They won't let me in my spaceship. Two in the morning, my alarm's wail still ricocheting off the inside of my skull, and they won't open the hanger doors. Database malfunction and they're working on it. Bullshit. The port techie wouldn't be out here explaining the problem to me if it was. He'd be half buried in wires, talking to every data cluster in the system and sweating like an unplugged ICE runner.
Damn it's cold! The port techie says repairs to the database should be done soon but his polyfiber coat, authentic fur hat, temp-reg boots, and heavy mittens say otherwise. He's staying put. For a while. All I brought was my sweat towel; normally reserved for close encounters with neuron stars and sudden solar flares that over task my ship's temp-reg system. Wrapping it around my shoulders and neck doesn't do much but it's better nothing.
Wouldn't be so bad if the cold was natural. Icy winds and winter are nice when you're standing on real earth. But drafts in stations freeze every part of a man. The metallic echo of winds slashing around corners numbs ears and its processed bite could kill. I think I chipped a tooth. Jaws won't stop chattering. The port techie could hear them if his fur hat wasn't pulled down over his ears.
If I could get in the hanger everything would be alright. Ports strictly control hanger climates. With repairs going on and dismantled ships about, if the climate rises too much nav-chips begin to fry, pilots sue, and ports lose money. Too low a climate and pilots take their business elsewhere, so every hanger's temperature is fixed: nice, comfortable, and profitable.
But they won't let me in my spaceship. Can't be a grudge. I haven't stopped here enough. A mechanical problem, I guess. The port techie hands me a neural chip programmed to signal me when the problem is solved and suggests I find a warmer pasture to wait in. While I appreciate his begrudged honesty, I haven't seen a pasture in decades.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Home Again, But Always Home
I was born in the great country of Canada, a land of clean streets, low crime rates, and friendly diverse people. In Toronto, I made childhood friends and we played in a white wooded park near my house. I first learned to bike ride down my street who's length has dwindled with time.
I turned seven in the U.S.A. At the time my father attended Trinity College in Chicago, the same city where he received his undergraduate education. My parents met in Chicago, love bloomed, blossomed into marriage, and many years later returned to its native plot. I loved Chicago, its hustle, its schools, its parks, and the friendships it granted.
But Chicago lasted two years and served as a short, vibrant chapter in the story of my life. My father graduated and in the preceding job hunt the city of Champaign snared my father, for as the hunter chooses the deer the job chooses the man. Where the doe goes the fawn follows. I was destined for Champaign, my educator, my boss, my longest home.
Unfortunately, in Champaign I failed to replace the friends I had left in Toronto and Chicago. JBU, my college albeit at first not by choice, filled the void with the best people I’ve ever known. The character and love sown and shown breaks me. My friends are smart and caring. They enjoy life and still find the will to suffer through it. They are real, and because JBU is their home so it became mine.
Even so, when opportunity knocked and offered overseas travel and promised vistas to view, I embraced it, and luckily opportunity is an obliging fellow. Russia was my destination, a strange land with unknown people speaking unknown words. Three months I lived and breathed Russian air, words, and life. Russians are deeply hospitable people free with their food and open with their lives. And thus a place grows dear.
A wise sage once said, "Home is where the heart is," and he was right. But in every place my physical heart resides, my true heart leaves something of itself behind. In Canada I left roots deep within her soil, remnants of memories and deep sentiments. My heart melted in Chicago and in Champaign it firmed and found a lasting foundation. To my friends at JBU my heart I freely gave. Russia weaved its way in and as I left my ties to that troubled, beautiful country never released and force my own heart to tear itself free.
My heart is shattered and my homes are many, yet I am a more complete person for it.
I turned seven in the U.S.A. At the time my father attended Trinity College in Chicago, the same city where he received his undergraduate education. My parents met in Chicago, love bloomed, blossomed into marriage, and many years later returned to its native plot. I loved Chicago, its hustle, its schools, its parks, and the friendships it granted.
But Chicago lasted two years and served as a short, vibrant chapter in the story of my life. My father graduated and in the preceding job hunt the city of Champaign snared my father, for as the hunter chooses the deer the job chooses the man. Where the doe goes the fawn follows. I was destined for Champaign, my educator, my boss, my longest home.
Unfortunately, in Champaign I failed to replace the friends I had left in Toronto and Chicago. JBU, my college albeit at first not by choice, filled the void with the best people I’ve ever known. The character and love sown and shown breaks me. My friends are smart and caring. They enjoy life and still find the will to suffer through it. They are real, and because JBU is their home so it became mine.
Even so, when opportunity knocked and offered overseas travel and promised vistas to view, I embraced it, and luckily opportunity is an obliging fellow. Russia was my destination, a strange land with unknown people speaking unknown words. Three months I lived and breathed Russian air, words, and life. Russians are deeply hospitable people free with their food and open with their lives. And thus a place grows dear.
A wise sage once said, "Home is where the heart is," and he was right. But in every place my physical heart resides, my true heart leaves something of itself behind. In Canada I left roots deep within her soil, remnants of memories and deep sentiments. My heart melted in Chicago and in Champaign it firmed and found a lasting foundation. To my friends at JBU my heart I freely gave. Russia weaved its way in and as I left my ties to that troubled, beautiful country never released and force my own heart to tear itself free.
My heart is shattered and my homes are many, yet I am a more complete person for it.
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