The Stranger Across the Aisle - V

For a single year I'd write as if I would never be allowed to write again. It would be an exercise in pouring the heart out.

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For years I’ve had this notion of going into one of those rotating restaurants that spins around a city in an hour. I’d bring along a pad of yellow paper and a reliable, flowing pen, the kind that’s easy on your hand. I’d wait my turn on the leather reception banquette, and I’d follow the hostess and move past the drifting waiter station and step out onto the rotating floor. I’d be seated, and I’d say thanks and order my drink and get a window seat table for an hour. I’d look out at the sunset skyline and the silhouette of water towers and the tropical clusters of neon signage. I’d note the exact angle of my starting point and the speed of the current against the shoreline of silk plants and air conditioning window vents drifting slowly past my feet.

And for that hour I would write as if I would never be allowed to write again — not a single word in the service of art. It would be an exercise in pouring the heart out, in discovery. I would put my head down and write …