Monday, June 1, 2009

From my Airplane Window, 16A

I would say, "I can't believe I cried during that stupid movie, Bridal Wars!" But of course I can. Of course I did. In the movie Anne Hathaway and Kate Hudson play best friends who both share the same dream of having a June wedding at the Plaza Hotel. In my mind this is a very stupid dream and thus a stupid premise for a movie. They fight for the same date, their friendship torn asunder, everything gets ugly, they hate themselves, then they make up. As tear after tear rolled down my cheeks, I could feel the large man beside me wondering if he should say something, or look at me softly and sympathetically, or just continue reading his book and pretend he couldn't feel the penetrating weepiness coming from the window seat to his left. He continued to read his book.

We are thousands of miles high. Below us, major thoroughfares cut through black squares dotted with orange lights. The roads slice through space but there are no cars to be seen. A baseball field is a tiny clamshell of empty green. An illuminated ghost sprawl grid of a city. We are on the brink of a huge body of water. But where are we? I guess Lake Michigan, but I have no idea. It's the only lake I can think of, vaguely in the middle of the country. But it's so big it looks like a sea.

Outside my little skyhole window, deep orange glows, painting a thick band until it fades to the place where the sun's breath does not reach. Various blues mix in the expanse.

I'm listening to the airplane radio channel, in the mood I call my "Airplane Mood." Unmistakeable. It's the mood I always experience when flying. It's very nostalgic, biting the vaguest lip of hope. I think to myself, if I can muster my most, I know it will work out ok.

Even though for years I have been flying these distances, back and forth, coast to coast, continent to continent, never getting any closer to the answers...only coming up with the latest batch of questions. Dusk fades to evening.

I turn on the overhead light. I am in the spotlight of this row, the limelight of my story. Isn't it funny? In the film or play of my life- I am the star, the hero...and the villain. The protagonist and antagonist. I rise. I fall.

I tunnel east.

I look outside. This is not the first time I've thought to myself, "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." I live for this---- this moment of awe. This taking-my-breath-away. This feeling of awe, for some reason, though it does not answer any concrete questions like, "What will I be when I grow up?" "Should I even be dating at all?" "What city should I live in?" "Should I apply to graduate school?"-- is still an answer. Perhaps, the answer. When I wring my hands with a question like one of the above, often tormented by lack of direction in life and love, I channel a sunset like the one I see outside-- as I fly high above everything and perspective is restored-- and answer a concrete question with an abstract sunset, and somehow it still makes sense.

When should I quit my job? Sunset.
Should I fly home for july 4th? Sunset.
Can I really live so far away from my whole family? Sunset.
Should we break up? Sunset.

Sunset.
Anticipating my next barrage of anxious questioning....the sun continues blazing...pooling puddles of deep amber on the horizon. Colors bleed across a darkening sky. I feel the next insecurity rise and so I look out-- the sun responds, still setting. Its steadiness is is comforting, and its artfulness is exhilarating.

The burning river of red, the slow swallow of night. The daily giving up, the sun's surrender. I see the half moon settle brighter and brighter into its throne. Trading places. And hours later, trading places again. They share so well, day and night. Is it the same, life and death?

Or do the sun and moon simply fight this changing of the guard in a language we don't understand?