" (I wish I had the funds for the catalog!), I realized that my posts "Waiting (for Meaning)" and "Late Bloomer" are of-a-thought. I considered titling this post "Well, Duh," but am letting myself off the hook for slow dot-connecting, or a minor episode of late blooming.Today a US Airways plane made an emergency landing in the Hudson River, less than a mile west of where I work. Everyone is OK except the birds that caused it. Watching the plane sink (to its grave) made me want to crawl out of my skin, even before imagining the passengers' experience of the descent and the water coming in. Every new image of the submerged plane is a shock, makes me nauseous. My fingernails are gone.
(I've spent a lot of time on the water but don't much care to be in it; sinking holds a special terror. My father, a superb boatsman, did have the habit of shouting "We're dead!" whenever we got into some real trouble, and once announced to me, half-asleep, "We're sinking!" over a small leak in the stuffing box and to please hold the flashlight.)
Isn't it ironic, and so sad, that some deeply unfortunate birds can take down an airliner and put hundreds of lives at risk?
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