my grandpa was a 101st airborne screaming eagle in WWII and he only ever told me one war story:

about a year before he died, he sat in his recliner and rambled on about things he'd tried to forget, things that would probably stir up nightmares, things i'd always been afraid to ask about. what seemed to stand out most in his memory (and now mine) was a botched deployment that scattered his company way off target in the middle of the night.
he told me he had to run for two days straight to find cover. that's the whole story. all he did was run. he said that as soon as he would stop, he would hear gunfire behind him, and he would start running again. this went on for TWO DAYS before he found the rest of his company.
so i've been thinking about what this means lately. what does the most human fight for survival have to do with me?
for starters, if he hadn't been the most badass man alive, i wouldn't exist. Even greater, though, is thinking about the epic chain of events that led to this, which in turn led to me.
what was it about the 19 years of life that prompted my grandpa to run for his life and not pass out? is this something about the way he was raised, or something about loving my grandma? could it be said the love between my grandparents is essential to my existence? and all the love and relationships and values before and since?
OR is this evolution? how many people had to run for their lives under dire circumstances before they collectively developed an instinct that was passed on to my grandpa?
it's overwhelming even if i stopped there. but, then i keep thinking about when i pass someone on the highway, it's like my million-year chain of events colliding with someone else's million-year chain of events. Like eons and eons of life smashing together for a split second whenever i make small-talk with the grocery store checker, make eye-contact with someone in the crosswalk, or pick up my food in a drive-thru.
It makes me feel dizzy, and this is what i imagine life in 4-D would be like.


(a sidenote: the conversation with my grandpa started while we were watching the news about something that washed up in the wake of 9-11. he was telling me that he knows he's too old now, but he wished they would let him back in the army so he could fly kamikaze - because he's lived his life and would rather he die than some of the kids they're sending out there. all of this he said with extreme conviction and tears in his eyes. this means i am at least 1/4 most-extreme-badass nobility.)

I’ve been listening to a lot of Rod Stewart lately, getting back to my roots and it feels good.
I don’t know why I consider that getting back to my roots. That’s stupid. It feels good.

Yesterday I spent 14 hours in an office chair. Believe it or not, it felt good.
We opened the doors to let the cool air sweep through. The breeze rustled our papers and the smell of rain soaked the spaces in between. And the best part: the band practicing their patsy cline covers across the street. The music crept in and curled up in every corner.

And i fell asleep somewhere between here and there. It felt good to see you’d met me at that place in the middle, a post in my dreams made of cardboard and strings.
-- good until I woke up, completely here, and late for work.

such a loaded question, one i can never answer plainly...

Spokane to Denver:
I really can’t recall very many details. I was in a middle seat. Between two people twice my size.
The majority of the flight was spent in deep, dreamless sleep. After days of anticipation, hours of driving, and a cold night in the back of my car, I wasn’t capable of much more.

Denver to Austin:
I sat in the very last row in the very last seat. Surrounded by gray haired men. Heads bob to the beat of silence. Incessant wheezy laughter from a man across the aisle from me. Flirting (?) with the flight hostess and generally encouraging her to make fun of everyone who could ever have been on this plane. It goes on. I am awake.
I try to drown it out with Ondaatje’s words and snap back to reality when the hostess offers me a drink. This is when i notice the man sitting three inches to my left. He is in the second sentence of a word document titled “Growing Old.” And so, for the next hour and a half, he I bounce between the poet’s painted words, and the painful metaphors from a Ford Motors employee.
 
Austin to Denver:
I’m tired, drained. My throat hurts. I try to sleep, but must wake myself every few minutes to close my gaping mouth. I wake woozy, rearrange, and repeat. It is sleep that doesn’t count. As we exit the plane, the hostess-man (hoster?) says to the woman who sat next to me, “No more of that snoring now, you hear.” He smiles, she laughs. I think it is a cryptic joke, poking fun at me. Could be. Was I snoring? No. Well, maybe. I’m  onto you.

Denver to Spokane:
Chance seats me in the “Economy-Plus” section. The official middle-class of the friendly skies. We sit in the same uncomfortable seats, but we get a little extra leg room.
As the plane rolls towards the runway, a hand reaches for the call-button two rows ahead. In a moment this hand guides a frantic woman to the front of the plane. “Sit down!” We stop. The man who sat next to to her moves to the empty row in front of me. When she comes back he talks over his shoulder to the woman next to me.
“She said she can’t breathe ... probably using part of her lungs that don’t get used ... she’s not used to the altitude.”
They talk so casually about the distressed woman (sitting three seats away) for so long without lowering their voices, that I assume they know her until I hear “Where is she flying from?” “I don’t know.”
I read. When I am too tired to read, too eager to sleep, I harness my circling thoughts (eventful weekend) by studying the pattern on the back of the seat in front of me. My eyes burn. I snap back. For the rest of the flight, I comfort myself by describing the view from the window. Narrating the descent.
We land.
I drive home half awake.