Author: Graeme McMillan

I’ve written before, I’m sure, about my hatred of waiting for a phone call that you know is going to happen — the way in which the foreknowledge ends up filling my head, making it impossible for me to think about anything else, filling me with both frustration and anxiety before the call itself. This is true even when I’m the one that controls the timing of the call, as is the case today — I have a window during which I can call a mysterious someone for a mysterious something (I know who and why, but it’s not something I want to talk about publicly just yet) — knowing that I can make the call whenever I want (within reason) doesn’t make me love phone calls any more.

And yet, there’s something so surreal about the call, or at least, the reason for the call, that I find myself wanting to laugh and think more kindly about it. Occasionally, something pops up and you’re left thinking, well, this is absolutely ridiculous and so I should follow it through for that reason alone. It’s approaching events for the purposes of future anecdotes, perhaps, but in this case, the potential anecdotal experience along will be worth however much frustration and anxiety are currently on offer and more. I just have to keep reminding myself about that beforehand, over and over again.

I don’t know whether or not it’s the time change, a sign that I’ve had a good (or, at least, relaxing) weekend or something else, but it feels like it’s been years since I’ve been in my office working today; everything feels just that unusual that it’s almost uncomfortable, the novelty making things uncertain and a little awkward somehow. It’s not true, of course; I was here just two days ago — I was even working yesterday, unusually, albeit outside because the weather was so good — but, for whatever reason, waking up and sitting down at the desk this morning felt like I was returning to a place that I haven’t been for quite some time.

I’m concerned, I confess, that this bodes poorly for how the day is going to go — especially because I have such a packed day to get through before coming out the other side.

Yesterday was the first day in quite some time where I didn’t have something I had to be doing, and that turned out to be a surprisingly disorienting experience; enjoyable, sure, but also somewhat discombobulating. With everything that’s been happening over the last few weeks, I’ve apparently gotten used to the idea of always having a purpose, or at least something I should be thinking about or somewhere to be. Going without that for the day was a curiously out there thing; without the nagging I should really be doing this buzzing in my head, I felt at a loose end in ways that didn’t really sit right for some time.

Thankfully, I discovered a biography of the Monkees to help me find some way to fill those empty moments.

The dream, this time, was about arriving at an airport and realizing that my luggage hadn’t. Except, of course, that’s not what the dream was about at all; weirdly, it was actually about the discovery of a “lost luggage” area of the airport where everything was literally up for grabs — people whose luggage had disappeared were taken to a specific area of the building filled with things that had never been claimed, and we could take whatever we wanted. The area was outside, because the items available went from suitcases to comic books (of course, this is me, after all) to massive statues and oversized furniture. Even in the dream, I found myself thinking, this can’t be real, but now that I’m awake, I wish that it were.

We were up early this morning, taking Kate’s mother to the airport, which meant being on the highway around 5am. I’m always surprised by how many people are around at that time in the morning, at just how busy it is (busier than certain times during daylight). It’s a different story driving to the highway, with the familiar streets around us almost entirely empty, and all the businesses and houses on other side dim and quiet.

Years ago, a lifetime ago, I would often find myself walking back home from a girlfriend’s apartment at inhuman times of the morning. This is when I lived in Scotland still, and in Aberdeen; I’d be walking the distance — maybe a couple of miles or so? Perhaps more? It took about an hour, all told — at somewhere between, say, 2 and 6 in the morning and I loved it, no matter how tired I was or whatever emotional state I was in at the time (Almost always an ambivalent emotional state at the best; this was the end of a relationship, and it’d be so late because of difficult and circular conversations that rarely left either of us elated). The city was like a ghost town at that time, and I felt like I was floating through it like a spirit myself, touching nothing and unseen by everything. I’d walk while listening to music, and I always chose something to fit my awkward mood, something dissonant and meaningful if only for what I was bringing to it as a listener. I was young enough to find both calm and beauty in my unhappiness, and walking through the city at that time fit that feeling entirely.