Once on the plane, I wake from a deep sleep, only to find that the plane's wheels are still on the ground. In the time during which I would normally have edited ten pieces for the news, we have gone nowhere except closer to the front of the takeoff line. It was a good nap, but I wonder, should I be working, not sleeping? But working would require taking out the scripts, and the cards, and far more than I could realistically manage in the space of my tiny seat. There will be time for working. This is transportation. Long transportation, but just transportation.
I leave home daily to go to work, knowing each day that I am a bus or train or cab or "ankle express" ride from home. I make schedules and plans, knowing that I can jump in to alter them if needed. You can't jump in when the time in the takeoff line alone is longer than the trip from work to home. I have made the schedules and plans, and they will unfold without me, for better or for worse. Perhaps once I am really working, I will forget about them. For now, they play through my head like the music I will be hearing on this job--complex, dramatic, big. Very big.
I was booked for this job during a particularly bleak work time--delayed paychecks, bills to be paid, expenses mounting. The invitation was not just exciting--as out of the blue invitations are--it was like a gift from above, a reminder that past work done well does matter, that people you've done right by do look you up the next time. It was, literally, a bit of music in a cacophonous world. So I said "yes."
"Yes" means a lot of things. "Yes," I can do something I don't do daily. "Yes," I will help you in what you are trying to do. "Yes," and thank you for thinking of me. "Yes," I will make it work, even if it takes a lot of behind the scenes scrambling to make it work.
And "yes" put me in an airport and on a plane and Kentucky bound.
To be continued...