New York City. I should have been bursting with inspiration. I should have returned to Sweden belly-button deep in Title Pages
(my specialty). A single escalator gives the impression of exclusive up-ness, or in this case down-ness, but either way it goes somewhere. It doesn't. It may take someone somewhere, but the tracks just go around and around, forever transporting thankless standers, as Wikipedia so desolately puts it: "in an endless loop."
In a glass half full or empty world, my glass--my escalator--is not
full--upward mobility--it's an empty, 'endless loop.' Like a ceaseless, squeaky baggage carousel, with that same forever rider: the Styrofoam box, jeering at me through the space between lid and bottom, despite the aggressively strewn duct-tape. Around and around and around.*
*Wow, thought puke. Let's clear things up. New York trip did not birth a novel. The escalator is writer's block in relation to my trip to NYC. Seemed to go somewhere, with things on it, but really just went in a dirty, insulting circle. The baggage carousel is my potential 'novel'. The Styrofoam my crappy idea that haunts the earth, never disintegrating, baring its duct tape fangs until I grant it its wishes. Word time. Blog time. Granted. Now get off the carousel.
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