TT: Out of joint

I’m in suspended animation, sort of. I was supposed to fly last night from Sarasota, Florida, to New York’s Kennedy Airport, but my flight was canceled in the afternoon and rescheduled for this morning. Later in the day my new flight was canceled, leading to a mildly amusing absurdity: JetBlue then rescheduled me to arrive in New York at 11:32 Thursday morning and depart again for Sarasota at 12:18 that same afternoon.
Not that it mattered, since I’d needed to get to Manhattan in time to see two plays on Wednesday, a matinee and an evening performance, and meet with a stage director in between shows. The canceled flights thus took away the point of my trip, so I decided to be sensible and sit tight in Sarasota for two extra days.
And what am I doing here? Nothing out of the ordinary. Last night I wrote another chunk of the third chapter of my Duke Ellington biography, on which I’ve been working since Mrs. T and I arrived in Florida last week. I got up this morning, ordered a room-service breakfast, knocked out my Friday drama column for The Wall Street Journal, and e-mailed it to New York. We’re staying at a waterfront hotel, and though it’s too brisk to swim, the sun is shining brightly, so the next thing on my agenda is a walk.
Needless to say, I’m going to keep on chipping away at the Ellington book while I’m here, but neither Mrs. T nor I has ever been to the Ringling Museum of Art, so an afternoon field trip may be in order. On Friday night we’ll go to Asolo Rep’s revival of Twelve Angry Men, which is why we came to Sarasota in the first place. The next day, weather permitting, I’ll fly up to Philadelphia for the workshop performances of Danse Russe about which I posted earlier today.
I have, in short, plenty to do, but I’m still at loose ends. My life requires me to live by the clock, and it always throws me for a loop when that clock gets stopped, whatever the reason may be. Last week’s vacation on Sanibel Island was part of a carefully wrought plan–seven days of relaxation–and so doing nothing seemed all right to me. Today, by contrast, I ought to be be tearing up and down the snowy streets of Manhattan, slipping and sliding from one appointment to the next. Instead I’m sitting in a hotel room in Sarasota, looking at the sun on the water and feeling vaguely guilty.
Such guilt, I suspect, is one of the curses of modernity: these days precious few of us know know how to turn loose the passing hours and let them go unregretted. Perhaps I’ll feel better about their passing later today, and I already know I should regard it as an act of grace. For the moment, though, I can’t shake off the nagging suspicion that I’m somehow to blame for their demise.