I love the smell of mediocre hotels. The chlorine and second-hand smoke seeping from the carpet; cleaning solvent and cheap coffee. It’s limbo, it’s suspension. It’s nowhere-home. It makes you like a turtle: you are forced to be your own home.
I wonder if turtles get tired though, having to carry their shelter everywhere so predators can’t get at their soft underbellies; their long, fragile throats. Though I know it is ridiculous, it seems to me that they might also get claustrophobic, with that cumbersome defense mechanism always surrounding them. It keeps them safe, though, and I suppose that’s all that matters.
When you shake it down, isn’t that all that matters to anyone? Seeking protection from something. Even the daredevils, the show-offs, the adrenaline junkies—all those who appear to be looking for danger. Even they have something that drives them, something beyond desire. Whether they are conscious of it or not, they’re afraid of what it might be like if the fulfillment of that desire remained absent. Those far from their shell are running from a life trapped inside; those closed up between the walls have run from exposure to the wide world. I know—I’ve been both places.
No matter what you pursue, you must admit you’re fleeing the opposite.
Sometimes they feel like the same thing to me—the pursuit and its opposing force—or so nearly the same that I am running toward and away from both of them simultaneously. It’s hard not to lose myself in all the floating; all the in-between. Often it seems that someone extracted my brain and wrapped it in cotton before stuffing it back down into my skull. It’s hard to focus, to make decisions, to form coherent thought, to remember.
I crave clarity; a bright image, a sharp thought. I give myself headaches sometimes, because I unconsciously clench my jaw as I attempt to decipher the wrinkles in my brain. But my thoughts come like static shocks from a hot, heavy blanket just out of the dryer. My mind feels thick and overheated, while little random thoughts shoot off, there and gone again before I can identify them and they keep going from all directions until I can hardly tell the practical from the naïve.
I crave a moment like the crack of a gun: startling, indisputable and confident of some result. I want to slam into the destination along with the bullet discharged—the sure, hard-edged bullet that sparkles in the sun, so bright you’d hardly mind dying by it if it meant that that glittering shard could become part of you. Like it would shine out from inside you, and by it’s glory you too would become glorious.
But instead I feel spread out, like milk spilled on the living room floor. Just a thin layer soaking into the carpet, existing in a big, inconvenient space yet barely existing at all. And no longer full of the potential it once had to be useful; to nourish someone’s bones, to help make someone—anyone—a little stronger.
I feel as if I once had a shape, some detailed definition, and maybe I still vaguely resemble it but it’s bled out of and into itself, like ink on wet paper.
I feel like a series of lines, diffused.
When I don’t know what else to do-—directionless and dazed-—I go out by the pond, even now in this heat that pounds pounds pounds my head and sticks my clothes to me with sweat; even fogs my glasses. Still, I go, and on the way there are wildflowers. I pick them—-because I can’t seem to be able to simply leave beauty alone; I must capture it, be in it, do something with it—-and lay them beside me as I sit on the bank. I am thinking about God, I think, and His grace versus my unworthiness; the constant battle in my heart to come joyously into His presence when I know I don’t deserve to be there. It is a classic debate for me; ironically my pride will not let me shed the shame. I try for the millionth time to rearrange my thoughts or soul or heart or whatever needs to be reordered, and I slowly toss the flowers, one by one, into the pond. Most of them are the white and purple clover blooms, but some are dainty sprays of tiny yellow blossoms and occasionally one or two of those limp, lovely flowers—blue and white—that I find crawling across the ground sometimes. They land lightly on the water, seeming to both glide on and stick to the surface at the same time. Brief, swift little ripples thrum out from each sprig as it alights softly on the water. They’ve all gone voyaging now, and as the wind blows them slowly towards the opposite bank I expected them to look like a fleet of little petal-boats. But instead they seem more like a group of living creatures clustered close to one another for protection; floral herds gone to mingle with the cattails.
It isn’t quite elegant, the sight of this colored foliage-circle floating over the water. If they were all the same color-—white, maybe-—or if they made a different shape, perhaps then they could lend a graceful air to my common backyard pond. But something about their bright span of colors and varying shapes, all arranged in what is really more of an oval, they seem more ‘playful’ than ‘elegant’; more whimsical than beautiful.
