090214 It was a good flight

It was a good flight.
Note, I have recovered mostly and am doing well.

it is the end, albeit temporary of the Sacramento, in the United States. a long but familiar airplane ride removes the first layer of onion skin. then the wait, the savor of anticipation of the next existence as airlines wake then groan into gear and begin the long climb to the days end. then,
the hurry to wait, a meal, countless hours of spirit numbing vibration and Fellini, looking for saner times and places, abandons the quantum novel written between the covers of modern travel. the breaking of the spirits memory is begun. new york financiers meet by the galley nodding with the satisfied wisdom that the self proclaimed wealth wears. seat belt signs and locked restroom doors chase wanderers to the temporary illusion of safety in their seat belts and upright position. skies fall as inopportunely packed overheads are opened for that last little item that can’t be survived without. a lull fills the cabin with near soundlessness but for the ever-present and pervasive whine of engines that move planets. outside the sardine can of humanity, is the ethereal memory of what was and a barely understood nascence of what will be, charcoal smudged by what is. a need for movement propels the physical stirrings of the cauldron, which changes the mix of restless conversants to different groups of ever changing nexi. stewardesses reheat barely edible soporifics for the masses in between serious discussions in another language, make-up lessons and general conviviality. a raised eye, and a come hither look, from one, accompanies the offer of true Ethiopian food. something kind and welcoming, a sensual invitation, flashes from the offerer as the hand of another tears a piece of spongey flatbread from a perfectly shaped role and scoops up a mouthful of the brown gravy, this is how we eat it whispers a voice, spicy is the warning. satiated stewardesses serve another meal, another nap another week goes by as lifetimes are put into temporary storage waiting for rebirth. It is only hope and the evidence of the relaxing of the watchspring that offer any solace in this never ending trip across realities. an end near, the mixing pot stirs and reassembles then slowly settles as the world below approaches. squealing wheels herald the end, an interstice really, between the cathartic and the purgatory of a terminal then a run past the world of Ethiopia to the waiting arms of the next in this series of time machines. an eon, a second, a lifetime and a squealing of wheels and another reality flashes by and another time and space are ogled through panes of plexiglass and engine exhaust. The birth of the end of this spirit journey introduces the next called Blantyre and a road trip of 30 km. It is the end and the beginnings of Africa.