Death from Above
My dwelling is more often than not right beneath the flight path of the nearest international airport. Quel surprise. And for about one week or so every year - at about this time - the sun’s traverse across the sky lines up perfectly with the flight path above my home. It’s an astrological event of the suburban scale.
What this means to me, being that I work from home, is that roughly every twenty minutes or so, for a week, a jet thunders overhead and momentarily eclipses the sun. Now I’m only in this momentary shadow for a split second but it’s enough to terrify anyone with half my imagination and sense of self-importance. You’d think I’d get used to it. But no, every single time I hear those descending engines hurling toward me and then suddenly the sun is blotted out I think: This is it!
Of course it’s gone as quickly as it came but I’m always left with the lingering reminder of mortality (it’s a pretty long week). And the form this lingering reminder of mortality usual takes is the question: Would I be satisfied with the body of work I’d be leaving behind if a jet plane really did come crashing down and evaporate me in a fiery inferno?
Usually the answer is no. Not yet.
Then I go back to work.