But in the playful whimsy there is indeed beauty, just not the same kind as is usually labeled with the term. Then sun has begun set and the water beneath the blossoms is orange, pink and gold; it is all very surreal and it makes this feeling well up inside me; a feeling that if I were to call my dog and run away into the woods we could find Narnia, or someplace where the snow isn’t cold. The feeling—and the sight that gives me the feeling—is so overpowering, like magic is about to happen. I am mesmerized, just watching colors sailing over more colors, blue pushing orange out of its way, the orange turning from pink to red to yellow; green reflections from stems and leaves.
I wish I had my camera, or paints and a canvass, and I want to run inside and get them but I don’t want to stop watching. I feel vaguely panicked, knowing that these moments will end without me having captured them, but I make myself relax; let myself be drawn in. Right here, right now; nowhere else, and it’s ok that this won’t be preserved; that I didn’t get the perfect photograph.
Sometimes it needs to be enough just that it happened, just that it was.
In those moments, it doesn’t seem to matter that I am spread out and shapeless. I’m neither pursuing nor fleeing; I’m taken out of myself.
Thank God for that, because “I” can become an exhausting word.
.
I'd tell them, you know, if they wanted to know. I'd tell them all sorts of things.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
Futile Defenses
We, barefooted little girls,
One with straight locks, one with curls,
Wandered gravel roads so long
Thinking it would make us strong.
We calloused soft skin of our feet
So nothing hurt from underneath,
As if the worst in store for us
Was rock and bramble, thorny brush.
Now pebbles stuck inside my shoe
Always make me think of you.
Perhaps we should have tried as hard
To toughen up our childish hearts.
.
One with straight locks, one with curls,
Wandered gravel roads so long
Thinking it would make us strong.
We calloused soft skin of our feet
So nothing hurt from underneath,
As if the worst in store for us
Was rock and bramble, thorny brush.
Now pebbles stuck inside my shoe
Always make me think of you.
Perhaps we should have tried as hard
To toughen up our childish hearts.
.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Purple Prose of Horses
The literary greats have contended—-God Himself contends—-the exceptional combination of majestic grace, fire, and power that resides in the sinews of a horse; pulses through his veins and burns in his eyes. In Homer’s Iliad, they are said to be “immortal…of divine stock.” Indeed, the black stallion Bucephalus lives on in the city Alexander the Great named for him.
Muslims honor the equine species many times in the Qu’ran, once quoting Allah’s words, “When God created the horse, he said to the magnificent creature: ‘I have made thee as no other. All the treasures of the earth lie between thy eyes. Thou shalt carry my friends upon thy back. Thy saddle shall be the seat of prayers to me.’”
People of all histories and faiths can agree that there is something special-—almost sacred or mystical-—about these animals that have caused humans to honor them all throughout history, in reality and in myth.
The mighty Prince Hector of Troy was reverently referred to in The Iliad as “Tamer of Horses”, and only those who have spent enough years mingling with these magnificent creatures know how high such a title is; how rare and fierce and kingly.
“A man on a horse is spiritually as well as physically bigger than a man on foot.” Said John Steinback, trying to put into words the empowering ecstasy one instantly finds upon mounting one of these creatures. In another attempt to capture the feeling, William Faulkner wrote, “There is something about jumping a horse over a fence, something that makes you feel good. Perhaps it’s the risk, the gamble. In any event it’s a thing I need.”
It’s a thing I need.
You do not know a certain kind of “raw power” until you have ridden bareback on a partially-green horse as he thunders over the ground, rhythmically surging beneath you, lounging violently with every stride in rebellion against the bridle. He launches his hind hooves up into the air in a buck bursting forth from pent-up energy and you have to throw your body backwards while keeping your fingers tightly entwined in his mane, the locks of coarse hair constricting your fingers. You must lock your legs around his middle until your inner thighs burn; heels down, toes up and feel the jerk of his movements rack your body, threatening balance to the last.
You don’t know an enthralling meaning of the word “thrill” until you’ve barreled over a distance, thighs aching from their grip on a horse’s ribcage and muscles as they swell and retract, flexing and sliding beneath his thin skin and silky coat; the vibrations as each hoof pounds the ground. The speed whips back your hair; it makes your eyes water. Your fingers may grip reins, but it is only an illusion of control. Because, at any moment this powerful beast-—this 1500lbs of compact muscle—-could send you flying from his back if he chooses, in a single movement: a buck or a swift turn; a sudden spook at the way the light reflects on a piece of plastic, or shying at his own shadow like the untamed Bucephalus.
