Taking Off Taking

I knew we were

close to the 401 but the bright lights quickly approaching me weren’t even
moving. The engines of the 767 shocked the hull of the plain into a state of
great potential energy, like a vibrating cell phone floating across the table.
Waiting. My body inquired about its own readiness for takeoff by measuring the
distance between my shoulders and the back of my economizing chair. Through the
porthole window, focus was nearly impossible so that the whole content of my thought came to be an anticipatory vibration. With my eyes open, I began to envision Poland from a
patchwork of memories collected during a similar trip a few years now past,
together with the varied grays of the tarmac. After prolonged revving, the
plane lurched into its forward drive, at normal speeds first, now breaking the
pace of any vehicle grounded to the earth, accelerating through intuition. In a
tenuous moment, no-one can tell for sure whether we have lifted off the ground
before it is confirmed by the flaps and a sudden lift.





The city lay

before me in plain view. There was not even one cloud in the sky, not even
those wispy bits of cotton through which you can still see the earth. The
northerly roads trailed off into a rounded and charcoal horizon. The grids, cul
de sacs, industrial parks and highrises all flickered unconsciously over this
continuous urbanism like a living blanket covering the dirt. Arterials along
the lake abruptly retain the city along the oil black lake. Seeing the city
like this is not like seeing a city at all. I felt like a neon negative of
Borges’ map had wrapped itself suddenly around my face, the grand structures of
life offering themselves up to be scrutinized and revered.