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Description
Watching Airplanes

Written May 2, 2008

Another silver bullet with wings slicing through the air, thirty-thousand feet over head. That was five so far. She was keeping count. There was nothing better to do. Everyone else had been calling it a beautiful day, and she had figured that a stroll to the park down the street from her place wouldn't do to hurt.

So there she was now, sitting out on the organic greenery of artificial nature, watching airplanes fly over her head and she felt marvelously inconsequential. Not that this was a change, really. She always felt that way. But it was a pleasant change to have the feeling be in relation to airplanes over head than in people passing her by. She didn't care as much about the airplanes so it didn't bug her. People were different though because while they had the power to care, they often chose not to. Tin cans versus flesh bags. She snickered to herself, and enjoyed the dry humor of the moment.

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, and exhaled once-nicotine rich aftermath. The slight breeze took the breath and the smoke and mingled with it and then carried it away, dancing lackadaisically. She smirked, nonchalant, one eye cracked open just enough to watch the procession. Funny, she didn't usually go to the park.

And she didn't normally smoke. In fact, she never had before. But suppose there's a point in one's life where, when everything else is gone to shit, smokin' doesn't seem as bad. After all, they say you get to choose how you die, nowadays. Car accidents, chocolate bars, horse racing, goin' off to war, sex, rock n' roll, love. She supposed smoking was a nice way to go, relatively.

She'd rather die of lung cancer than a broken heart anyway. More dignity to be had in kicking the bucket with a smoke in hand, than a wreck of a heart at your feet.

Why bother with that?

Another inhale from the cancer stick, and another glance at the sky. Another airplane and she tallied six in her head. The airplanes kinda cut into the illusion of natural beauty the park was trying to affect.

Irony.

Seemed to be a lot of that in her life lately, she mused with a glance at the cig. Used to being so against it, and here she was turning hypocrite but she could care less.

For a fleeting moment the loneliness of her situation rose up and kissed her silly. Her face twisted and she exhaled; visible, tangible. She wished, in that moment, that the cause of her unhappiness was in front of her so she could put the business-end of her cigarette to better use. Then the moment passed, and the muscles beneath her skin relaxed. Burning holes in things didn't solve anything actively. Even if she would have felt a shit-load better afterwards.

She'd always said that if she started smoking, it was only so she could put out the cig on someone she didn't like. And there was irony to be had from that too.

The hand not occupied with supplying cancer to her lungs rested in the grass, fingers pulling at the blades without much conviction. They could have done a better job on this park. The grass felt like straw. She missed the soft velvet grass of where she'd grown up. At least that grass didn't cut you if you moved wrong. But she supposed beggars couldn't be choosers and that it could have been worse. Could have been astro-turf.

While she contemplated the grass beneath her, above her she could hear lucky number seven growling onward towards its future destination. She hoped she didn't just jinx it. Didn't want to feel guilty bout that. The cigarettes were enough.

Moments like these she wondered about life. Or she attempted to. But situational ADD kicked in and more often than not she'd find herself musing over grass, or airplanes, or cigarettes, or comedians showing down at the club because laughter was always a good distraction. Or she'd think about that one TV show with the sarcastic janitor no one knew by name, or the other one with the gimpy doctor who had a God-complex. Anything else but what was relevant. And then, she'd catch herself playing the avoidance game, and think to herself time for another cigarette.

This time though, she wanted the cigarette, but feeling guilty about it, went to the park too just so she could tell them she'd done something interesting today, instead of wasting moments in front of her notebooks, wracking her brain for a good story to tell strangers who would forget it moments after reading it.

Moments. Her life was a string of them, piled all helter-skelter on top of each-other in a strange chronological order. And all her moments, even those of the worst kind were her guilty pleasures in life. Because they were hers, pain or not, she still held them to her and she indulged in the emotions they cast into the open. She supposed it was this self-same masochistic enjoyment that ended up translating into her picking up the dirty habit of sucking cancer through a filter without much regard to her lungs.

Her hair was a mess, a bright tangle of fire pulled back into a pony tail. Her jeans were tattered and drawn on, and her converse chucks scuffed by the many comfortable years they'd walked through. Her shirt was a little big, a gift that she'd never asked for but loved anyway and her zip-up hoodie had seen better days but was worn to the exact pinnacle of perfect comfort.

And the cigarette smoke curled in ribbons up into the air and traveled off, possibly to meet the airplanes overhead.

She smiled to herself, flicked the ashes and watched them drift away as well. She was content. Moment to moment, she was in love with herself and all the strange thoughts she housed and all her ironic urges. And it was a sometimes-pity she was mercurial in nature because so many couldn't keep up with her, but so long as she could count airplanes and think for herself about things that didn't matter much in the big ways, but did in the small, she was fine with it.

She'd done something interesting today. She was learning the art of letting go and hanging on and everything in between and no one would understand any of it but her, and she enjoyed being privy to that secret more than anything.

Today, she thought, I'm just sitting and watching airplanes go by and I'm wondering about life the same way my fingers are pulling the grass: Without much conviction. But I know something you don't and I'm enjoying the hell out of it.

Another plane flew over head, and she smiled at it, putting out her cigarette.