“Have you given the horse his strength? Have you clothed his neck with thunder? Can you frighten him like a locust? His majestic snorting strikes terror. He paws the valley, and rejoices in his strength. He gallops into the clash of arms. He mocks fear, and is not frightened; nor does he turn back from the sword. The quiver rattles against him, the glittering spear and the javelin. He devours the distance with fierceness and rage; nor does he come to a halt because the trumpet has sounded.” –Job 39:19-24
You are riding the static shock from God’s finger that crackles when He touches the earth. That is what it’s like to ride a horse; a huge animal with a wild nature and a mind of its own, allowing you to cling to its back as it runs.
“A gigantic beauty of a stallion,” Says Walt Whitman in Leaves of Grass, “fresh and responsive to my caresses, head high in the forehead, wide between the ears, limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground, eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving. His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him, his well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.”
To ride a horse is to play with a loaded gun; to risk catching on the bullet that discharges. The beautiful, majestic bullet that sparkles in the sun, so bright you’d hardly mind dying by it if it meant that glittering shard could become part of you. Like it would shine out from inside you, and by it’s glory you too would become glorious. Herman Melville saw this and said, “Honor lies in the mane of a horse.”
You feel as if your heart might swell too large for your chest in those moments as you straddle Chaos itself. In fear—-there is some—-and in determination; in pride half borrowed from the creature, half provided by the courage you know it takes to even try wrestling the beast into submission. In admiration of the animal, and in love for the bond between you; the titanium comradery when your natures have finally synced and you find your jigsaw-fit. Like a puzzle, and every fiber of your being can tell this was what you were meant for. Anything could come and the two of you would face it unflinching—you emboldened by the horse’s strength, and him made confident by having learned to trust in your superior wisdom. And if nothing comes—if the ride goes as expected—there is such sweet harmony in bodies and in consciences, as if both your veins and his have poked through skin and entwined together; as if you share the same blood.
Astride such a comrade as this, how can all the world be anything but a vast, conquerable beauty, visible there between the ears of your friend? How can a breeze sound like anything but sweet whispers ghosting through his flowing mane and tail?
“When I bestride him, I soar; I am a hawk: he trots the air, the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.” –William Shakespeare.
.
Muslims honor the equine species many times in the Qu’ran, once quoting Allah’s words, “When God created the horse, he said to the magnificent creature: ‘I have made thee as no other. All the treasures of the earth lie between thy eyes. Thou shalt carry my friends upon thy back. Thy saddle shall be the seat of prayers to me.’”
People of all histories and faiths can agree that there is something special-—almost sacred or mystical-—about these animals that have caused humans to honor them all throughout history, in reality and in myth.
The mighty Prince Hector of Troy was reverently referred to in The Iliad as “Tamer of Horses”, and only those who have spent enough years mingling with these magnificent creatures know how high such a title is; how rare and fierce and kingly.
“A man on a horse is spiritually as well as physically bigger than a man on foot.” Said John Steinback, trying to put into words the empowering ecstasy one instantly finds upon mounting one of these creatures. In another attempt to capture the feeling, William Faulkner wrote, “There is something about jumping a horse over a fence, something that makes you feel good. Perhaps it’s the risk, the gamble. In any event it’s a thing I need.”
It’s a thing I need.
You do not know a certain kind of “raw power” until you have ridden bareback on a partially-green horse as he thunders over the ground, rhythmically surging beneath you, lounging violently with every stride in rebellion against the bridle. He launches his hind hooves up into the air in a buck bursting forth from pent-up energy and you have to throw your body backwards while keeping your fingers tightly entwined in his mane, the locks of coarse hair constricting your fingers. You must lock your legs around his middle until your inner thighs burn; heels down, toes up and feel the jerk of his movements rack your body, threatening balance to the last.
