I often wonder if people really understand the depth an artistic temperament. It works kind of like this for me: One minute I am thinking about the most magical, imaginative thought in the world and the next moment I am snapped back into reality by someone or something. A reality, which seems to care freaking less about where I just was.
For example, here I am on the plane to France thinking about housesitting for a couple who I don’t even know, and I have this flight attendant asking me what I want for dinner.
“Chicken or Pasta?” she says mechanically.
“Chicken,” I say.
“ We only have pasta,” She replies.
“Okay then, pasta?” I say.
She smiles and hands me chicken.
I don’t like chicken, but I dislike pasta even more. Actually I don’t dislike either of them I just don’t like consuming them this high in the sky because they make me feel so bloated. It’s like if the plane did crash I would still just float up and away because of all the air within. I imagine those masks coming down just in time to fill the tiny spaces of emptiness left in my stomach with air and every breath I take it just makes me more floatable up in space. They (the people who make the in-flight meals) secretly plan the meals to make you float should an emergency arise.
I have no fear of crashing when I fly because I know the bread they keep giving me, with all its pockets of air, will save me so long as I eat enough of it. If I don’t at enough of it, I can rely on the free alcohol served on this international flight to keep me from freaking out. Problem solved. The saviors of the air: bread and alcohol; ironically the saviors of the earth too. See, something’s do translate.
Red Eye Response
It was an all night flight. Yes, I couldn’t wait for the moment we would arrive all crispy and prickly with the two days of jet trash built up on our skin from that big flying fart in the sky.
Planes. The only place where farting isn’t really avoidable and somewhat tolerated. Why? There is nothing you can about it. Personally, I don’t like talking about farts which is why it always amazes me at how many people do. What intrigues me even more are people who laugh (and I am talking a full on LOL-hardy-every-one-can-hear-you-laugh funny. I guess, to some degree they are funny but not when you trapped in a giant metal box and the only air you can breathe is someone else’s gassy discharge.
What’s funny about them, to me, is that moment when they are realized, especially by someone you know. You’re sitting there and all the sudden the waif of air comes into your olfactory sense. You automatically look to the person you know, sitting beside you like “did you do that?” They usually affirm with a head shake one way or the other. If it is a “no” headshake, it is followed by a look of disgust, as if to say, “Me? No!”. If the “yes” headshake happens it is typically followed by a smile and giggle, as if to say, “Yea, I did that”.
Now you, being the person sitting them, knows you now must give a response back of either disgust or, in some cases, a smirk with a no kind of head shake. (I must note that in some rare instances it is okay to give the latter, especially if the person in back of you has been kicking your seat the whole time and you are too polite to say anything because after all they have six kids and paid for three seats only.) Then feeling happy about a fart in the air from the people in your party is totally acceptable.
Not that that has ever happened to me, though.