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skonen_bladesHey there.
So here's something pared down and shored up. I've taken out the province capitals but I might put that back in and take out the love story. I'm not sure. Right now, it's coming in at 3:50 when I speak it at a medium pace and the poem has to be four minutes. Let me know what you think.
The old version is ->here<- is you want to compare
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Are we falling or are we flying?
Six thousand, one hundred and eighty-five kilometers.
That’s how long it is from Vancouver to Halifax. I am on board the impossible machine that will take me to the home where my heart wants to be. The wind speed outside is 14 knots. I am 36 years old. My seat number is A44. The plane is a 747. It’s 3:14 in the afternoon. Of course the world is flat. It’s as big as a king sized bed.
Five thousand and forty two kilometers.
The plane skates across a child’s breath of icy air. A friend of mine is afraid of skydiving. Not because she’s scared of falling but because she’s scared she’ll pull her arms in, point her toes, angle towards the earth and laugh all the way down without ever coming close to pulling her parachute. I know exactly what she means.
Three thousand seven hundred and twenty six kilometers
Turbulence hits us. As the plane shudders, my imagination plays back the moments I’ve already spent before she moved away, the width of Canada away, to the east coast. The curve and sweep of her, words whispered just millimeters away from my ear. Flight is an escape. What goes up must come down. Every slow-motion leap a plane makes is proof that the earth is playing catch with hearts in man-made cans.
Two thousand, four hundred and to kilometers
As any astronaut will tell you, the problem is escape velocity. The energy needed to break free from gravity is obscene. A stable orbit is basically falling forever. I know that the central tenets of aerodynamics are ruled by lift and thrust. I believe the same is true for love. I mean, I know the principles involved but it still seems like a miracle to me.
One thousand eight hundred and fifty seven kilometers
As sure as language is wind, the air outside the plane may have once been an admission from one lover to another, hot and rising up into the atmosphere. The air inside the plane, sealed in from Vancouver, may contain gasps from the west coast that are being carried east. The same principles that help missiles fly through the air are the same principles that let a knife glide through meat, that let a dolphin sliver through the water, that let a man slide deep into his lover. When you’re in transit, you aren’t anywhere. You’re on your way but not there yet. You’ve left but you haven’t arrived. It occurs to me that this state is life.
Three hundred and forty six kilometers
Our descent into Halifax begins. We angle earthwards slowly, the altitude counting down. I pull in my arms and point my toes, long legs near the emergency exit, still breathing Vancouver air. My state of non-being is coming to an end.
Zero kilometers.
The ground rushes up to meet me and I think of Janine’s shining eyes. She’ll run towards me, jumping up into the air, performing her own short flight into my arms. I’ll know heaven then. This journey is the one we all make. Coast to coast, birth to death, traveling from one state of being to another. We’re all on the same flight, the same plane of existence.
But are we falling, or flying?
-----------
Let me know what you think.
tags
So here's something pared down and shored up. I've taken out the province capitals but I might put that back in and take out the love story. I'm not sure. Right now, it's coming in at 3:50 when I speak it at a medium pace and the poem has to be four minutes. Let me know what you think.
The old version is ->here<- is you want to compare
-------------
Are we falling or are we flying?
Six thousand, one hundred and eighty-five kilometers.
That’s how long it is from Vancouver to Halifax. I am on board the impossible machine that will take me to the home where my heart wants to be. The wind speed outside is 14 knots. I am 36 years old. My seat number is A44. The plane is a 747. It’s 3:14 in the afternoon. Of course the world is flat. It’s as big as a king sized bed.
Five thousand and forty two kilometers.
The plane skates across a child’s breath of icy air. A friend of mine is afraid of skydiving. Not because she’s scared of falling but because she’s scared she’ll pull her arms in, point her toes, angle towards the earth and laugh all the way down without ever coming close to pulling her parachute. I know exactly what she means.
Three thousand seven hundred and twenty six kilometers
Turbulence hits us. As the plane shudders, my imagination plays back the moments I’ve already spent before she moved away, the width of Canada away, to the east coast. The curve and sweep of her, words whispered just millimeters away from my ear. Flight is an escape. What goes up must come down. Every slow-motion leap a plane makes is proof that the earth is playing catch with hearts in man-made cans.
Two thousand, four hundred and to kilometers
As any astronaut will tell you, the problem is escape velocity. The energy needed to break free from gravity is obscene. A stable orbit is basically falling forever. I know that the central tenets of aerodynamics are ruled by lift and thrust. I believe the same is true for love. I mean, I know the principles involved but it still seems like a miracle to me.
One thousand eight hundred and fifty seven kilometers
As sure as language is wind, the air outside the plane may have once been an admission from one lover to another, hot and rising up into the atmosphere. The air inside the plane, sealed in from Vancouver, may contain gasps from the west coast that are being carried east. The same principles that help missiles fly through the air are the same principles that let a knife glide through meat, that let a dolphin sliver through the water, that let a man slide deep into his lover. When you’re in transit, you aren’t anywhere. You’re on your way but not there yet. You’ve left but you haven’t arrived. It occurs to me that this state is life.
Three hundred and forty six kilometers
Our descent into Halifax begins. We angle earthwards slowly, the altitude counting down. I pull in my arms and point my toes, long legs near the emergency exit, still breathing Vancouver air. My state of non-being is coming to an end.
Zero kilometers.
The ground rushes up to meet me and I think of Janine’s shining eyes. She’ll run towards me, jumping up into the air, performing her own short flight into my arms. I’ll know heaven then. This journey is the one we all make. Coast to coast, birth to death, traveling from one state of being to another. We’re all on the same flight, the same plane of existence.
But are we falling, or flying?
-----------
Let me know what you think.
tags
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no subject
Date: 12 Mar 2009 07:36 (UTC)The delivery (with the punctuation of the distances) reminded me of the narrated diary entries in the film Pi. good stuff, man :)
no subject
Date: 13 Mar 2009 02:13 (UTC)