You don’t know an enthralling meaning of the word “thrill” until you’ve barreled over a distance, thighs aching from their grip on a horse’s ribcage and muscles as they swell and retract, flexing and sliding beneath his thin skin and silky coat; the vibrations as each hoof pounds the ground. The speed whips back your hair; it makes your eyes water. Your fingers may grip reins, but it is only an illusion of control. Because, at any moment this powerful beast-—this 1500lbs of compact muscle—-could send you flying from his back if he chooses, in a single movement: a buck or a swift turn; a sudden spook at the way the light reflects on a piece of plastic, or shying at his own shadow like the untamed Bucephalus.
“Have you given the horse his strength? Have you clothed his neck with thunder? Can you frighten him like a locust? His majestic snorting strikes terror. He paws the valley, and rejoices in his strength. He gallops into the clash of arms. He mocks fear, and is not frightened; nor does he turn back from the sword. The quiver rattles against him, the glittering spear and the javelin. He devours the distance with fierceness and rage; nor does he come to a halt because the trumpet has sounded.” –Job 39:19-24
You are riding the static shock from God’s finger that crackles when He touches the earth. That is what it’s like to ride a horse; a huge animal with a wild nature and a mind of its own, allowing you to cling to its back as it runs.
“A gigantic beauty of a stallion,” Says Walt Whitman in Leaves of Grass, “fresh and responsive to my caresses, head high in the forehead, wide between the ears, limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground, eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving. His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him, his well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.”
To ride a horse is to play with a loaded gun; to risk catching on the bullet that discharges. The beautiful, majestic bullet that sparkles in the sun, so bright you’d hardly mind dying by it if it meant that glittering shard could become part of you. Like it would shine out from inside you, and by it’s glory you too would become glorious. Herman Melville saw this and said, “Honor lies in the mane of a horse.”
You feel as if your heart might swell too large for your chest in those moments as you straddle Chaos itself. In fear—-there is some—-and in determination; in pride half borrowed from the creature, half provided by the courage you know it takes to even try wrestling the beast into submission. In admiration of the animal, and in love for the bond between you; the titanium comradery when your natures have finally synced and you find your jigsaw-fit. Like a puzzle, and every fiber of your being can tell this was what you were meant for. Anything could come and the two of you would face it unflinching—you emboldened by the horse’s strength, and him made confident by having learned to trust in your superior wisdom. And if nothing comes—if the ride goes as expected—there is such sweet harmony in bodies and in consciences, as if both your veins and his have poked through skin and entwined together; as if you share the same blood.
Astride such a comrade as this, how can all the world be anything but a vast, conquerable beauty, visible there between the ears of your friend? How can a breeze sound like anything but sweet whispers ghosting through his flowing mane and tail?
“When I bestride him, I soar; I am a hawk: he trots the air, the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.” –William Shakespeare.
.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Something About Airplanes...
I’ve said before that, if I were brave enough to be a stranger person, I would spend more time in airports. I would be content to just wander them, people-watching. The smell of cheap coffee, the bustle, and there's something about those automated loudspeaker announcements I find so industrial yet somehow comforting. I love to fly in the airplanes, too; I love the whole process of travel, as exhausting as it is. When I travel I wear my “alone-smile”, an expression so rare that no one has ever seen it but whatever passing stranger happens to glimpse me. Not even I have seen that smile; I’ve never been able to catch it in the mirror.
My dad had adamantly insisted that I choose an aisle seat, and usually I would follow his advice but this time I timidly rely on my own judgment: a window seat. Why doesn’t everyone stare rapt out their windows for the entire flight? I love the view below, no matter if it’s clouds or the camouflage-like patches of land viewed from above. Take-off is the best part, rushing rushing fasterfasterfaster and whoosh as resistance changes from cement to air and the upward tilt of the plane that pushes you to the back of your seat. Then, in a window seat, you can watch things get smaller and smaller; buildings, city blocks, interwoven highways. It goes from an engulfing, inhabited reality to a child’s model in the space of minutes, finally ending with nothing but flat shapes that make it seem as if the plane flies over some intricately painted floor only yards below. It’s funny, that trick on the vision. Even though I know the world down there is three-dimensional—with depth and volume and contents—from this high up all I see is a flat patchwork floor cluttered with clouds that seem to rest on it like celestial dust-bunnies. I try but I just can’t see the jagged lines of my earth from such great heights. I love it, the change in perception. I imagine myself walking on that flat floor, changing dimensions and becoming flat myself; a paper-girl whose heart is forced to beat sideways like A Wrinkle in Time. Why aren’t people fighting for window seats? I hope I never stop smiling like a child as I stare outside.
