emotion, Human

I spat this out in a rush of words tonight at someone who wasn't interested: About a week ago, I looked out my window - just off to my right, peripherally within view even now - and formed the only recent memory I have of feeling startled, shocked, afraid. There was, at altogether too low an altitude, a zeppelin. It appeared at approximately news helicopter height or lower, bearing straight toward (and ultimately over and beyond,) my apartment, and my window. Not the sort of thing that -ought- to be scary, but there you go.

This irrational fear is exciting and remarkable to me because of what a rare thing it is to feel something so vividly. The default position for someone about where I happen to be is, I think, 'couched in irony,' and it's a pretty thick layer. The only time I can remember being red-in-the-face embarrassed (my favorite request to make of professional actors) was in a Borders bookstore - the kind in Ohio in which a fellow can spend a day reading things, like a library, but not like a crowded and tiny LA bookstore or LA library, whose chief function is in the field of hobo naps. I saw a familiar clerk with an armful of periodicals collected from the various comfy chairs in the store, as he went about sighing and restocking the magazine shelves....just as I was about to make my way to the comfy chair section with a fresh armload of magazines I intended to read for free.

I tried to take still photos at dusk, and as you can see, they mainly fail at suggesting the size, speed, and proximity of the airship. As the thing flew directly overhead, I realized what I needed instead was video.

zeppliphoto