I enjoyed the turbulence most. With its help, I escaped the sense of being overprotected by my warm internal environment. There is a sheer delight in touching what is raw – or being touched by it. The wobbling in the sky, the shakiness, was nature reaching up to us, feeling inside the plane. The bird hovered over my parents’ suburbs, vulgar, gray-green, irregular plateau. The fragility of its disposition did not seem to be relieved. Lower and lower, the plane taunted the hostility of the harsh earth, its factory stockyards, its bland highways. We remained suspended in the push and pull, which baits and yet defiantly resists death, brakes on, engines roaring forth. Tenderly we lower and land, where there seemed to be no airport only grey and green. The engines screamed, the brakes capturing air;  the counter-scream.



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