My lovely window seat is by an emergency exit. A stewardess approaches; apparently a little extra leg-room comes with a solemn responsibility. She starts explaining, then requiring a response; a promise. To sit here I must agree to assist passengers as they exit the plane in case of emergency. Am I willing and able to assist? I want to say, “I’m not sure; ask me when we’re plummeting from 50,000 feet,” but I just say “yes” along with the people near me and stare at the doors, trying to figure out how to open them. I wish I’d asked to be reseated; this is too much responsibility. It’s too late now, though; she’s a long way down the aisle.
In case of emergency. What would I do in the case of emergency? I can see it happening, the crash. I can see myself actually being rather calm. I’m alone, here on this plane bound from Kansas City to Dallas; no one I love is nearby. So I don’t think I’d scream. What would be the use of screaming? Of that sharp dread in my stomach? What would be the use in doing anything but letting the plane fall? In the rumbling tumbling turbulence I think the only thing I would do is stare at the gas masks falling from the ceiling, the beeping noises signaling emergency fading into the back of my dissociated mind.
It isn’t that I wouldn’t care; it would mean I am in the company of the dying. It isn’t only my life. And I do have many things I want to do before I die. But absent from the body is present with my Lord, and death-by-plane-crash would be quick so I suppose I’d be alright with it. Except for everyone else’s panic; their crying and screaming. I think my attitude would be, “Can’t you just be quiet and let me process this?” I would want quiet so that I could think. To give myself a chance to really know that I am in an airplane about to crash, and figure out how exactly that makes me feel. To mentally prepare myself for the impact. To exchange a few quick words with God. To appreciate the novelty of the event.
Soon, I’m distracted from these speculations by my fellow passengers. Planes are wonderful for people watching. Better than airports or malls even, because you have extended periods of time to make observations. There’s a bald man in front of me. I want to draw on his head. Somehow it vaguely annoys me, his shiny scalp beneath the artificial lighting. Skin shouldn’t be so shiny; it isn’t natural.
Next to me is a fat lady reading a drama novel. Her hair is short and curly, but the ringlets are too perfectly uniform—-she must have had a perm. Her pale skin is freckled, and the freckles match the brown scrubs she’s wearing. Wedding rings sit nestled in flesh around her chubby finger. Her double chin jiggles in the turbulence. The title of her book, “Poor Little Bitch Girl”, features the petite nose and florescent pink lips of a blond woman licking caviar from the tip of her long, perfectly manicured fingernail. The cover is all bright pink and green. One of those soap opera-esque drama novels, those books that are like cotton candy: insubstantially sweet and easy to finish, but ultimately unfulfilling.
There is also an elderly Indian gentleman nearby, staring at me. I smile at him when I meet his gaze. I see that it isn’t a “creepy” sort of stare. It is soft and wistful, not fully present; as if I remind him of a granddaughter he hasn’t seen in a long time and he’s remembering her—missing her. Then the stewardess mistakes my coffee order for his, and we exchange drinks. I smile warmly at him—far more friendliness than a complete stranger usually gets from me—as we make a joke or two about cream, sugar or black.
Yes, I do love to people-watch on airplanes. There are other things too, though; things besides the people and the window seats. I love the knowledge of such swift motion, while it feels as though we are still. We are going somewhere; we have a purpose. A destination, albeit temporary. Flying into a different time zone—one that is an hour later—is even better. It’s as if we’ve flown through some portal in the atmosphere and suddenly, time has passed.
I like when time passes quickly, in general. I like forgetting time and then realizing much more of it is gone than I’d thought. There are times I wish that it would slow down or even stop, but those instances are few and far between. Mostly I want time to pass so that I can get on with it; get going so I can feel as though I’m moving on.
I like sleeping late because it makes the days go by faster. It’s not that I don’t want to live in the days—I do. There is so much to do and love and see and learn and feel; to say, to pray, and even to hate sometimes. It’s not that I don’t want to experience the richness each day has potential for. I just like the feeling of motion; of the passage of time toward something. I’ve not been fond of sitting still lately, nor am I fond of Time sitting still around me, growing fat and bloated with seconds and minutes and hours that keep coming but then stay just to hang stale in the air and it’s only Wednesday.
