We are gathered here today.
I flew home from New York on Friday night and I noticed everything. At least for the first 20 minutes, anyway, every little bump and shudder registered in my conscious. The increasing speed of the plane's taxi woke me unexpectedly from my crossword slumber, the comfortingly distracted place I live (intellectually and emotionally) every time I'm in take-off. I'm not used to noticing.
I laid my right ear against the window, taking it in as both sound and vibration, not knowing whether any individual stimulus was good or bad or whether I had any reason to worry. With no frame of reference, hearing and feeling every tiny bit of it, I pulled myself out of the natural and necessary assumption I make that I will, in fact, *make it*. And so I started thinking about my death. Because it is that black and white in the air: you live, or you die.
In 1980, Dorothy Dietrich was the first woman ever to catch a bullet in her mouth and live. A magic trick, an illusion...? It was a trick that had killed 12 men before her and one that even Houdini had never dared. How does it feel to be the first, the one to challenge God, the Devil and everything in between, just to show that it can be done? How did Amelia Earhart feel on her trip across the Atlantic? The first. The only? I hold no such honor but the fear is still palpable.
So I started imagining my funeral, my memorial. Who would come? Who would cry? What music would be played? I started making my mix tape in my head, the one I'd ask my best friends to be sure was on the stereo during the service. Perhaps this is the part that's appealing for those who leave before their time, this vision of who would mourn their passing, this vision of a service that's SRO and full of tears. For me, though, it was enough to put me off my fear. Because the picture of myself touching down in PDX held so much more appeal, regardless of whether anyone greeted me at the gate.
So I lost myself in the inflight movie instead, and I made it home at 10:30pm only slightly groggy. The next mix tape I make will be for those who know me, not those who knew me. And I'm living to fly again.
I flew home from New York on Friday night and I noticed everything. At least for the first 20 minutes, anyway, every little bump and shudder registered in my conscious. The increasing speed of the plane's taxi woke me unexpectedly from my crossword slumber, the comfortingly distracted place I live (intellectually and emotionally) every time I'm in take-off. I'm not used to noticing.
I laid my right ear against the window, taking it in as both sound and vibration, not knowing whether any individual stimulus was good or bad or whether I had any reason to worry. With no frame of reference, hearing and feeling every tiny bit of it, I pulled myself out of the natural and necessary assumption I make that I will, in fact, *make it*. And so I started thinking about my death. Because it is that black and white in the air: you live, or you die.
In 1980, Dorothy Dietrich was the first woman ever to catch a bullet in her mouth and live. A magic trick, an illusion...? It was a trick that had killed 12 men before her and one that even Houdini had never dared. How does it feel to be the first, the one to challenge God, the Devil and everything in between, just to show that it can be done? How did Amelia Earhart feel on her trip across the Atlantic? The first. The only? I hold no such honor but the fear is still palpable.
So I started imagining my funeral, my memorial. Who would come? Who would cry? What music would be played? I started making my mix tape in my head, the one I'd ask my best friends to be sure was on the stereo during the service. Perhaps this is the part that's appealing for those who leave before their time, this vision of who would mourn their passing, this vision of a service that's SRO and full of tears. For me, though, it was enough to put me off my fear. Because the picture of myself touching down in PDX held so much more appeal, regardless of whether anyone greeted me at the gate.
So I lost myself in the inflight movie instead, and I made it home at 10:30pm only slightly groggy. The next mix tape I make will be for those who know me, not those who knew me. And I'm living to fly again.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home