This is a tricky one. Over twenty years ago I got a couple of poems and one short story published in the small press and then it escaped me. Whatever "it" is. I guess
it is joy or euphoria. Writing without that, without a sense of revelation, just doesn't have legs, for me. i can see tiny little legs running around, banging into trees and stuff, upturning huge natural goblets in the landscape. Here are excerpts from an account of my one (and only) experience of long-haul flying. Fictionalised, of course.
The first time the smoker encounters the area
thoughtfully adapted to the provision of their need, it is a revelation. It soon becomes clear, however, this particular resource is nothing but a subterfuge, a pretext for the marginalization and public humiliation of the “enlightened” individual. One time I endeavour to assuage myself a young female is unashamedly flaunting the apparently flamboyant and privileged lifestyle to which she has access; while her keen interlocutor answers to her every proclamation with a curiously annunciated, elongated affirmative:
“Juice. Oh, juice. Juice!” (Silent "J")
. I feel sufficiently embarrassed on behalf of the West as I scan the packed arena of some of the stoniest-faced individuals the continents of Africa and Asia have to offer.
Our elation at having landed in Hong Kong is held in abeyance with the need to locate the transfer desk. Confronted by a heavyset, heavily uniformed security guard, we are pleasantly surprised to receive a positively courteous response.
Awaiting one’s turn affords contemplation of the task ahead. The counter staff are extremely efficient while the overseer - a woman of mature years - appears vicious with all but the quickest comprehension. Dressed in texan garb a formidably built South African vocalises dissatisfaction and is effectively dealt with. Satisfied in the application of her duties the overseer retakes her position as the South African is led away. We won’t see him again.
The airline staff are checking our boarding passes while we queue, facilitating the process of accessing the plane. They are courteous, cheerful. It is a thoroughly more enjoyable experience than the departure from Edinburgh. It doesn’t hurt that they are, also, infinitely easier on the eye than their Western counterparts.
[cough] The management of the Asian airline obviously have a rare eye for talent.
Despite being with my partner and our daughter I
cannot avert my eyes from a certain flight attendant. She takes the seat opposite and appears to reciprocate. I feel myself in the closed confines begin to swell. The plane in descent will soon relieve me of my little dilemma.
We left Hong Kong in bright sunshine. It is four-thirty p.m. local time, the pilot informs us, and we are about to land. I see the odd spectre of a palm, a primitive construction, as we descend.
We smile conspiratorially — my little hostess and I — as the passengers disembark. I feel pangs of loss. Later I will google the airline for her image and find, “Scandal in a cockpit.”
One has to have timing, speed — and appear physically intimidating — to retrieve one’s luggage from the baggage belt. The belt itself has these attributes
ad infinitum. Or maybe I'm just fucked from flying?
If you have made it this far, well done.