But, oh, it’s already Wednesday. I suppose I have mixed feelings about the passage of time. It passes though, no matter how I feel about it. None of us can help it that every second of our existence is a step toward the end of our time—our time passing through us. We hurry up and live, and do things, all the while knowing. Maybe that’s why weddings and funerals share a number of similarities. Both are so sacred, so final; and you aren’t supposed to wear white to either event.
No matter what time brings, at least it is moving. It is moving through me, and in it I live and breathe and move move move forward. Because as much as I hate it when time stands still around me, I also hate being still myself.
I was in this rich lady’s house once, and my mother told me that the woman who lived there only had a job because she was bored; that they already had all the money they needed and more. I wouldn’t want to live like that; I wouldn’t want to have reached the destination. I want to always be working towards something; always moving forward. For this reason…ultimately I’m not sure I want a place to call home.
I’m sure this is a prominent way of explaining my fondness for airports and airplanes. They are for going places; they are for forward motion and procedure. They are for flight at breakneck speeds. They are for leaving one place, and arriving at another. They are for journeys of purpose; they are the means to an end.
As of now, I hope to never reach that end. I hope to fly always, only alighting long enough get all I can out of one place. Then I would leave again, flying always to somewhere that is not where I will stay. I’m afraid that if I do reach somewhere to stay—if I do reach that end and cease to make use of the means that so intrigue me—I will just look around and think, “This is it, I guess.” Maybe after a silent spell I would stand there and say, “Now what?”
And hopefully, my answer to myself would be, “To the airport”.
.
My dad had adamantly insisted that I choose an aisle seat, and usually I would follow his advice but this time I timidly rely on my own judgment: a window seat. Why doesn’t everyone stare rapt out their windows for the entire flight? I love the view below, no matter if it’s clouds or the camouflage-like patches of land viewed from above. Take-off is the best part, rushing rushing fasterfasterfaster and whoosh as resistance changes from cement to air and the upward tilt of the plane that pushes you to the back of your seat. Then, in a window seat, you can watch things get smaller and smaller; buildings, city blocks, interwoven highways. It goes from an engulfing, inhabited reality to a child’s model in the space of minutes, finally ending with nothing but flat shapes that make it seem as if the plane flies over some intricately painted floor only yards below. It’s funny, that trick on the vision. Even though I know the world down there is three-dimensional—with depth and volume and contents—from this high up all I see is a flat patchwork floor cluttered with clouds that seem to rest on it like celestial dust-bunnies. I try but I just can’t see the jagged lines of my earth from such great heights. I love it, the change in perception. I imagine myself walking on that flat floor, changing dimensions and becoming flat myself; a paper-girl whose heart is forced to beat sideways like A Wrinkle in Time. Why aren’t people fighting for window seats? I hope I never stop smiling like a child as I stare outside.
My lovely window seat is by an emergency exit. A stewardess approaches; apparently a little extra leg-room comes with a solemn responsibility. She starts explaining, then requiring a response; a promise. To sit here I must agree to assist passengers as they exit the plane in case of emergency. Am I willing and able to assist? I want to say, “I’m not sure; ask me when we’re plummeting from 50,000 feet,” but I just say “yes” along with the people near me and stare at the doors, trying to figure out how to open them. I wish I’d asked to be reseated; this is too much responsibility. It’s too late now, though; she’s a long way down the aisle.
In case of emergency. What would I do in the case of emergency? I can see it happening, the crash. I can see myself actually being rather calm. I’m alone, here on this plane bound from Kansas City to Dallas; no one I love is nearby. So I don’t think I’d scream. What would be the use of screaming? Of that sharp dread in my stomach? What would be the use in doing anything but letting the plane fall? In the rumbling tumbling turbulence I think the only thing I would do is stare at the gas masks falling from the ceiling, the beeping noises signaling emergency fading into the back of my dissociated mind.
It isn’t that I wouldn’t care; it would mean I am in the company of the dying. It isn’t only my life. And I do have many things I want to do before I die. But absent from the body is present with my Lord, and death-by-plane-crash would be quick so I suppose I’d be alright with it. Except for everyone else’s panic; their crying and screaming. I think my attitude would be, “Can’t you just be quiet and let me process this?” I would want quiet so that I could think. To give myself a chance to really know that I am in an airplane about to crash, and figure out how exactly that makes me feel. To mentally prepare myself for the impact. To exchange a few quick words with God. To appreciate the novelty of the event.
