37,000-feet of mid-air thoughts, fingers of rivers and runoffs inject life into a contour of soiled cloth, hobo patched with greens, flat with shadowless shadows, auburn scars parceled by man’s gumption to produce and control outcomes, road-stitches lie like lifelines thrown between neighbors drowning in a sea of lonesome, windmachines sit in rank as if in a cemetery plot honoring the fallen cyclops, X marks the spot. Everyday do everything, a mantra repeated on what seems like my first true vacation, a home coming not yet experienced while living comfortably close. Friends and families take on new context with realization one’s foreign presence has impact, can invoke memories, happiness, change within state of mind; a warm welcome better than any gold given gift, a meaningful hug euphoric, a good meal uplifting, laughter absolute. Micah said this doesn’t matter, none of it does, in the grand scope of things, we’re miniscule, inconsequential in time. The point of it all is to have fun, enjoy yourself and the company of others. Triple-pained-plastic air plane window reflects this curious incongruity of big versus bigger. As flight cruising speed nears 600 miles per hour, the six-year-old boy in the seat next to me sings “Open Sesame” as he lays his head in his father’s lap.

Defunct landmine marooned on a mars-like terrain, seashell craters, foam bubbles gasping, desolate, foreign, hostile. Fear washes forth like a liquid slinky, ever creeping, crawling over itself. No prior experiences to draw from, no knowledge of crocks, snake holes, high tides. A young tour guide flies overhead. I say, I have nothing to share, are you friend or foe? Flight path detours and there is squawk, I guess I’m free to pass. He said we’re like the ocean, take a snapshot, that is your body, a still frame of consciousness in the eye of another, but it can never be the ocean, it’s not you. Look at the whole picture, the only boundaries are the one’s the mind frames. Neapolitan steel popsycles marked USCG seem placed as if for pelican-figure-8-flying-class, or to taunt land lovers who wear shoes to keep their feet clean. I stand poised 20 feet back before the contraption, fearful I’ll be shocked or blown to pieces with the first touch of skin to iron. Attention shifts, spider screams break as waves crash and sand retreats from under foot. Deep breath, eyes closed, I am the ocean, run. Whether material or mind, something has been conquered.