gravity vs. thedampfilm
The plane stretches out in front of me, unsure, uneasy, like a flaccid penis trying to guide itself through the storm without the firm confidence needed.
They call it turbulence.
I can only smile, watching the world in their tiny seats terrified of what will come next. With all the nerves tweaking in the miles, the spastic worries of falling air, screaming children: its a wonder that the weight of these people's minds doesn't plummet us to the ground. Even as the music shuffles in my ear, only for me to hear, I swear that I see Death hovering over a nervous passenger a few rows in front. And I find it all too amusing, the way that God must find the human flight to be of a slap-stick nature. The many faces at their most vulnerable; sweaty, dirty, uncomfortable in their seats; trying to watch a movie, trying to sleep. And for a second, long enough to be a lifetime, it bothers me, torments me as my pants ride up my ass . . .
. . . and then I remember that its all the same in the end.
And that's the important thing. Even now as I feel a film of moisture wrap itself around my mind and body, inside and outside, under and above cloth and skin; even now as the heavy damp air smogs my lungs, I realise, that it is no different to my home in my air conditioned fridge. This is the here and now, this is my psyche forming itself a new reality, giving birth to a slimy child trying to find its feet before the next head pops out. Its just another thing to let go of, to be unphased by. This is simply another moment that no longer exists; just like the fried mushrooms, just like the broken heart, just like every awkward moment of growth.
They call it turbulence.
But really it is Pynchon's Gravity tearing us a new one.