Shaman

The flight attendant sidled up to me in her black clogs (not Crocs; Dansko-type; leather, wooden sole; shoes that always a little bit throb my heart; I attribute it to an older not quite cousin I pre-pubescently adored who wore them), and looking down upon me and pointing to the scribbling I was doing with great and evidently otherworldly rapidity, she asked, quietly, knowingly, respectfully, channeled writing? I said I’m sorry, and she pointed to my hand and the page beneath it again, though she said it more like a statement: are you doing channeled writing. I smiled and said, -ish, meaning you might call it that, for it was coming out quick and pretty clean, mostly about a fella across the aisle shaping up his cowboy hat. I mean dude was really shaping up his hat.