The Homecoming: On board flight 587 to St. Louis. The plane is more than half empty. I have the absurd impression that everyone on board is a Missourian. Colorless people in cheap polyester clothes. The weekend trip to visit Grandma is fraught with the standard baggage I have toted for years– the strange fears and vulnerability I always experience when faced with visits home. My morning at the office is spent drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and staring at the clock. Trying to maintain a rational, realistic perspective on this. I am going to visit a sweet old lady who lives peacefully in the Midwest and who adores me. Shadowy demons dart through the surface. Always in the nightmare I was in Springfield, driving a car usually through a menacing night, pursued by a man intent on murdering me. A veil of sexuality thickened the images. Springfield is a lost land of terror where blank faced children kill cats and bug eyed, pot bellied idiots sweat in their pickup trucks. And he, the maniac who is always after me, relentlessly advances.
August 8th, 1980
August 8th, 1980
August 8th, 1980
The Homecoming: On board flight 587 to St. Louis. The plane is more than half empty. I have the absurd impression that everyone on board is a Missourian. Colorless people in cheap polyester clothes. The weekend trip to visit Grandma is fraught with the standard baggage I have toted for years– the strange fears and vulnerability I always experience when faced with visits home. My morning at the office is spent drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and staring at the clock. Trying to maintain a rational, realistic perspective on this. I am going to visit a sweet old lady who lives peacefully in the Midwest and who adores me. Shadowy demons dart through the surface. Always in the nightmare I was in Springfield, driving a car usually through a menacing night, pursued by a man intent on murdering me. A veil of sexuality thickened the images. Springfield is a lost land of terror where blank faced children kill cats and bug eyed, pot bellied idiots sweat in their pickup trucks. And he, the maniac who is always after me, relentlessly advances.