Thursday seems like a millenia ago. Everything has changed, yet, nothing has changed. The plane is taking the opposite way home than we did when I flew down here, but today, oddly, flying seems like a sacred act. We're curving over Santa Catalina, and I remind myself of a most impressive fact I found out this weekend.
There were 15 million commercial airline flights in the United States in 2002...and not a single casualty. It's an impressive figure.
There's a noodling post on this laptop that I'll prolly finish when I get home. It's entitiled "I saw the black helicopters." If you're tired of people talking about this weekend's events, then it's probably good to skip it, because that's one of the things I've been noodling about. I've even made ref in this post, because isn't space flight the ultimate form of flying?
There is smog over the LA basin, as usual. I really, I confess, do not like Los Angeles and surrounding enviorns. No offense to my friends that live there, but I'm a native Northern Californian. And native Northern Californians tend not to like their southern brethren. But LA to me just feels too built up, nearly unsustainable, and that bothers me. To a lesser extent, the Bay Area is becoming this way too, but there is still some charm to San Francisco.
If I look close enough I can see the snowcaps of the the Sierras. The state is huge, and you really don't realize it until you fly over it, and see just how big it is. They're on the horizon, and I'm flying just over the coast of California. On the other side, the gaping Pacific stretches into infinity. As a kid, when I got to go to the beach, I would stare and stare in the hopes that I'd someday see China. At the same time, I couldn't believe enough, and frightened myself with the infinite salty blue.
*grin* the flight attendant just gave me pretzels, which reminds me of what I'd said to zibblsnrt the first time I met him. I handed him a bag of pretzels I had acquired on the last lag of my journey, and said, simply, "Support world peace. Give Bush pretzels." He looked at me rather oddly and then smiled in that way I've come to love.
When I was a kid, one of my (*giggle*, I suspect I may have misheard the captain. He just said the tempuature in San Francisco was 15 degrees F. Either he actually said *fifty* or confused units, I think. Or I misheard him. BTW, 15 C is 59 F, and that seems like a valid tempuature in SF. Anyway, back to the point.)
When I was a kid, one of my most vivid dreams was of having the power to loft myself in the air and fly. It was a strange feeling but one that I loved. I have some affinity for air, and it's funny that I gave my jihaddi character a licence to fly small non-commercial aircraft, which might have just been an acknowledgement of my desire and dream to do so. But it's a dream that costs money to pursue, and that's money I don't have. And it triggers memories of a Langston Hughes poem I had to memorize in eight grade:
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up like a raisen in the sun?
Or fester like a sore, and then run?
Does it stink like rotton meat?
Or crust and sugar over like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it sags, like a heavy load
Or does it explode?
And I don't know what will happen to the dream of being able to fly. It's kinda frivolous in the long run. Maybe it'll get delegated in my mind, and only come out as a melancholy feeling at thirty one thousand feet every time I get the chance to fly. We have defied gravity; we have stolen the fire from the gods, what price will we pay for this?
Sorry, I'm rather melancholy right now. and I thnk I'm going to put this up because I am falling asleep. But the events of this weekend found an old dream stowed away, and touched it, and it's reminded, when I'm here, at 31,000 ft.
[landed in San Francisco. I'm now warBARTing. well, okay, war public transiting, because I'm now on the AC transit bus...but it didn't turn up anything. I'm home now.]