Some Whole Wheat Words

I think it’s liftoff I fear. It forces you into the immediate. I am no longer in control, you say. I can’t just unbuckle and walk away. I think a little bit about SAMs, a hot streak of parasitic metal, tearing. My near future is starting to congeal, here on this airplane, surrounded by the ballerina-like stewards of a foreign airline. They are trying to create an impression of flight and travel that is being distorted in translation. I understand that flying is an event and that to instill a sense of authority and safety in the sky, which is functionally a social nowhere, requires makeup, hair ribbons and cream- or teal-coloured suits. We will be creating a temporary country up there, and we need to be able to trust our new government during the transfer of power. Transfer of power. I think of Kim Jong-Il and of SAMs, a beam of ozone and propellant, tearing. Korean trips on the tongue in waves, slowing and starting. I am going to a new country. I am no longer in control.