There's a litany that I always undergo when I travel--a sequence of events that I'm positive would be terribly entertaining to the travelers sitting next to me, were they able to look inside my head to be able to view with cinematic clarity the duet of interior dialogue matched to jerky body motions that's put on exhibit, like a Tourette's syndrome traveling show, each and every airplane ride that I...well, endure? Yes, something like that.
Certainly, I have gotten better through the years. I recall one trip, years ago, that I took to Chicago, shortly after September 1 occurred. I spent the days leading up to the flight forecasting with dreadful clarity my death at 40,000 feet. I was convinced that flight was going to be the end of my life's story. In fact, I even printed out a copy of Amelia , and provided Josie with exact instructions regarding where it was, in the unquestionable event that I meant my maker. (I didn't, on the other hand, bother to draw up my will, which is, upon reflection, a telling commentary on the state of my priorities at the time...)
I also remember landing in Chicago, and, with a sense of cynical amusement, calling her, and announcing, "Well, I guess I'm not dead yet."
In any event, although hardly the magnum opus that it once was, the same sequence seems to play each and every time I take to the air--the Firebird, symphony, if you will, only I'm not springing from the ashes, but convinced that I'm going to become ashes. The words may change somewhat, but the tune remains essentially the same. It starts with a heavy ominous drumbeat...a dull thudding pain in the pit of my stomach, as I sit down on the plan, always feeling somewhat disorganized, with way too many pieces and not enough room to spread out. Then there's the sonorous sustained hum of a violin, as I throw myself into a book, or try to study lines, or simply close my eyes, trying to disengage from the reality that I face. And then, as though the conductor has raised his baton to start the entire orchestra, the plane starts to gather momentum on the runway, for its upward descent.
And that's when the interior monologue, the discordant chorus of voices, begins.
Oh God, this is going to be it.
Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven give us this day our daily bread and forgive me because I always mess the end of this prayer...never can remember the damn thing...oops! Did I just swear in the middle of a prayer?
Stop that. Stop these silly thoughts.
Okay, but in the grand scheme of things, has my life been that sinful? Really? Do I deserve to die in fire?
Quick, before you end it all, think of all the important people that you've impacted...the ones you love and left behind...think of Tiger think of Ashley think of Annie think of Josie think of Corb think of Mom think of Dad think of Nana think of Nancy Kerrigan and Ginger on Gilligan's Island...
Nancy Kerrigan? How did she get in there?
God, I hate the bumps going on, but focus, it's only the plane cutting through the wind currents and gathering its necessary momentum...
...
...
...
Maybe.
Well, you know what? Maybe it would be okay. I mean, I've lived a good, decent life. I'm happy with it all, everything. Really. I've got no complaints. So if it happens, it happens. So okay, here I am. Let it happen go ahead it's okay I don't mind it's okay our father who art in heaven and oh god another bump but it's okay really. Really!
Oh.
Good.
We're leveling off. Maybe I survived another one.
All this with my eyes closed, my head rigid against the back of the chair, my hands, clutching tightly to the arms of the chair, my mind, hoping against hope that this time I might actually fall asleep and somehow escape this blue Danube of purple emotions.
I'm much better with descent. Decrescendos are gentle chamber music in comparison. Sometimes, I even keep my eyes open.
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