No Step Aft

Through the window, I see block lettering along fourteen slots in the top of the wing which read "No Step Aft". Same wing, same seat, opposite direction. Same person, made different by the hands and heart of an artist.

The late afternoon sun punishes me for leaving, and tries to burn a hole in the back of my right shoulder through the scratched plastic window. I grudgingly close the blinds. It was dark as pitch the first time, and the moon did not bother to seek me out so. The new dim and the hum of the engine behind me lure me into a light sleep.

Eventually, we outrace the sun's wicked beams – I will not meet Icarus today – and I rouse in response to the absence of heat. I slowly lift the blinds and look down upon the earth, and I see a familiar patchwork spread beneath me: lakes, structures, trees. The earth curves ever so gently along the horizon, deceptively infinite.

We begin a subtle descent, and the clouds appear to blow us kisses before they take us in their fleeting embrace. The patches below grow in size and detail: highways, schools, homes, shopping malls, swimming pools. The patchwork's palette has changed from terra cotta to a rainbow of pastels.

I watch the flaps on the wing rise and fall, coaxing Da Vinci's dream. The engine behind me begins to roar, but it does not stir my heart as much as what I see below. Churches, trains, signs, cars, people. Pastels become Crayolas. The surface features continue to grow in size, and their details sharpen and multiply until the once anonymous patches explode into . . . life . . . as the tires touch the tarmac, dancing en pointe while the flaps on the wings strain upwards and the brakes scream in protest – no, we never liked Da Vinci, it was a mistake, we changed our minds – and we conquer our momentum.

As I wait to deplane, I cast one last glance at the wing, and am reminded "No Step Aft". Repeating along its length, because there's no point in repeating across its depth.

I am not the same. There is no going backward; there is only forward. I am exploding into life.

No step aft.

Six Flavors of Pajamas

Four days. Four nights. Four years' worth of catching up. Almost two decades of change.

I was asked what I packed for my trip. I replied, "Two weeks' worth of clothes. Five pairs of shoes. Ten sets of lingerie. Oh, and six flavors of pajamas."

Did I need two weeks' worth of clothes? Hardly, but I think it's important to have choices. I fully expected to spend 75% of the trip relaxing at home with her in our pajamas. And I've not been disappointed.

We talk at length about nothing and everything. We laugh at our foibles and express (for the most part) compassion towards those of others we know. We analyze, overanalyze, and dismiss an infinite number of topics. We attempt to evaluate the universe and our place in it; a futile effort, but entertaining nonetheless. We are ourselves, unselfconsciously and without fear of judgment. In this microcosm, we are the very essence of liberation, validation, and solidarity.

We contemplate our union and become aware that in our relationships with men, we are seeking not so much the individual qualities of each other; rather, we seek the feelings we invoke in each other. Our relationship is not a sexual one, but we recognize and respect each other as sexual beings. We marvel at the effect of our combined chemistries on the people around us. We are quietly amused when the other retreats for a few minutes of private time, and by the fact that we are uninhibited enough to do so comfortably.

We listen to music of the seventies. We drink, but not to excess. We smoke. We cook and bake. We play at working in the garden. We meet with the people in her world to give them a glimpse of a relationship that has helped shape us as women. We allow ourselves to be beautiful.

Our presence to the other has the effect of psychic valium. Loving words and thoughts soothe angst like a salve. As it has always been, our friendship is a precious balm, fragrant and healing. One weekend and we are rejuvenated.

While I write this, she sits in her favorite chair and reads. Even in my periphery, she is a magnificent creature, exuding an aura of quiet confidence and ultra-femininity. We bask in each others company, temporarily enveloped in a comfortable silence.

We try to define our friendship so that others can understand, but it is more ethereal than simple words convey. Oddly enough, despite my love of words, I'm okay with that.

For the Structuralist in You

This is my second most favorite cartoon of all time.