since i'm itching for new places, i'm reposting a blog to recapture the wonder of my first solo flight experience, where i (frustratingly) wax poetic (as always) on how it felt. (remembering is also a form of travel, after all. and it might even be the cheapest - though perhaps not the most reliable means.:D)
i was 23 and was only then beginning to heed the call of somewhere, further, and beyond. i've been trying my best to heed it since then.: )
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originally posted 30 july 2009
up there, nothing was as wondrous as the sky. as troubled and deep in thought as you might be prior to flying, in the sky there is absolutely nothing to worry about. it doesn't have anything to do with exceptional self-control - but that the worries and cares themselves choose to not go with you, preferring instead to travel by land and join you there when you come back down. what crowds into your mind are the daydreams, reveling to have your consciousness all to themselves, without rivals for attention.
there were moments when everything was white. sometimes it was wispy blue. and i tried hard to think of words that could describe them to me other than "cotton", but that was what they were, they were perfect cotton balls that would taste no doubt of a cold refreshing wetness (that or a cold acidic wetness) to the tongue. the only other phrase that came to me was "soap suds", and that was perfect, too. they were the perfect froth of detergent, the icing on top of your whirling dirty laundry. they had a playfulness that could only come from knowing that they could be admired but never really caught, could be observed and studied all to no avail - it rained whenever they wanted, never purely for our convenience.
i was 23 and was only then beginning to heed the call of somewhere, further, and beyond. i've been trying my best to heed it since then.: )
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originally posted 30 july 2009
when i was up in the clouds for an hour-long flight, it felt longer somehow.
almost like after reaching a certain height, time was suspended indefinitely, elastic and ultimately irrelevant. i wanted to write about the first time i was in an airplane alone, having impetuously claimed a separate flight for myself, to tell of how it felt, that sudden acceleration that drops your heart to the ground only to have it jump right back to your chest with beats of grown-up pride that swells with each new experience, simultaneous with the beats of a childhood wonder that has never really left. but now i will write of my long return journey home, back to my city's funky sprawl.*
almost like after reaching a certain height, time was suspended indefinitely, elastic and ultimately irrelevant. i wanted to write about the first time i was in an airplane alone, having impetuously claimed a separate flight for myself, to tell of how it felt, that sudden acceleration that drops your heart to the ground only to have it jump right back to your chest with beats of grown-up pride that swells with each new experience, simultaneous with the beats of a childhood wonder that has never really left. but now i will write of my long return journey home, back to my city's funky sprawl.*
up there, nothing was as wondrous as the sky. as troubled and deep in thought as you might be prior to flying, in the sky there is absolutely nothing to worry about. it doesn't have anything to do with exceptional self-control - but that the worries and cares themselves choose to not go with you, preferring instead to travel by land and join you there when you come back down. what crowds into your mind are the daydreams, reveling to have your consciousness all to themselves, without rivals for attention.
there were moments when everything was white. sometimes it was wispy blue. and i tried hard to think of words that could describe them to me other than "cotton", but that was what they were, they were perfect cotton balls that would taste no doubt of a cold refreshing wetness (that or a cold acidic wetness) to the tongue. the only other phrase that came to me was "soap suds", and that was perfect, too. they were the perfect froth of detergent, the icing on top of your whirling dirty laundry. they had a playfulness that could only come from knowing that they could be admired but never really caught, could be observed and studied all to no avail - it rained whenever they wanted, never purely for our convenience.
i was daydreaming by the window when i saw the first lines cut across the smoothness of the glass, diagonal streaks of condensation that could only mean rain. as if on cue, my soap suds turned to grey, celebrating both rain and the gathering dusk. the diagonal lines were coming faster, we were preparing for descent. turbulence or no, i wanted to be outside, where it wasn't safe. i wanted to have my hair whipped into frenzies, to know how it would compare with the flying-bus-through-edsa death-defying experiences that i crave for on occasion.
the window was turning blurry, reminding me of the left farsighted lens of my glasses. i craned my neck and tried to look for the moon, but it wasn't to be found. i did see lights, the lights of manila beckoning from the land below that was growing in size. the lights, more yellow than white, made my city tragically lovely, giving light to the dimmest of spaces, lending hope to the dingiest of areas.
they had haloes around them.
i saw my city from above, under wraps from fog and rain. when i felt us touch the ground, the wheels groaning in speed, my heart was thundering, more from what i had just seen than to have my solo experience finally ending. it had been a long, long journey, always shorter than what i wished for, a long, long journey home.
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