Strings of sodium lights burn in the rainy Tokyo night. I love the sterilized anonymity of airports, the babel of the international terminal that sounds like the future. Tonight I’m feeling really Jetson on the E-Z Walk, no longer sure if it’s Saturday or Sunday. I scroll past strangers coping with this squishy sense of airport time in their private ways: benzodiazepines, crossword puzzles, and alien-looking pillows. I’m finally beating back my blockbuster thriller anxiety of falling out of the sky. I’m sick of white knuckles and leaving damaged armrests in my wake. I’m learning to Breathe and Visualize. Diaphragmatic instead of thoracic. Check me out during moderate turbulence, eyes gently closed and looking like zen.
Old men mumble to themselves in the smoking chambers. We try to make sense of the International Date Line. Everywhere I look, people are eating açai blueberries. It’s the new thing for staying aerated and anti-oxidized. A couple of severely tanned blondes drink scotch next to a family sitting down to orange juice and prayer. It doesn’t matter because time no longer exists except as a boarding call.
I wait for my connection to Hong Kong, watching service trucks and airplanes scutter through the rain. Funkadelic in my headphones. Eddie Hazel’s guitar on ‘Good Thoughts Bad Thoughts’ was composed for nights like this. Eight minutes later, George Clinton lays it down, sounding like a god tonight: “Change your mind and you change your relation to time. Your life is yours. It fits you like your skin. You gravitate to that which you secretly love most. You meet in life the exact reproduction of your own thoughts. There is no chance, coincidence, or accident. You rise as high as your dominant aspiration. You descend to the level of your lowest concept of yourself. Be careful of the seeds you plant in the garden of your mind, for seeds grow after their kind. The kingdom of heaven is within. Free your mind and your ass will follow. Play on, children. Sing on, lady.”