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in the air

Part One

Over Las Vegas with my family, my sister
and myself in one row, my parents in the
other across the way. We’re nearing the end
of our flight; mother tells me to sit in her
seat and look out the window as we fly
over the Hoover dam. Sitting next to father,
I watch him lean out the window saying,
just think of all that concrete.
I look over his shoulder, the dam
no larger than a thumbnail, the water,
like cracks in a sidewalk, like the
wrinkles in the palm of my hand.

Over Phoenix, preparing for another
descent at 8:50 p.m., but it’s usually fifteen
minutes late, as it is now, I’m getting
used to the schedule now. The mountains look
like the little mountains you see on
topographically correct globes, little ridges,
as if they’re made of sand, if you just lean
your head down a little bit, your exhaling
can make them all blow away in the
breeze. And I know that what I’m looking for
is out there, somewhere, I think this is
where it is, I better not be wrong, I just
have to search a little harder and find it.
I love the city lights from above at night.
Have you ever thought of how much power
it takes to light all those buildings?
All that energy. And every time I look,
look out that little window with rounded corners,
i see a string of yellow Italian Christmas
lights strung across the ground.

And little Champaign, Illinois, and
those little airplanes that 25 people
fit in. The airport there is really nice,
actually, it’s made for a bigger city, a city
of dreams and tall buildings, that’s what I
think. The roar of the planes are so loud, though,
not like those 747’s where you can sleep
during the flight. But they fly low enough
so that I can see the building I live in
from the sky. And where I work. There’s the
store. Neil Street. Assembly Hall. The bars.

Over Fort Myers, the city always looks
different from any other place, all those
palm trees, the marshes. Like you’ve just
landed somewhere foreign, and pretty soon
the big tour will begin. You can feel the
heat, the humidity sticking your shirt to
your back between your shoulder blades,
and your neck, sticking to your neck too,
from inside your cabin, before you even land.

Chicago looks grand from the sky
with this huge expanse of lake
next to it, like civilization crept up
as far as it could but finally had to stop.
The power of nature stopping the power
of man kind, for once. And I cannot
decide which one looks more evil.
The lake does, looks evil i mean, at least
at night, at night it looks like two spheres:
a string of lights and a huge void. Daylight,
and the snow on the ground looks dirty, too
many cars have splashed mud on it as they
drove by. And the sky always matches the
shade of grey of the snow: fitting for the
city of the Blues. Maybe the snow is already
that color, that perfect shade of grey,
when it falls from the sky in this city.

Part Two

Have you ever noticed that the air
isn’t normal air in an airplane? I mean,
I know they have to pump in the air,
and pressurize it and all in order to
keep us alive up there, but there’s just
something about the air in the cabin
that’s different. It’s got a smell to it,
that’s the only way I can describe it.
A smell of all these people, going
places, running to something, or
running away from it.

When I go on vacation and I promise
people I’ll write, I usually write from the
plane, just so I don’t have to worry about
it for the rest of my trip. And I write their
letter on an airsick bag. It’s more
interesting than paper.

I like the window seat, I like to look
out the window. Clouds look like
cotton balls when you’re above them,
and when you’re landing cars look like
little ants, on a mission, bringing food
back to their hill. Little soldiers, back
and forth, back and forth. And the
streets look like veins, capillaries in some
massive, monstrous body. And the
farmland looks like little squares of colors.
I wonder why each plot of land is a
different color, what’s growing there
that makes them different. Or maybe it’s
that some of them are turning shades of red
and brown because some of them dying.

Once I was bumped from my flight,
but on the next available flight they gave
me first class. And I sat there, feeling
underdressed. And afraid to order a drink.

And it always seems that you’re stuck
sitting next to someone that is either
too wide for their seat, or is a businessman
with his newspaper stretched out
and his lap top computer on his little
fold out table. Once, when I was on a
flight back from D. C., a flight attendant
walked by, stack of magazines in her
hand, Time, Newsweek, Businessweek,
and I stopped her, asking what magazines
she had. And she replied, Oh, these
magazines are for men. This is a true
story. And I asked her again what she
had. I had already read Time, so I took
Newsweek.

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