I think it was in the beginning of Planet of the Apes -- the original with Charlton Heston. The crew slept in some kind of cryogenic pods that kept them alive while they raced through the universe. The glass on one of the pods had cracked and it was obvious that the poor bastard inside had died much earlier in the trip. I'm guessing this was done to convey a) how dangerous this mission was and b) how long they'd been in space. So poor bastard lay there dead, shriveled and disgusting. But Charlton ... Charlton? That's really a stupid name without the Heston part. Anyway, Charlton looked like a million bucks. Fresh, happy, healthy. Ready for anything.
I might have this all wrong. It may have been Alien. Which Charlton wasn't in. But someone in some movie woke from a pod after a really long trip.
I wish I had a pod.
We are 23 days from our California trip. When we return summer will pretty much be over. And as much as I hate fall and winter and shorter days and cold weather, I would embrace it all if it meant that this trip were over. I want so badly to not have to think about this anymore. I want to lay down in my pod and sleep and wake up in a galaxy where Ethan's microtia surgery already happened -- even if it had been performed by damn dirty apes.
I haven't written lately because I can't find anything worth saying. Because daily life is trivial. Because I'm trying to slow my rhythms toward some state of stasis that will allow me to survive the trip.
We managed to craft an itinerary that reeks of distraction: A few days in Beverly Hills, a few days in San Diego, a few days in Disneyland. And I'm sure it will all be a damn site more pleasant than being caged at the pleasure of Dr. Zaius. We carved out some time to enjoy the beaches, visit Lego Land, the zoo, blahblahblah. Plus, we're totally using Ethan's gigundus head bandage to weez our way to the front of the lines everywhere we go.
But none of it will be relaxing. Just like it's not relaxing now. Life is a car with really shitty shock absorbers riding a road with more pothole than asphalt. Those of us who dared dream of a smooth adventure are now frantically trying to avoid a crash while wiping up the drink we spilled all over our laps.
But in the end, the destination is the thing. I will drink a toast -- assuming there's anything left in the glass -- to the destination.
"Plans that either come to naught, or half a page of scribbled lines." -- Pink Floyd
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