I grip the arm rests in simulated panic, my furrowed brow describing an outright unease, a pretence which keeps in check my propensity for flight violence. I act out the fear of a novice, wincing and palpitating with fake anxiety. I have to admit I don’t seem like the best of flyers. Birds of a feather, ironclad, bursting energy barriers, and churning the uptight stomachs of raged-up economy fliers, back from backpacking holidays and mini-breaks to the continent. Out to sea and a circle described against the nothingness before banking back towards dry land. It’s a conspiracy of complacency, airline placemen affecting indifference, producing a kind of somnambulant acceptance of the inevitable. In and out over the sea, lugubrious and of undisclosed tonnage, the plane scores out vectors of bad intent, graceful arcs which discreetly mimic my super numinous infallibility. The plane’s cleared for landing, and the pilot choreographs a graceful ballet at the insistence of the peaked-cap air controller guys. Never got used to the stomach churning pressure bursts that characterize cheap economy flights up and down the world, never acclimatized to those sudden losses of altitude, scoring a cheap lesion of freighted pleasure or panic in the temporal lobe, electrical circuits suddenly billowing with undischarged energy… Undercarriage on fire – belly up in a Parisian field. When the gods fall out, mortals tremble as they say. I’ve just had my 6 th, one drink too many and I’m eyeing up suitable targets for dischargeable anger. I’m looking out at the planets and I’m flirting with rage. I forgive everything where she’s concerned. I love her, because she’s like me, because she is me. All flabby angst registers with me only as self pity. I look around – I cultivate contempt for my fellow passengers. I’m under the floorboards, the seats are upright and I’m in the waiting room. It’s me…Buffy Strangelove…Remember me? You’ve seen me. My sponsors would like a word though before we’re through… But What I Sell…you just can’t buy on the open market. Just sign the papers…the papers…all 3…unique in the legal or medical (not to mention religio-mythic) worlds. Separation at the head by surgery will release the energy, we’re told. All previous templates and corporate bulldada obsolete now, or so I reckon.
Last I heard I was The Super Salesman, grand-daddy of the green light.
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I can’t take much more free flight booze. OK so what am I selling? Tell me before I puke. It’s Europe for me before the fall of the empires. Here I have contracts to underwrite, obligations to discharge, commitments to fulfil. She’ll give me satisfaction later or I’m a shadow of the man I was. What happened in there then? Am I so dim then? Pinch me! I look across – the ball and chain gently snoozing. Are they here to attend me or to restrain me? Peaked caps are prominent. I see or seem to see around me the uniformed hirelings of another kind of corporate reality. I re-incline the seat – my open brain is tumescent in the dim light. They are under the scored planes…heaven and hell is under me now. I am tumescent…Further on, a few more drinks to the good…the clouds are elephant trunked and bilious, and they portend something else.
Mushroom edged underneath heaven, the streaky cirro-cumulus to my left seems to mimic the snaky vectors of my bad intent – it’s all written out in longhand. What seems clear is that the section that’s partly visible seems to reveal some sort of bad intent: “…and if you want to kill me you’ll have to…3 times…all 3 of you…the both of you…returned to complex…agents in op…I conjure you sit down, sit in this chair…” What does this mean? Meanwhile the clouds are billowing, they draw the air and the electricity in and away. But most of it is obscured so it’s difficult to fully determine what I mean or might have meant by it. I’m walking away from a…a…what, a prison? A hospital? It’s a confined space anyway. ………If only………If only ………I resurface from a dream.
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