History of Flight

The strange stasis of transatlantic flight. At 35,000 feet, I lack imagination. The world below does not exist. I am everywhere and nowhere, a caesura, a blip on the screen between realities. What about the lanky man in 24 C, the woman with a toddler in 26A? I cannot foresee the beautiful fiance waiting in Amsterdam, the anxious grandmother in Berlin. We are a world unto ourselves, a little silver realm without connection. For these few hours, for this brief flight, this is all there is. We watch movies to distract ourselves from the uncomfortable, pervasive question.... do we even exist?

I am running away from something. Home? I leave behind... people, belongings, the vestiges of language. Airports delight me, they throw me into despair. A paradox. Cathedrals of transit - arches of energy, crossing, dancing, bubbling over, never stopping. There is not one thread to grasp. The ephemera of life shifts and shimmers in the terminals. It is a diaphanous glow, forever cresting and waning in the wake of bedraggled travelers.

Nothing really happens in airports. Planes land, people eat, change diapers, meet, buy duty free, use the restroom, collect baggage, make their connecting flights, planes depart. We all stride purposefully, nervously, looking straight ahead. Do not smile, do not make eye contact, do not leave your baggage unattended, report all suspicious activity. I want to place a warm, crushing kiss on the businessman sitting across from me -to knock over his briefcase - to taste the coffee and hand rolled cigarettes on his lips - to grab handfuls of his wavy hair - to astonish him, astonish myself - to prove that we are really here.

In the hotel, I pace. I am vaguely fearful of the cleanliness of the room. I long for connection, context. A fingerprint on the bathroom mirror, a crumpled taxi receipt behind the door. Tangible evidence that someone was here before me, proof that I am here now. I brush my teeth, spit in the sink. I open the window, close it again. I sit on the tidy bed, resolutely muss the covers. I hear birdsong in the courtyard. I am running away from something.

Vestiges of language. Music is the language of the feeling heart? But I don't feel anymore. Not until the bow hits the string. Not until I can hear what I am saying: bold, delicate, shapely, sensual. Music is a language I can understand. First language. There is no ambiguity in it, no precision of meaning. A paradox. Music.... and the language of the body. My heart beats, my palms sweat. I am really here.

Music is the language of the body. See how our eyes meet? A look potent with connection. I smile. A knowing smile. I know what you are going to do, even before you do it. I know exactly how it will sound.