Planted in a warmed cabin of travelers, a discount airline, busy, one thousand high crackling wires not yet disconnected. For some there would never be a lapse
Already I feel a shift, a change in the subcurrents, the focus, the reasoning, the alignment of everything necessary to slog through that madness now devolved into packing and repacking organizing, buckling seatbelts, reading signs, listening to the hydraulic flaps receding, the frequency of the jets nearly synchronizing. At the end of the runway, “… prepare for departure.” Time to sit and do nothing, to allow the thing to happen. There are only moments here, waiting for the brakes to lose. The engines roar… we are moving quickly now. Blue lights gone. Houston gone.
The roaring jets push our heavy cabin with ease. The air velvet smooth, the black night gives nothing. What took four days difficult driving in a Dodge Ram 1500 (how long the mule team from Texas to California?) now would be hardly more than three hours. Drilling steadily through the night air, the hours fall swiftly, a mere pause between a plate of lasagna in the garden and the deck overlooking NOHO. What is the expanse between but a cloud of black? When will it become a continuous field, or has this already shifted, the awareness permeating from field to desert shore, at once? Is this not the next leap, for the whole of civilization to become self-aware? The wheels eject beneath us, the flaps slide into the now turbulent blast. I look at the startled people through the gaps in the seat. Maybe I’m thinking a little ahead of the game.
A night under the streets the wheels squeal and moan with us, so tired half the seats, occasional lights, foreign voices cooking, jostling, a slight green to the air. Someone’s daughter, now old, mated, pierced, but still the young girl singing; the song has only one syllable.
The wind picks up, or is it my imagination? Twelve blocks slice by, adrenaline blast, black coat concealing, drilling. The seat black shifts into the curved screen, yellow hair glowing – eternal. Pacing, singing, scratching near the gate, beating on books, hands, tongues. A draft in the tunnel long before there’s any sound, the rats suddenly gone.
Just at the right time the musician lets me in – what do we know? He had to trust me, wordless… What can we do?

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