On Some Faraway Beach by Bryan Eno
I’m sitting by my gate at the airport in Montreal, number 84, across from the Starbucks, in case you were wondering. I’m with my dog, Alfie, and my Fiance, Nikki. She’s drinking coffee and I’m having an herbal tea, as I’ve already ingested too much caffeine for the day. We’re going to New York City for a wedding, which is a good reason for me to go home and visit my parents. Outside here in Montreal it’s snowing, although, somehow, the flight is still on time; the way these things work is something I’ll resign to never understand—I was under the impression snow makes flights not be able to take off?
Airports make me anxious, but the process of actually flying never really made me that nervous. It all seems so technical, so abstract, intangible, so far away from my intellectual grasp. Who am I to have any concern over my safety on these large metal boxes that float in the sky? I work, not that hard, to purchase a ticket. I get on. I magically arrive in a new place. Anything bad that would happen to me on one of these large metal boxes is so far out of my control so as to be relaxing. Levitating mid-air in a device that doesn’t make any sense to me surprisingly alleviates many of my fears, it’s an acceptance of how weak and powerless I really am.
Well anyway, I’m boarding now. Have a great weekend and enjoy this song, an all time great.
So, Mr. Gordon Glasgow--
Let me ask you this. When I write my words to you here, is it only your eyes that read them?
I need to know how confidential this correspondence is...
Dr. W.
AKA, Clifford