feeling hot and sweaty and
ridiculous in a suit
— its sole function to establish my
bona fides with the customs officer —
I emerge from an infinitely long
flight of fancy
into a different
remarking that intercontinental travel
evokes the neurotic
in even the most ordinary
Forty years ago today, early on a Sunday morning, I was in North Vancouver at a friend’s house with a bunch of other folks recovering from what had been a major party the night before. My eyes hurt, my head hurt, and I was sure that the big bang I heard, and the small tremors that swept up my legs, were all part of the painful recovery process. But I wasn’t the only one to hear and feel those things, and we began to wonder.
There was no internet or 24-hour news stations then, and it was probably a while before we learned what had gone on south of us.
Mount St. Helens had blown its head off, and for hours we sat around watching KOMO or KING, gazing in awe as dust settled on towns for miles around, gazing in awe at the power of the mountain.
This was not a day to easily forget.