“Welcome to…


the desert of the real.” Those words ring in my mind (after a recent viewing of the legendary film) as my plane touched down at (an undisclosed location) in the midwest. Smokestacks bristled below and the air, once we exit to the jetway, smells like someone has been cooking old socks. Ah, back to the grind.

The quiet waters of the flats seem a world away and I try to hold on to the memories as long as I can. Of course, any such attempt is vain, as it turns out. There is something about this place that makes it seem like you’ve always been here. In a few minutes I’ll be tossing my duffel on the floor of the old apartment — to remain unpacked for the next week except for the occasional quick rifle for fresh socks — and going to the fridge hoping there’s ice in the freezer and something to eat.

The TV, of course, hasn’t worked since the much awaited digital transition (though I foolishly held out hope for a while and it wasn’t until I spent a few sweating minutes in the attic reading the box the thing came it that I admit that I am now without a functional boob-tube). Probably best, I tell myself, I’ve got a lot to do without sitting senseless in front of a glowing box. I could tie flies, update the old website, start that blog I’ve been meaning to or (for goodness sake) actually finish my Thesis and graduate. Guess which one I’ve opted for.

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