Travels

After twelve days north of the Arctic Circle, I am back in this dreamed world above the clouds. If not Turkish so Swedish coffee from dark purple packages, the experience of placelessness is the same anyway. Yesterday, when reading a letter from my mother, I was struck anew by her poetic ability to say a lot through fragmented sentences. In fact, she seems to be vehemently opposed to the idea of letting two sentences follow logically upon each other. Every new sentence has a new topic, a new stream of consciousness, a new association which does not in any obvious way relate to the previous one.

So, I added a few words about the Paris crash, killed some darlings and made some other minor revisions to my paper about the post-Concorde world. Now I just have to be patient again and wait until I hear something from the editor. Academic publishing is in many ways a parallel universe to the last minute obsession found elsewhere in society. If it takes a year from first submission to print, one should consider oneself happy.