardly the greatest human possibility, but I want it to keep happening, to keep going to the end, may it always be later on.