StaRV

Short flight so this will just be a short catch up.

I drove the RV down from my home in Massachusetts last Tuesday night. I started Tuesday because Wednesday was the day before Thanksgiving and a notoriously bad travel day. I made it to the second rest area on the new Jersey turnpike, having accomplished my target of getting past the Hudson River, and sleeping less than 100 yards from the world’s worst hot dog. It rhymes with Schmathan’s.

The next day the drive was pretty good, though I broke one law for sure and maybe another. I went through the Baltimore harbor tunnel, not realizing the propane tank on my RV precludes that route. Apparently propane tanks are banned from most tunnels because propane is heavier than air and it would settle in and never leave. There are different rules in some tunnels but most have some restrictions. Live (thankfully) and learn I guess.

The other probable transgression was the commuter lane bypassing traffic between DC and Richmond. It had digital signs and mentioned a hefty toll but no specific HOV restrictions. My only other passenger was a Batfrog, and I don’t think stuffed cryptids count. I was very happy to be in that lane, as the main road was backed up for many miles.

Regardless I remain uncaught, which is just as good as being innocent, if you believe the GOP defense of tRump. If caught I could just draw a passenger in with a sharpie anyway.

This flight is 53 minutes, according to the captain, who probably should be believed, no matter what Jim Jordan might have to say about it. A short hop in a CRJ200, which I think is the thumb-destroying model that took me to Paducah. It has, if you recall, overhead bins the size of a preteen girl’s jeans pockets. This time though I was ready with my sleek backpack, which is four rows ahead over aisle 7, because I’m back in group FU, aka Basic.

Strange though that on this flight I am allowed a carry-on plus a personal item, vs the last time in Delta Basic when I wasn’t. My bagception works well regardless. The turducken of bags, a sil nylon Matador 16L inside the svelte outside bag. The Matador holds what I would use in the plane, and slips easily in and out of the back pocket of the bigger bag. Even the bigger one, a Timbuk2 Jet is still quite small, at 30 liters, and will fit under airline seats which don’t have some obstruction underneath, such as a video entertainment system or Rudy Giuliani. I pack light.

40 minutes left, as the surprisingly well distributed eastern seaboard lights slide beneath me. I think it’s because the air is clear and I can see any dim light rather than only cities. It looks a bit like the sky is reflected by the ground. I took a photo but airplane pictures never match what I see with my eyes.

Really remarkable, eyes. Too big a subject probably for 36 minutes, but I’ll try. Every square millimeter, and most round ones, are awash in an immeasurable spectrum of electromagnetic waves. Anyhow you look you find them, though only those that wiggle to particular tunes twiddle our optical meat enough to tease meaning out of darkness unaided.

Each photon of light is both unique and the same. Predictable but chaotic, for years counted dozens to billions, a wave state has propagated in your direction. Other directions too, nearly all of them, space being what it is, empty to a rounding error. To the entire universe, eventually, subject to light cones and the backs of too-tall heads at concerts. All other light from all other things as well, bounces, stumbles and gravitically lenses in your direction, to be bent again, inverted and focused on a nerve built for the purpose. If you don’t blink.

A few faint photons fallen from firey furnaces flit frantically for you alone, or no one, ever. Our opportunity to observe optical oscillations opens only for us. Big brains bask beneath balls of brilliant burning brimstone, alone. Look up.

Told you it was a short flight.

H