Like Kafka in his Letters to Milena, I’m trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones.
Yet, I will try, and yes, here it is again. Deep in the marrow of those same bones. It builds.
A sabbatical. From hands balled in fists, squeezing the reins, to ceding it all to a clean-cut pilot, his Aviator Hat tilted ever so slightly to the right: “Thank you Sir for flying with American.”
My head leans on the cool aluminum skin of the 450 ton albatross. 500 mph, and standing still. The only sign of Man, the long white breath of an earlier bird, and us, seven miles up.
Down, way down are the Badlands. The salt flats. The arid plains. The snow capped peaks.
Earth.
The immensity of It. The insignificance of Me.
It’s inexplicable. That soft pull. The freeing of the twisted, braided cords. Release. Continue reading “Flying West. Up, and Back.”