London Gatwick

International airports are the closest thing we've got to space stations. They are closed environments, carefully regulated and crammed with all the space-saving speed-urging technology we can devise. Despite the colorful shops and the friendly pictograms, the steadiness of over-processed air acts as a reminder that This Place Serves Machines Foremost. Not lovingly, but To Protect Life, with delivery to a point of travel only a distant second. The constant layers of security have the same justified paranoia felt by the astronauts; vista windows open unpaned onto tarmac chaseways where the bustle only hides the uncooperative Environment. Man was not made to fly. The air is not his element, and the flight staff knows it – baggage checks are ritual to raise a metal raptor to the clouds. Floating cushions, seatbelt checks – these are superstition. To distract us from our incipient mortality, we are served food – again and again and again on the plane, in the terminal, at the gate, from restaurants, flight attendants, coffee stands, glowing sarcophagi with coin-dispensed single-serve pre-processed packages. Food, the life-giver, whose comfort we need although we hardly use the energy, sitting patiently behind our tray tables, belts fastened in case of turbulence.

My flight hasn't boarded, yet I'm already jet-lagged.

APS

If my journey to England has made nothing else clear, it has possessed me of the certainty that I must never live alone. Although it might seem impossible, my Absentminded Professor Syndrome has gotten worse. Struck by sudden fantasies of literary discourse, I wander away from sinks with their taps still running until I'm reminded that they're on. I eat primarily with my left hand to free my right for gestures and note-taking and must sometimes have help in unwrapping my sandwiches because I forget that I can use my right hand when I need to.

It's embarrassing; I like for my eccentricities to be the ones I've chosen, and I feel they're spiraling out of control. When I'm not around new people, I forget that it's not normal to wear holiday socks year round, or that most people go to salons to get their hair cut, or that it might be considered odd that I automatically start dancing if left standing for more than a few moments. I look down at my fingers to find them involved in elaborate repeating rhythms, and must ask observers how long they've been going.

In sum, although the thought had certainly crossed my mind before, it is imperative that someone be present to remind me to eat, make me tea, open the blinds in the morning, and switch on the lights at night. Most of all, I need someone to shepherd me through shopping – and to force me into shopping instead of wearing my things to rags. It's quite terrifying.

Fortunately, other people seem to find this charming, especially since it is only where things concern myself that I am forgetful. One of Turtle's friends is hopelessly enamored due to my ability to discuss the battle of Waterloo whilst so drunk I cannot even lift my head from the table; another is astounded by my ability to stare into space for the whole of a card game and then lay down a perfect hand before wandering off in search of a good adhesive.

It helps, Patrick would rightly say, that I'm pretty. I don't know how much people would tolerate otherwise. When it comes to that, I don't know how much sense I make out of context. Of course, I have nobody's word that I make sense in context as more than an alien but welcome presence.