So, tomorrow morning, get up way early, get to airport, board plane, fly to Escapade, have fun. Easy peasy, I tell myself, safe as houses.
Except. I'm having a rather worse than usual case of my pre-travel freakout, in which I visualize with great clarity the plane crash (smoldering heaps of twisted metal, my pathetic little bits of luggage scattered amongst the rubble), or the car crash (the swerve, the skid, through the guardrail, down the mountainside, bam bam KABOOM). I try to sublimate this in low-grade wibbling over mundane stuff like losing my wallet, or missing my flight, or whatever, but really, forget that crap, the travel-angst is all about death. Which is, of course, the ultimate destination we're all travelling toward, as soon as we emerge from the safety of house/womb.
And, of course, it might just possibly be that the worse-than-usualness of the freakout is related to the fact that two members of my family have died in the past month, and payment of the emotional bill on all that is just starting to come due. Dunno. Or it could be -- well, some other mortality-related crap that's going on, with the recounting of which I shall not weary my patient readers, but anyone who gets me drunk at Escapade will likely get an earful. (This does not involve my own personal mortality, I should perhaps add.)
I'll just say that *god* only knows why I thought this was a good time to reread Dira's That Good Night
, which is an excellent and deeply disturbing piece of dS fiction, and, for all its excellence, not the best thing to read on a night when one can feel the raven's wings flapping around one's head.
OK. Ahem. The agenda is: peaceful flight, pleasant drive up the coast, Escapade, have fun. Have fun.
Fun shall be had, dammit.
And now I should probably go throw a few things into a suitcase, since I must roll out the door at 6:45 a.m.