The flight above revealed unfamiliar terrain and uncertain depictions to a birds eye that had never ventured to this part of the continent before. The lust for adventure held court in human endeavours, its addiction never reaching the whiskey jack, the black bear or the immensely satisfied. Although granted buckets of suave de vie and crushed under the weight of the astonished stares of approval, the adventurist eventually finds a plane of existence where the laundry must get done and the sink’s dirty dishes discovers a cure for itself. It is too predictable to observe the adventurist as a preoccupied warrior on an expedition of exceptional achievements, but it might be said that the faster one can run from oneself, the better the adventurer might be. The coming, the going, the running, the walking are all a dress rehearsal for the main event which was accomplished yesterday and realized tomorrow.

Pickles, taking instructions from Ellie, who in turn was advised by No.1, suggested the whiskey jack might want to fly to Missouri to witness the great adventure of the translucent man, Little Mr. Deakins, the horse, the duck, and a growing parade of adventurers heading for Plot 82.


Graham stood in the middle of the airfield, squinting at the cracked crystal of his Seiko, trying to determine if it was 2 AM or 2:30 AM. A monotonous taping by his thumb on the watch along with a gentle circular motion of the hand and wrist convinced him the time was nearly 3 AM. He did not marvel at his presence, enveloped in the utter darkness, and surrounded by a perceptible silence because his sleeplessness became a companion to his soul, something to bear witness to new demons and old comforts.

Like everyone, the old comforts stood on sturdy foundations where the truths slew the lies and any fuzziness was dealt with in the early morning hours when no one was around. Regrettably, as the fuzziness was excommunicated, new demons peaked around the corner, competing for space and acknowledgment. Graham hated the new demons, detested what he believed they stood for and despised their attitude as he sat alone in the wee hours, but yet, there they were! Shards of doubt slopped around like impurities in a glass of water, a glass of drinkable water that when gulped down in great haste could still satisfy the thirst of confusion. The question with no answer, was would it truly and systematically satisfy the thirst or just put it off to another sleepless night. As Graham refused to think about it, he was flooded with thoughts about it.

Doubt was a sign of weakness, a misalignment of order, a whiskey jack off course.  A busy mind could render doubt inert, fix a cracked crystal and impeach perceptible silence.