You only realize that you’ve burst into song when OneForce nudges you in the ribs. “Do You Want to Know a Secret,” by the Beatles. A pair of rich and ancient SuitAndTie types wrinkle their newspapers and arch snow encrusted brows at you. ‘Fuck those old crocs’ you think to yourself, ‘I got a suit too.’ You see your sexy stewardess walking towards you, smiling at your weird little outburst. You keep it going. What else can you do? You don’t stop at the peak of a Beatles tune for anybody or anything, and if it that ain’t a law then it oughta be. And besides, you’re singing for her now.
I’ve known a secret for a week or two,
Nobody knows just we twoooooooo-ooooooo.
Listen, (ooo-wa-oooo)
do you want to know a secret (ooo-wa-oooo),
Do you promise not to tell, (Whoooooooooa oooooa)
Closer, (ooo-wa-oooo)
Let me whisper in your ear, (ooo-wa-oooo),
Say the words you long to hear,
I’m in love with you, (oo, oo, oo, oo),”
You’re shucking and jiving, singing loud enough that you can hear a couple of the monkeys in coach are singing along as well, hip to it. We’re all in the same movie now, including the sexy stew who’s dancing and snapping her fingers, laughing, but looking you dead in the eyes while she does. Hot damn. To the outside world she’s playing along, being a good sport, but there’s no doubt about it; you just officially registered on her “Becoming Interesting” chart. And why not? You are officially becoming interesting, are you not? You are a blogger! You write every day. You have Things To Say. You take her hand.
“Just felt like breaking into song, Sweetie. Can’t imagine why.”
She shakes her head at you, but it’s a good shake, like she can’t wait to tell her saucy little stew buddies about this guy in FirstClass. She walks off and you turn for a RearView and lord a’mercy you’re glad you did. Keats once said something to the effect of “Truth is Beauty, Beauty is Truth,” and if this is really the case -and I have no reason to believe otherwise- that was one of the most breathtakingly honest asses you’d ever seen.
“Nice recovery,” OneForce notes approvingly as you take off your headphones. He’s looking a little green right now. You’re hungover like a couple of jerks but you’re in the greatest of moods, something OneForce may never forgive you for. Your poor, hungover pal turns back to his window, moans and tries to sleep off the rest of this vicious hangover. He’s a big fucker, and travel, even in FirstClass is not ever a very comfortable thing for him. Dude fell asleep watching that Narnia shlock and by so doing, committed the Cardinal Sin of KingHell, HeavyBinge RoadTrips: never, ever stop drinking. Given half the chance -and especially on a bloody plane- a HangOver on a RoadTrip can be near fatal for RoadTrippers. Turn grown men to moaning, wretching, needy babies. I’ve seen it happen. I know better. My buddy makes it no secret that he blames me for having bought ‘that dreadful Narnia thing’, as he calls it and holds you responsible for his HangOver as well. I don’t think I have any explaining to do. I saw some fleeting images of a vast battlefield occupied by all manner of Man and Mythic Beasts so I picked the thing up. I didn’t make the bloody thing.
Nuts to him. Just to fuck with him you order a glass of red wine from your sexy stew.
You didn’t even watch ‘that dreadful Narnia thing.’ Couldn’t. Soon as you saw it was a bunch of kids and shit you ditched it, thought about WritingUp again. The Ugly Truth had been very prevalent in your mind, as of late, On the Run as you were, from the Evil NeoCon Scourge. It had to be blogged because once blogged you would be free of the Fiends once and for all. And Free of more than that, of Them.
Free of the big, aching cancery lump in your soul. Free of the FEAR. Not of them, it turns out, greater Fear of knowing the Truth but not saying it, of backing down. To Be or Not To Be, eh’ Hamlet? Eh’ Achilles? You read those dudes loud and clear, loud and fucking clear! And ‘To Be’ it is.
Free from a few other things, it turns out. Free from the Anger. At the pompous jackals in the grotesque carnival which passes for “the News” these days. Free of that silent scream in your mind every time you hear somebody yammer on about the latest and utterly meaningless ‘winner’ of the latest “RealityTelevision show.” That the Big Distraction is Total Piss and not even Remotely Interesting hurts most of all.
Free of all that. At last.
That was the state of mind. And it all just poured out of you. You could feel the lump lessening as you wrote, your soul breathing deep, greedy breaths of something better. Catharsis. The Death of one thing and the Birth of another. A Change, a real, visceral Change.
You WroteUp the bastard, drunk as a judge and the Sword of Damocles cleaveth you Free rather than in half. You pass into a deep, peaceful SleepState, your first in a loooooong time. Not from the booze, you’re confident -though you’d freely admit to drinking TruckLoads for the last few days- but from the process. This. Given birth to your burden, and now it's everybody else's.
Free of the Dirty Secret, you think to yourself, just as your latest CosmicConfluence hits you again with the subtlety of the proverbial flying mallet, again in the form of a song on your MP3 thinger. This is when you heard The Beatles with their “Do You Want to Know a Secret.” It’s fucking perfect. And in the millisecond that it takes for you to look up towards the clock on the seat in front of you, you already know what Time it’s going to read. You just know it. It’s been that type of day. Sure enough. 11:11. You’re silently blown away. Too much, you’re brain almost wants to shut down and digest this all a little slower, Be there in it instead of marveling at it.
You nudge OneForce and point at the clock. You’ve been speaking this Confluence shit at him for a while and he’s been sick of it the whole time. But this time…
“Fuck. It is a little weird, isn’t it?”
“Weird nothing,” you respond, understanding for the first time ever, “most natural thing in the whole Cosmos.” OneForce turns and appraises you for a second. Nods.
“I still think you’re a nut case. But there’s something to all that.”
“Don’t gotta tell me,” you sigh, and he doesn’t. You know. You go back to reviewing your blog and somewhere in the process you’d started singing. Which ultimately turned out not to be such a bad thing at all, you think to yourself upon reflection as your favorite sexy stew comes back with your glass of red wine and a napkin. With something written on it. You settle back into your seat and sigh contentedly. A Writer No Longer on the Run merely hours away from a brand new land and about to reaffirm your MileHigh status, and with a STEW, NO LESS! That’s the Gold Club Membership!
Damn right.
OneForce calls you a sick man when he sees the glass of red wine, but you just laugh. It’s quite the contrary. You’re convalescing.
Peace. At long last.
-iSC
RandomMP3age: “Ready To Go,” by Republica.
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