Los Angeles International Airport.
July, sweet July.
I remember that guy who sat along the benches. Bare footed in Bermuda shorts with a faded tommy Bahama pattern shirt. Sandy white hair, in his late 50s. Looks like a smoker but isn’t kind of dishevelment. His feet propped on a mid-sized nautical duffle bag. Sandals tucked under the bench. At first I thought he was a wanderer one step away from being an airport actor with a trash bag. He wasn’t. This guy seemed like the real deal. Brass tax. One of the solids in the Great Divorce. The more I looked at him, the more he seemed there. Usually, people waiting for their rides along that raging river of cars seem perfectly there in airport motion. Somehow they seemed like ghosts on this night. Different greetings, different embraces; short, sweet – all arrested sentiment brought to you by heightened airport PD.
Nothing arrested about him. What we see as frenetic relies on what we understand as stillness. A wonderful exchange.
This scene indicated there is more to come. A harnessing world view quite frankly.
There is still reason to take your shoes off and look around.