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My flabby flesh jiggles in turbulence, all this mass and thrust, the jet fuel exploding in the stratosphere, 37,000 ft. cruising altitude, an all-pink sky, snow-covered January Rockies, tacky McMansions packed tight in Dallas sprawl. Square green reservoirs, brown rivers, azure pools in tiny backyards. Red tennis courts. Stands of trees surround castles of oil money and speculators, dusty flat every direction, an endless expanse, pointless. It's a relief to pull away from land, leave far below the barrier islands demarcated by vacation homes where waves crash silently in white parallel lines. The beleagured Gulf of Mexico, stippled like the skin of a basketball, its surface doesn't seem to move, nor do Very Large Crude Carriers also frozen in place, movements too small to be seen from 7 miles up. And our speed, 550 mph, feels vague, imperceptible. Could it be we're hanging still in space as the earth spins under us, our black streak of jet exhaust just superfluous? My belly jiggles half full of airport egg and cheese bagel, palms sweat, wing bounces up and down, strange new straining sounds from the relentless engines as I wait for my death. No great loss. |
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