Random Reflections from a Far Too Long Plane
Ride, or
Hopefully, it's Not My Ignorance that’s
Bliss
“Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away
If you can use some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay
Come on and fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away” – S. Cahn
If you can use some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay
Come on and fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away” – S. Cahn
A 7 and ½ hour flight lay ahead of
me, from Newark Airport to Heathrow and yet, inexplicably, I feel a calm, a
peace, I have never before experienced on any flight, even a trek as blissfully
brief as one frequented from my beloved NYC home to the mini-NYC of the Great
White North, Toronto. I can’t explain this phenomena, and I shan’t attempt to
now (although, an explanation of some sort is likely forthcoming as I have very
little control of the thoughts, ideas and opinions that make its way from a
semi-creative, often active noggin to the fingertips struggling across a Bluetooth
keyboard awash in error and verbal miscalculations.)
Is it the fact that the destination
at journey’s end is undoubtedly my favorite locale on the globe, the land in
which I fantasize experiencing the remainder of my retired years? Is it the
very English woman in the adjoining seat who was immediately reminiscent of
brilliant British thespian, Glenda Jackson? Is it the shuffle on my iPod Nano,
frequently playing Jefferson Airplane and Jefferson Airplane related
performers, who usually never fail to relax me with or without the assistance
of Mother Nature's most successful and soon to be legal herbal intoxicant? Or
mayhaps, most realistically, was it the two, overly-poured pinot grigios at the
faux fancy airport tavern and the delightfully unanticipated free champagne
upon boarding in Premium Economy? Yet, although it very well may be the potent
potables that force me to compose this while the plan was headsets on, pillow ‘neath
the neck, blanket tightly tucked with a hoped for visit from the Sandman for
this overnight odyssey across the Atlantic; this post-Lindberg, trans-Atlantic
foray is one I’ve partaken of almost a dozen times, fueled by spirits each and
every outing, and never before has such serenity overtaken me.
Upon further thought, as the almost otherworldly
perfection and beauty of Miles Davis' Flamenco Sketches now wafts through my
Audio Technica noise reduction headphones, maybe my current pacificity arises
from that trumpeted artistry in concert with the beautiful British Isles accent
of the Billie Piper-doppelganger flight attendant who just handed me my hot,
really not so hot, cocoa. And to some degree, I suspect, this enjoyable and
continuous contentment and calm may have also come from the satisfying and
long-awaited unfriending and blocking of a childhood comrade on Facebook,
immediately prior to boarding, who has mistakenly believed for years, that
because we were once cordial some 4 decades ago, she held the right
to condescendingly judge, criticize and critique each writing, opinion and life choice I have
ever openly articulated. She does not, and the
freedom of finally releasing her from my online existence after interminable,
imagined eons of wishing to do so, but for fear of offense, is indeed, quite
freeing.
Assuredly, said serenity certainly does
not originate from the ever-tightening, vise grip of the shoes, midair, in
faulty made-made, cabin overly-pressured environment, which upon blessed Mother
Earth are definitively the most comfortable foot coverings I own, or the
sudden, consistent throbbing in my lower leg. Then, I suppose, we also must
consider the food tray, recently arrived, carrying comestibles, under which any
other more sane circumstances would be justifiably, roundly and righteously, rightfully
rejected, but once trapped thousands of feet in the atmosphere, with naught to
pass the time but Vince Vaughn film festivals and Lock Up, maximum security
level meals are excitedly anticipated and gloriously accepted and treasured as
the Magi anticipated the birth of the savior.
To be terrifically truthful, once
alighting upon the bountifully beautiful British Empire, I will be reunited
with a dear friend, my personal favorite
of all of Earth's population, of whom I have been separated, a sea apart, but
with the occasional company of her loving feline, for a thoroughly unacceptable
period of time. And, when once again, keeping her company, we will be doing so
for the opening of her brand new musical on a West End stage, an enviable
impressive accomplishment and artistic achievement, so one would imagine these
further elements would certainly bespeak the rarity of such an optimistic and
uncharacteristically pleasant and delighted demeanor.
If you have been benevolent enough to
stay attentive throughout this entire meandering expressive endeavor, perhaps
the query has occurred to you, "is there a point arriving at some
juncture?" for I, too, share that very concern and have, unfortunately, arrived
at the conclusion, that that ship has sailed many alliterations ago. No pending
satisfactory denouement to be found here, just a need to convey happiness at a
troubled time when such sentiments are becoming increasingly difficult to
obtain. Come fly with me.
“Once I get you up there where the air is rarified
We'll just glide, starry-eyed
Once I get you up there I'll be holding you so very near
You may even hear a whole gang cheer 'cause we're together”
Any comments,
questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions? Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com
