I'm not giving away too much, gosh maybe I am. On the other hand, think of Amelia researching herself; reading her biographies and the one her sister wrote. Wandering through the world remade. Ending up here of all places. . . so conveniently situated, right next door to an airport. Taking lessons. Getting back into the cockpit. But by day earning a living, eating in a diner, sleeping at a Y, planning and waiting and planning.
A woman who never took 'no' for an answer. And never looked too hard at what was pushing her, because why look when what you got for it was being Amelia.
We're made differently now. We move from the inside out. Our language is chock full of psychoanalytic jargon. Not a bad thing, not a good thing, a thing. She's in this world and the world matters. Wherever you live, whatever you see, everything you encounter makes you who you are. She's remaking herself and she can't stay the same. It's just not possible, we have to believe that we're mutable beings. Woody Allen said it once comically, sharks move or they die and what we have here is a dead shark. I still believe that human beings can change given a good enough reason. I believe that's part of what makes us special. I may often sound cynical, but I do hope. My father was an idealist, a dreamer, and I suppose that's where I get it from.
Anyway, here dear reader, a museum of sorts, a shrine to flight. . .
