Swimming The Sky

Blissed out before I even reach into the sky to ride the cloudy carpet over my blue marble home. The sunshine reflects off the curved surface of my happy tear, running the gentle semi-circumference of my face, as the plane I am poised upon begins to taxi.

I’m on an 11 hour KLM flight from Amsterdam to Mexico city, 24 hours later than expected. I flew from Berlin to Amsterdam yesterday, with a snug 45 minutes to catch my connecting flight to Mexico. The divine mocking force of the universe caught wind of this and delayed my flight by exactly 45 minutes, to arrive in time for a perfect view of my Mexico-bound flight taking off without me. The universe, with her wicked sense of humour, is an unshakable companion of us all, but some moments highlight her to be closer to a preposterously irritating older sister in the family of existence, rather than a much needed friend.

Discovering that my hotel in Mexico would neither refund the night I had booked, nor postpone the booking, took the universe off my daily gratitude list. I shot the sky a sharp look and muttered at the horizon that I wasn’t angry, just disappointed.

I had been subjected to a night in a very awkward, beach themed hotel in Amsterdam. Its desperate attempt to appeal to a younger crowd led it to decorate my suite in honour of Corona beer. This was tragic for a multitude of reasons, beginning with the apologetic look the receptionist gave when having to announce the name of the room in the recent wake of the pandemic, which left so many traveller in the lurch. The oversight on the name was remarkable and I couldn’t help but laugh at ending my day, after my travel plans were unexpectedly postponed, in a room covered in painfully illuminated signs blaring “Corona” on all sides.

I quietly muttered curses at the hum of the incandescent sign that loomed jauntily from the wall, until I realised that a hotel thrown together as thoughtless as this may have some structural issues and I wouldn’t wish the sign to retaliate with a karmic swing to my head, as it was both larger than me and denser. I forgave the sign, and all its loud friends, and sheepishly went to sleep.

Now, I sit listening to In The Blue Light by Paul Simon. Splendour washes over me, as I watch the ocean of the sky. I let the tear droplet make its glistening journey over the curve of my cheek and drop off the surface.

We take flight and I look down from the blue to green sparkling city below me: Amsterdam, in its geographic stream-streaks of forest coloured water.

It twinkles with crisp air, then blurs through the pollutants jetting from the engines below the airplane wings; a vignette of how my travel traps up the clean air of exploring in a hot haze of ecological consequences.

The plane soars until the ceiling of the sky starts to show the secrets of its depth, as if we were only paddling at its lapping edge and the deep blue of space were only a swim away.

My mind takes a deep dive and soaks itself in the celestial slime of space grime, hoping to reach the silt swirling unknown of how the primordial soup of two spiraling galaxies are currently stirring themselves together.

I listen to Questions For The Angels twice, ears marveling ninety seconds before the end of the track, where some kind of digital didgeridoo-esque sound delights me.

Then I move on to Fatal Mistakes by Del Amitri, seeping up the deeply delicious noise of Musicians And Beer, before slipping into the satisfying hammer-handed pianoing of Close Your Eyes And Think Of England. I keep my eyes open and happily cast my view over elsewhere.

Sailing over the Celtic Sea, I start on the Eurythmics' Ultimate Collection; a familiar pool of refreshing songs I let my ears be drenched by over and over as a child. I take advantage of the empty seat next to me to splash about in the sound, indulging a full fringe flicking dance. My watery body pops in the tides of melody crashing at the jetties of gated drums, frothing at my wave edges with chills at the solo in There Must Be An Angel. Then I am lifted on a reel of head rolling rock, as I'm caught by the epic hook of Sisters Are Doin' It For Themselves. The air hostesses come past in their azure outfits to offer me a coffee I clearly don't need, as I am mid mouthing "run, run, run, run" to Thorn In My Side. I swoop over one Mexican waving hand to retrieve my coffee cup, which makes the air waitress-cum-first-aid-administrator smile. I point at the headrest screen in front of me to display the legitimacy of my foolishness. Slipping my headphones down to monitor my vocal volume as I thank her, she nods in approval at my music choice. I go back to my shoulder swishing sway to Missionary Man, as she slides on down the aisle. I take one last catch of her giggle-ready grin before closing my eyes to indulge original musical sin. I dance until I sweat.

The Eurythmics finish and move on to Lennox's Bare. My eyes float out the window. Suddenly there is ice on the glass and the frame is full of emerald, blocked over a glacial bedrock. The cloudy expanses, way down at below, are cracked to reveal the blue beneath. The upper lining of my view has become a navy blue volume that swallows the plane, and me, whole. I feel the plane gushing through the top of earth's sky tumbler glass, sliding so impossibly far from the grit of the ground.

Måneskin flows, with thick satisfaction, into my soaring soul. I feel at ease swimming the stratosphere. It's safe up here, away from the busy planet below and its foul traffic. Even if we were impossible enough to fall victim to birdstrike up here, we could take a long necked swan dive back to earth, either slowing the swoop to safety or letting me see all the cloudy sediments of the sky and wish them goodbye as I sink through a swan song. If my last listen was to Teatro D'Ira, I'd sing out until my lungs lost pressure.

An almost well-balanced veggie meal is conveyed to me by the smiling stewardess of the sky, but I know that combating the lack of capacity to taste in the drier-than-the-Sahara-desert environment of an air pumping plane means they plump out the blandness of the food with salt and sugar. I don't feel like dealing with that digestively. Yet in perfect human paradox, I would happily play poker face over the dealings of some wine. My only excuse being that my familiarity with whatever poison they have, piss yellow and lukewarm, would give me much more confidence of sticking, than the twist of whatever half-heated tray meal the airline provides.

Later, after watching the façade defiling Richard Says Goodbye sober, I indulge two glasses of the Chenin Blanc (one weakened in flavour and impact by Sprite, the other pure) but then give up on reading Being and Time, to take in two glasses of champagne and Let Them All Talk on the gloriously delicate edge of tipsy.

I arrive in Mexico City, having gently descended back into sobriety, filled with all the artistry I have flown with. I've dried off after a beautiful swim in the sky.