Roger Jones

Publish or Perish

Flying over heartland, pitch-dark, the red-eye flight from Newark to Houston. 3 am EST. Few lights on in the cabin. Attendants passing out pillows and blankets, like a big sleepover.

I’m coming home from a conference, having flown sixteen hundred miles to deliver a paper that seemed to impress no one, and elicited no response. Headed back home, my usual window seat.

Out the glass, across the sea of night, occasional isolated ganglia of mid-continent small town lights along a nerve system connected by a few streets, lamps, county roads – a far cry from the east coast’s celestial mass glowing seemingly without end down miles, hours.

Hours later, back on the ground, call a friend and hitch a ride to my parking lot – one sleepy hour more of driving home. Late snack, then an unmade bed. This scholar’s life definitely not my cup of tea.

bachelor pad
bills on the table,
empties