March 24, 2004

• runway
  
  

  Rotating so quickly, each blade was nothing but one flash in a collective sucking blur.  Six fat engines were heaving us from one end of the ocean to the other and taking a peek out the window, I was amazed by the amount of blue out there.  The world amounts to varying shades of it, if you follow.  Above the horizon – where we were – it was light and sweet, emblazoned with the illuminating sheen of sun, both hot and constant.  Below the horizon, it was a choppy dark beast, sprinkled with the white-capped splashing of mountains crashing.  Feeling the mix of cold air and hot rays, looking at the frigid water below, the moment was really just a study in contrasts.
  
  It’s rife with it.  Don’t say the world is without feeling.
  
  My thick cowhide jacket was buttoned to my Adam’s apple, undulating with yelling words spit into the intercom.  We were taking a roundabout way and with the shaved nub of a graphite pencil, I drew a circle over each destination, marked only by the crossing lines of a map, not by any landmark in a world distinct only for gradations of blue.
  
  The rumble of the engine was throbbing in my ears and considering that we had so many nautical miles to go, I climbed into the belly of our beautiful metal monster.  We had all these gifts to give and there they were, lined up in a pretty stagger.  Making my way to the rear, I told my bud to move because there wouldn’t be much action for awhile.  In his seat, still warm, I planted myself in the bubbled canopy of a floating piece of a bickering world.
  
  Sitting there in the bubble, I pulled my sheepskin cap low over my ears and felt the warmth of moist breath clash with the biting sting of naked, uncivilized air.  There were brassy shells rolling around from a practice burst an hour prior; they looked like hollow jewels cooling from a violent combustion. 
  
  We pushed on through the altitude.  I spent time looking down through the thick glass at a place that was quickly lost to me.  I was floating as the surface zoomed below, leaving a lot of things behind.
  
  I think what’s real is defined by what we remember and truly know.  Those are the building blocks for making sense.
  
  That’s my seat; it’s gonna get jumpy.  Soon.
  
  So, I made my way back, touching bombs for balance; they were cold and in all the shaking, they let off the sounds of dense metal tapping. 
  
  Then, we were past the coast and looking down, I could make out quaint hamlets.  From below, they could make out an ominous cloud of bombers, followed by slow, fading contrails.  If I were a child, limited in my take of the world, I’d run outside and wave us onward.  Go!  I might even give chase, running past the main gate, around the village well, through my grandparent’s garden and out onto an open purple field.  I’d wave as these birds made their way across the mountains. 
  
  The intercom had us trembling at the ready as we bunched ourselves in a tighter formation, hoping our guns would cross each other like a cast net.  Meanwhile, puffs of black smoke sprouted around us, popping steadily like a darkening springtime.  We could hear metal punching metal and through new holes, I saw sunlight reaching my shoulders.
  
  We neared our turning point and I stuck my head into the scope.  Through the flak and buzz, I saw the outskirts of the city and as the planes came to rush us, the rank smokestacks of paper mills.  Paper is born out of the pungent blend of wood pulp and chemicals, a smell so strong as to leave you nauseated.  It’s a wonder that men will wake everyday to coat themselves with the stench of it all; there were men working diligently that day and they’d come home to wives who wouldn’t mind the taste.
  
  The doors were open and I put my hand to the lever.  I remembered the photographs, learned to every detail, and as best I could, I waited for the right time.
  
  With a click, we heard a loud thud and they fell out the bay in a steady chain.  If our shadows reached so low, you’d have known that they fell chasing our silhouettes.  If I were a child, maybe I would have willed myself over those mountains.  Maybe I’d run with all the imagination and rapture of knowing the simplest corners of life’s splendor.  Holding my breath at the smell of the mills, I’d giggle to run and catch what fell.  Catching my breath, arms outstretched, staring, I’d hear the whistling and be surprised that it was so unkind.
  
  With the enemy swirling and diving, we flew a straight uncompromising line and the world gathered to throw everything at us.  Still dripping frustration, the kitchen sink hit our asses and we were shaking so hard then.  I yelled; everyone was yelling.  Outside, I saw flashes of orange, bright red.
  
  Simultaneously turning and descending, faster and faster, we hoped to make it back to the ocean. 
  
  Following a moment of realization, we were quiet, nothing higher than a whisper.  Okay, here’s the skinny: the world is right there outside your door and each day, you decide if you’ll turn the handle and face the morning’s reveille of sun.  Strain your eyes like I did.  You’ll likely see me and my friends in a dark cluster, one piece breaking off in a plunging trail of dark smoke. 
  
  Well, it’s a finicky world too and it never sticks with one decision.  Win today, lose tomorrow; make it today, fall short when you least expect it.  It’s a humiliating principle.
  
  No, it’s humbling.
  
  With the engines biting hard and with a screaming pitch, the world was a big vibration and nothing stayed in its place, including me.  Maps, pencils, guns and bombs, even the centerfold on our pock-marked nose, all eaten by the inertia of a coughing metal monster, tumbling toward a darker blue.
  
  –
  
   
  
  –
  
  catalog
  
  

  Living life like that

  Is like living in the city

  Surrounded by the dense glory

  Of everything you wanted to be.

   

  Curlers burning

  Your hours spent alone

  Struggling with your tie

  Knotted up as a substitute

  For the actions of being 
  Ready to go.
  
  –
  
  

  
  
  the dog (Goya)
  
  –
  
  I need to sleep more.  It’s beautiful out here.  Sometimes balmy, sometimes breezy.
  
  –
  
  Weekend Tunes:
  
  
  yep
  
  –
  
  Here’s a way to criticize without (grandstanding) rhetoric. 
  
  Brooks is good.  This guy too.  Louis Vuitton luggage.
  
  Hmm 
  
  Not pretty
  

   Matt11:28

  • 7:57 am
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