Whew! I finally got Lou's critique done. It was a killer just to read that old dot matrix print. Interesting story, though.
The postcard arrived from Siberia. The front of it was all white with a bit of gray like it was a photo of a whiteout or was just unprinted plain card stock that had gotten smudged in transit. In transit. I like the implication, the sense of rootless motion in those words. I've spent some time in the transit areas of airports, slumped in the uncomfortable molded plastic chairs, reduced to eating the tasteless plastic food-like things that are sold for ten times what they would be in the real world if it even appeared there. I am fascinated by the strangeness of in-transit shopping too. Jewelry and bizarre decorative items made from seashells embedded in clear resin, trays and teapots and clocks transfer-decorated with garish maps of wherever you are, even though all in-transit areas look the same. The clothes are odd too. No one out in the real world would wear the t-shirts and sweatshirts, aloha shirts and goofy hats. This must be the origination of the inventory of every thrift shop and rummage sale in North America, I think. In-transit is the earthbound equivalent of Limbo, where unlucky travelers serve varying sentences, on their journey to a vacation destination for a respite karmically paid for by time in In-transit, or back home to do laundry and gift more hideous merchandise to their temporarily grateful family.
Just some late-night mental peregrinations; sorry for taking up your time. See you tonight.
--Barbara
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