Soon, I’m distracted from these speculations by my fellow passengers. Planes are wonderful for people watching. Better than airports or malls even, because you have extended periods of time to make observations. There’s a bald man in front of me. I want to draw on his head. Somehow it vaguely annoys me, his shiny scalp beneath the artificial lighting. Skin shouldn’t be so shiny; it isn’t natural.
Next to me is a fat lady reading a drama novel. Her hair is short and curly, but the ringlets are too perfectly uniform—-she must have had a perm. Her pale skin is freckled, and the freckles match the brown scrubs she’s wearing. Wedding rings sit nestled in flesh around her chubby finger. Her double chin jiggles in the turbulence. The title of her book, “Poor Little Bitch Girl”, features the petite nose and florescent pink lips of a blond woman licking caviar from the tip of her long, perfectly manicured fingernail. The cover is all bright pink and green. One of those soap opera-esque drama novels, those books that are like cotton candy: insubstantially sweet and easy to finish, but ultimately unfulfilling.
There is also an elderly Indian gentleman nearby, staring at me. I smile at him when I meet his gaze. I see that it isn’t a “creepy” sort of stare. It is soft and wistful, not fully present; as if I remind him of a granddaughter he hasn’t seen in a long time and he’s remembering her—missing her. Then the stewardess mistakes my coffee order for his, and we exchange drinks. I smile warmly at him—far more friendliness than a complete stranger usually gets from me—as we make a joke or two about cream, sugar or black.
Yes, I do love to people-watch on airplanes. There are other things too, though; things besides the people and the window seats. I love the knowledge of such swift motion, while it feels as though we are still. We are going somewhere; we have a purpose. A destination, albeit temporary. Flying into a different time zone—one that is an hour later—is even better. It’s as if we’ve flown through some portal in the atmosphere and suddenly, time has passed.
I like when time passes quickly, in general. I like forgetting time and then realizing much more of it is gone than I’d thought. There are times I wish that it would slow down or even stop, but those instances are few and far between. Mostly I want time to pass so that I can get on with it; get going so I can feel as though I’m moving on.
I like sleeping late because it makes the days go by faster. It’s not that I don’t want to live in the days—I do. There is so much to do and love and see and learn and feel; to say, to pray, and even to hate sometimes. It’s not that I don’t want to experience the richness each day has potential for. I just like the feeling of motion; of the passage of time toward something. I’ve not been fond of sitting still lately, nor am I fond of Time sitting still around me, growing fat and bloated with seconds and minutes and hours that keep coming but then stay just to hang stale in the air and it’s only Wednesday.
But, oh, it’s already Wednesday. I suppose I have mixed feelings about the passage of time. It passes though, no matter how I feel about it. None of us can help it that every second of our existence is a step toward the end of our time—our time passing through us. We hurry up and live, and do things, all the while knowing. Maybe that’s why weddings and funerals share a number of similarities. Both are so sacred, so final; and you aren’t supposed to wear white to either event.
No matter what time brings, at least it is moving. It is moving through me, and in it I live and breathe and move move move forward. Because as much as I hate it when time stands still around me, I also hate being still myself.
I was in this rich lady’s house once, and my mother told me that the woman who lived there only had a job because she was bored; that they already had all the money they needed and more. I wouldn’t want to live like that; I wouldn’t want to have reached the destination. I want to always be working towards something; always moving forward. For this reason…ultimately I’m not sure I want a place to call home.
I’m sure this is a prominent way of explaining my fondness for airports and airplanes. They are for going places; they are for forward motion and procedure. They are for flight at breakneck speeds. They are for leaving one place, and arriving at another. They are for journeys of purpose; they are the means to an end.
As of now, I hope to never reach that end. I hope to fly always, only alighting long enough get all I can out of one place. Then I would leave again, flying always to somewhere that is not where I will stay. I’m afraid that if I do reach somewhere to stay—if I do reach that end and cease to make use of the means that so intrigue me—I will just look around and think, “This is it, I guess.” Maybe after a silent spell I would stand there and say, “Now what?”
And hopefully, my answer to myself would be, “To the airport”.
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