Description
Watching Airplanes

Written May 2, 2008

Another silver bullet with wings slicing through the air, thirty-thousand feet over head. That was five so far. She was keeping count. There was nothing better to do. Everyone else had been calling it a beautiful day, and she had figured that a stroll to the park down the street from her place wouldn't do to hurt.

So there she was now, sitting out on the organic greenery of artificial nature, watching airplanes fly over her head and she felt marvelously inconsequential. Not that this was a change, really. She always felt that way. But it was a pleasant change to have the feeling be in relation to airplanes over head than in people passing her by. She didn't care as much about the airplanes so it didn't bug her. People were different though because while they had the power to care, they often chose not to. Tin cans versus flesh bags. She snickered to herself, and enjoyed the dry humor of the moment.

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, and exhaled once-nicotine rich aftermath. The slight breeze took the breath and the smoke and mingled with it and then carried it away, dancing lackadaisically. She smirked, nonchalant, one eye cracked open just enough to watch the procession. Funny, she didn't usually go to the park.

And she didn't normally smoke. In fact, she never had before. But suppose there's a point in one's life where, when everything else is gone to shit, smokin' doesn't seem as bad. After all, they say you get to choose how you die, nowadays. Car accidents, chocolate bars, horse racing, goin' off to war, sex, rock n' roll, love. She supposed smoking was a nice way to go, relatively.

She'd rather die of lung cancer than a broken heart anyway. More dignity to be had in kicking the bucket with a smoke in hand, than a wreck of a heart at your feet.

Why bother with that?

Another inhale from the cancer stick, and another glance at the sky. Another airplane and she tallied six in her head. The airplanes kinda cut into the illusion of natural beauty the park was trying to affect.

Irony.

Seemed to be a lot of that in her life lately, she mused with a glance at the cig. Used to being so against it, and here she was turning hypocrite but she could care less.

For a fleeting moment the loneliness of her situation rose up and kissed her silly. Her face twisted and she exhaled; visible, tangible. She wished, in that moment, that the cause of her unhappiness was in front of her so she could put the business-end of her cigarette to better use. Then the moment passed, and the muscles beneath her skin relaxed. Burning holes in things didn't solve anything actively. Even if she would have felt a shit-load better afterwards.

She'd always said that if she started smoking, it was only so she could put out the cig on someone she didn't like. And there was irony to be had from that too.

The hand not occupied with supplying cancer to her lungs rested in the grass, fingers pulling at the blades without much conviction. They could have done a better job on this park. The grass felt like straw. She missed the soft velvet grass of where she'd grown up. At least that grass didn't cut you if you moved wrong. But she supposed beggars couldn't be choosers and that it could have been worse. Could have been astro-turf.

While she contemplated the grass beneath her, above her she could hear lucky number seven growling onward towards its future destination. She hoped she didn't just jinx it. Didn't want to feel guilty bout that. The cigarettes were enough.

Moments like these she wondered about life. Or she attempted to. But situational ADD kicked in and more often than not she'd find herself musing over grass, or airplanes, or cigarettes, or comedians showing down at the club because laughter was always a good distraction. Or she'd think about that one TV show with the sarcastic janitor no one knew by name, or the other one with the gimpy doctor who had a God-complex. Anything else but what was relevant. And then, she'd catch herself playing the avoidance game, and think to herself time for another cigarette.

This time though, she wanted the cigarette, but feeling guilty about it, went to the park too just so she could tell them she'd done something interesting today, instead of wasting moments in front of her notebooks, wracking her brain for a good story to tell strangers who would forget it moments after reading it.

Moments. Her life was a string of them, piled all helter-skelter on top of each-other in a strange chronological order. And all her moments, even those of the worst kind were her guilty pleasures in life. Because they were hers, pain or not, she still held them to her and she indulged in the emotions they cast into the open. She supposed it was this self-same masochistic enjoyment that ended up translating into her picking up the dirty habit of sucking cancer through a filter without much regard to her lungs.

Her hair was a mess, a bright tangle of fire pulled back into a pony tail. Her jeans were tattered and drawn on, and her converse chucks scuffed by the many comfortable years they'd walked through. Her shirt was a little big, a gift that she'd never asked for but loved anyway and her zip-up hoodie had seen better days but was worn to the exact pinnacle of perfect comfort.

And the cigarette smoke curled in ribbons up into the air and traveled off, possibly to meet the airplanes overhead.

She smiled to herself, flicked the ashes and watched them drift away as well. She was content. Moment to moment, she was in love with herself and all the strange thoughts she housed and all her ironic urges. And it was a sometimes-pity she was mercurial in nature because so many couldn't keep up with her, but so long as she could count airplanes and think for herself about things that didn't matter much in the big ways, but did in the small, she was fine with it.

She'd done something interesting today. She was learning the art of letting go and hanging on and everything in between and no one would understand any of it but her, and she enjoyed being privy to that secret more than anything.

Today, she thought, I'm just sitting and watching airplanes go by and I'm wondering about life the same way my fingers are pulling the grass: Without much conviction. But I know something you don't and I'm enjoying the hell out of it.

Another plane flew over head, and she smiled at it, putting out her cigarette.