—- morning —-
The coffee isn’t strong but it is loud. I thought my days would be tangled up with the wingspan of a passenger plane — that somehow my body through space would be dragged along after it (my plane, my seat, my face, my name) as if a rope, 3,000 miles long, was tied around my waist and the slack keeps lessening and lessening, like gasps of breath in a hospital gown, watching your own heart monitor palpitate irregularly and beyond your cognitive control and then half of your face is stuck in a grimace when some dull tumor messes with the wiring in yer infinitely forgiving brain. Oh New Mexico! Oh travel agency, the family clinic and the hand built home, oh the collie dogs running through the back yard, the rough play and the wax glazed eyes and the biting black mop fiend of a service dog…
It is more like a small piece of thread somehow caught up in the landing gear at take off, unraveling, unraveling, revealing my skin in small motions. I wonder where my sky carriage is at this moment? What fields of flowers is it casting a temporary shadow over. There is a pilot dreaming of a good hot spring hike through the Andes (if this dream exists, he cares not). To be a commercial pilot, flying 10 hours a day, your schedule must be flexible and you must enjoy to sleep single nights in single beds or in bunks with the flight staff each night in foreign countries, perhaps never explored in greater depth by you or yours. I imagine this airplane. This series of airplanes considering connections. How much fuel will they use in between this moment and when I climb through the aisles, clambering to my seat impatient to glue my face to the cell window and watch the world spin by from a discrete spot above. All clouds like a paradise arranged in singular puffs and then disappearing. I imagine the thoughts I will have in this plane. Alone. Over the country to Houston. (What geographic sights!) And then, alone, over the Atlantic in the aisle to sleep, sleep, dream and sleep. I sure do hope. Or write in a frantic scrawl the first few chapters of the story…. of the adventure as a whole entity.
—- night —-
Mistaken identity at the funhouse mirror waiting room. Is this a psychiatrist or the lobotomist? Must’ve gotten my appointments all ruffled up like feathers falling again. My sister has been through the gauntlet. Doctors with greedy eyes that understand little about the patience and investment of her kind of case. (the voices are loud through the wall – dare to complain…? life is fair, I thought) No she says, life is not fair, it has tossed me under the tires too often, the white smocks and pricking needles drawing blood for neurological tests the pills to addict and the pills to control addiction, here we had forward progress stacked up against another traumatic event. The original, the head and the cement, the others emotional and additive, dark roads unexplored and classrooms to find a voice within, glorious tactile arms of fate let her go and now she must forge ahead through a crowded veil of apprehension, making a forced attempt to get along with everything from that past life although it is disappeared. it is a plane left the station and she is left with her bags and pets on the runway trying to find a helicopter to steal and call her own. to putter away into the sunset where that imprisoned soul belongs, flying, scaling mountains of green velvet stalks, not in a societal isolation where resources and bright lit lawns could be afforded and portioned off. (Oh god could I be at fault for this? – by soaking up resources for an education as she suffers) Perhaps there could be a place for her… amidst animals and adequate counsel to help work through mental knots or circles.
I think of this because of the psychological experiments testing the language boundaries between our left and right hemispheres. The theories of shell shocked veterans, trauma vs recovery, and the characters, how they find their way through this spectrum. (the art of character creation as a personality trait.) It became messy and discredited. There were meaningful thoughts but time erased them because I couldn’t get them out fast enough in the least. All dumb founded and silly now. I’m sorry, Ray. I’m sorry Mrs. K. Apologies to you once more Cole for failing to notice the projector was unlocked. Sorry sorry sorry.