5:44—I am remaining calm. My flight to Budapest is delayed indefinitely. I am surrounded by sweaty, angry Europeans. I do not speak their language. (But every so often I can take a guess at their sentiment. Earlier, as I was walking toward the gate I'm currently camped outside of, a man speaking Italian unleashed a passionate, hateful tirade against the staff of the airport, most likely for their participation in drafting his new and inconvenient travel plans. He was carried away, screaming something about the decay of Europe.)

I do not have a phone. Even if I did, I do not have the telephone numbers of my friends in Paris. I do not have a computer. I do not have any money. I have a ticket. A ticket and a passport and two peeling, sunburnt bags. I hope the plane arrives at some point.

6:16—I just overheard a fat man in a red shirt say in English that the flight is delayed five hours. A little girl nearby keeps peeking at me from behind her backpack. Would it be creepy to give her a wave?

She's just staring. If anyone is being creepy, it's her.

6:20—Definitely not waving.

7:35—The fat man is informed. He sits next to his wife and she holds their child. Fat man is a good father and will continue to stay informed about the delay, whose lifespan is increasing by the moment, for the sake of his family. I will make use of my proximity to him. A big, red lagoon of information. In English.

Adjacent to me there is another young guy in a black overcoat with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. He's also writing in a notebook. Therefore he might be writing almost the same paragraph as I am writing in this notebook.

INTERVENING MINUTES OMITTED

8:40—The departure time currently reads as 21:45. Five minutes ago it was 21:30. I just need to get to Budapest. And someone to send my thoughts to.

9:25—With any luck, the flight will be boarding in a short while. But I'm really not ready to trust the airline's staff. They've lied to me before. How often do they lie, as a rule?


Do these people deceive their anxious and fatigued customers as a matter of protocol? Are they hired not only for their multi-linguistic capacity but also for their capacity to lie frequently and effectively? They seem to be able to look you in the eye and rest assured that the falsehoods they spew, destined to be found out when the plane doesn't arrive or the seat isn't secured, will eventually arouse anger toward 'the airline' or simply circumstance or bad luck. They don't seem to fear for their own safety when things turn ugly.

But are they so sure that the sweaty hordes of would-be passengers will direct their rage against those abstract entities? Rather than take immediate action against the staff themselves? Do they think about these things? Do they sleep at night? Do they cry?

9:58—We've been authorized to board. I'm on a shuttle toward the plane with heavy eyelids and a fluttering memory.

Will my handwriting ever improve?


10:02—I am on the plane.

It seems to me that that most experiences, regardless of their content, end in catharsis. This is obvious with regards to painful episodes. But the quiet fragmentation of the psyche that takes place during ostensibly enjoyable or ecstatic moments means that even the most pleasurable times culminate in some kind of lustration, whether melancholic or tragic.

If life is one, long, sprawling, uneven and manic experience, shouldn't then a natural death deliver a truly raw, euphoric (and of course destructive) catharsis?

Stepping onto this plane after seven hours of mild discomfort has lodged the question in my mind.