if by way of

A calm though heightened sense of plain regard for observation swells through my veins as the thrust of four turbines, wailing, lifts four hundred and thirty some odd tons of flesh, fuel, blood, and steel, from the tempered pavement, black. Robert’s voice soothes my ears and tells me that’s the way it ought to be, and that’s the way it ought to stay, while his mate, James, rhythmically striking perfectly placed chords, invokes sheer joy, unattainable. Flight ensues, the first law of thermodynamics carries the conglomerate in upwards of eight miles above the Atlantic and begins to trace an incredible arc length towards a province to which I am unaccustomed. An idiosyncratic experience has been laid in motion, inaugurated. Whenever this feeling takes over I regret not having a tape recorder, pen and pad, film, or a lengthy short term memory to encapsulate said moment for archaic recollection. If I had, could such a recollection be retrieved without ease? Or would my neurons fire and bestow a more industrial bond upon one another strengthening their ability to recall.

When met with a protasis, one more often than not immediately delivers a conclusion. I on the other hand pine over a myriad of other conclusions that I felt would have better suited the situation. If I would have said this, if I would have done that, et cetera. If I could ascertain a notion of deep transcendental thought, would I be able to go back and flip through each outcome of each fantasized denouement? Highly unlikely since we as human beings have only been able to unlock and utilize (actively) a measly 10% (myth) of our brain power. Whereas in an ideal environment causes and effects would be interchangeably equivalent so that one could guide and shape their reality as they see fit. Perfection could be engaged without thought and being enlightened would be as passive as breathing in your sleep. Being in a spell of alertness at all times could lead you to a surface that you are not yet predisposed to reconvene with. The question I repeatedly ask myself is what if I could change my past, or future, or both (which would occur regardless; a redundancy). Would I be who or what I am? All things being equal, no.

Armed guards line the terminal toting Kalashnikov automatic rifles originally modeled in 1947, safeties on, trigger fingers contently holstered and fixed to their respective palms. Stepping from the fuselage of the tamed Boeing, my feet pace towards something new, abandoning all they previously found familiar. Words and phrases run amok in and out of my ears as they attempt to decipher the language, native to where I stand. With my baggage claimed and my passport stamped, I proceed towards a menacing customs official awaiting to perform his duties of poking and prodding through my belongings. I wonder, carefree, if he’ll find something unsanctioned during the semi-meticulous inspection. Little did he know that I had previously been dosed several times with endogenous morphine, a natural analgesic I preferred over the inoculation of foreign subject matter. There was nothing to find capable of barring me from entry to his homeland. Nothing but unabated smiles, and wide eyes, yearning for something new. Something in addition to another or others already existing. I feel my soul will be harvested early this season.

In addition to another memory, I find as if I have reinvented others, or maybe how I remember them has changed and evolved since last they were called upon for remembrance. If a child can drown in one inch of shallow water, then I am ungrudgingly suffocating in my own cognition. I can’t stress enough that life’s middle name is if. If I discontinue the applications learned by way of seminars and tutorials from new memories, I may as well just forget that I exist all together. Upon further inspection of my own developments in Western Thought, I can conclude that my views have gone askew to those of the norm, or those that the norm has to offer. If you can learn to take your time, slow down, and condense each second to a small vibration, there is much more to be seen and heard than you have given yourself credit for. Careening through the rotations prevents free thought. You need to play out your favorite scene and fine tune your mind as if it were machinery. I can limit my senses all I want, but need to take a symptomatic approach and be supportive. The test is to see if I can read, but alexia doesn’t mean I can’t read me.

My driver holds a sign with the only American name in plain view. A man befriended by my eldest sib, spoke not a word of English yet I knew we could peruse the same page. I read the words “duty free” right from his eyes as we strolled to the decrepit warehouse-esque international emporium of pilsner and spirits. The particular pilsner in question was Dutch born and treated like liquified precious metals amongst my driver and his benefactors. Patrons of the emporium were required to present their boarding pass, be the proprietor of a passport, and follow the rules and regulations of said proprietary passport’s country of origin. Unbeknownst to my driver, the latter of the three requirements would be unfulfilled. Following a short jaunt to the train station from the unsuccessful pils score, I’m escorted to my vestibule to catch a convoy of sleeper and coach cars en route through more palm and sand than I ever knew existed to a destination in the middle of what I knew to be nowhere. If it was nowhere when I arrived, it was unequivocally somewhere when I left.