Tag Archives: co-pilot

“It’s Alright, It’s Alright! ALL-RIGHT! She Moves — In Mysterious Ways!”

En route to Lompoc, to jump out of a plane.  Bono is screaming about love.

And when is he not, that preacher of the better part of us?

Here comes an unexpected detour.  I catch myself thinking:  I cannot wait to fly!

But instead, I make Bono hush down for a bit and watch my co-pilot navigate through the unknown neighborhood with patience I am known to not possess. I’m intense, even in my mightiest lightness.  We follow the neon orange signs that appear dusty and somehow tired.  It’s a beach town, and other drivers aren’t in a hurry at all.  Around the bend, however, I see the pillars of the 101:  The cars are zooming by.  Freedom!

“I WANNA RUN!” Bono is back to screaming, screeching occasionally, to get the message across.

The last text I send, before turning off my cell phone, is to my BFF — my most kindred heart in this world that has put up with my messy head and impatient soul for over a decade, without much objection.  She is my In Case of Emergency; has been, since college.  Sure, there have been partners before, who would take over that burden, on an adventure or two.  But once they go — the job returns to my most kindred heart.

“In the name of love!

One more!  In the name of love!”

Ah:  St. Bono!

Interestingly, my BFF and I have rarely spoken about our heartbreaks to each other.  Perhaps, it’s because we both know that even when a heart breaks — it gets better, with choice.  And our choice has always been for the better parts of us.

Bono puts in his two cents:  

“You’re dangerous, 

‘Cause you’re honest.”

On this part of the 101, the traffic moves.  It’s a two-lane construction and we all seem to be quite certain about where we’re going.

For miles and miles, I see California — and it is glorious!

Here she is, stretching in front of me like a reclining redhead, so sure of her witchcraft; with her floor-length hair spilling around her nudity like a shadow.  In the fields and farmlands, I am exploring her long limbs:  This girl’s got some freckles on her!

When passing through her mountains, I enter her mysterious parts:  the curvatures of her hips, and the dimples on her lower back, the hills of her sumptuous behind.  In between two green peaks, I am aware of my privilege:  My glorious girl has just let me inside.  She has surrendered.  I dive.  I hold my breath a little, pop my ears.  I come out on top.

Bono chimes in:

“It’s alright, it’s alright!  ALL-RIGHT!  

She moves in mysterious ways.”

We take the onramp:  1 North.  I’m in the vineyards now:  In her hair follicles, behind her earlobes, heading toward the magnificent head of the State.  I do love it up there, but I’ve gotta make a stop (somewhere along her clavicle, perhaps):  So that I can jump out of the plane — and into the next chapter of me.

And I am thinking:  I cannot wait already!  And I feel so light!

We pull off onto the side of the road:  Here.  Finally!  But if it weren’t for the single-engine aircraft that looks like it’s been constructed from scrap metal found nearby, I wouldn’t know it.

We check in with a girl next door — at the front desk.  She’s skydived 87 times by now!  Badass.

In a company of a giggling young lovebirds, we watch two safety videos.

Sign off our lives.

On the other side of the building where we’ve been sent to wait for our instructors, I see a handful of young boys cracking themselves up at the footage of other people’s faces blown into the hideous grins by the g-force.  As these impatient souls fall out of the plane, one by one, the video plays music.  But I can lipread:

“HOLY SHIIIT!”

“OH MY GOD!”

And:

“FU-AHH-UCK!”

I laugh.  I feel so light, so fearless!

Can’t I just live like this forever and ever, in a perpetual state of expecting my next flight?!

On the other side of the divider, two other badasses are crawling all over the carpeted floor, putting together parachutes.  And I see her — IMMEDIATELY:

She is exactly my height, small and equally as brown; with an intense face, that also resembles mine, even in the moments of my mightiest lightness.  Besides a sports bra and a pair of boy shorts, she is wearing a pair of giant headphones. She’s in her head.  After all:  She’s got human lives in those brown, strong hands of hers.

“Yo, Eric!” she screams out and lifts up one of the headphone muffs.  “Fuck the apple!  Get me a Red Bull, yeah?”

And then, she’s back to crawling all over the carpeted floor:  Badass!  She untangles the lines, gathers the off-white nylon into her arms and dives.  The cloud catches her small, brown body and it deflates, slowly.

“Vera?  Um.  VIE-RRA?!”

Another brown girl has been calling me over:  It’s time for the gear.  She is a sweetheart, but her hands know exactly what to do:  Badass!  She insists on talking to me the entire time, but about life and something so light and so fearless.  The harness is heavy and I feel grateful for that:  It weighs me down, or I would fly off, from all this lightness and love.

And suddenly, I’m thinking:  I’m not fear-less.  I’m:  Fear-none!

I hear the rickety, single-engine aircraft land.  Soon enough, the skydivers start coming down, and they rush through our waiting zone with forever changed faces.

“How was it?” I ask a young boy with a headful of crazy curls.

“OH, SHIT!  AMAZING, MAN!”

He’s screaming at me, with an Aussie accent:  I’m the first civilian soul to meet him on the ground, and I bet if I weren’t being strapped in right then, he would kiss me, open-mouthed, on the lips:  So light!  So fear-none!

The instructors arrive last:  They are in red t-shirts and shorts, as if they’ve just come out to play some beach volleyball.  But they’re wearing the backpack-looking things on their shoulders, while carrying the white bubbles of chutes in their arms.  Badasses!

One of the instructors immediately chips off and goes to grab a bite of pizza.  He devours two bites.

“Um.  Vie-rra?”

I look up:  The badass to take me flying is heading toward us, with an already extended arm for a handshake, even though he’s uncertain which of the impatient souls on standby I must be.

I inhale.  Here I go:

Not fearless — but fear-none!

(To Be Continued.)

“Suga, Suga: How You Get So Fly?”

As you can clearly see from the rant blog by yours truly (better tagged by one her readers as “a very pretty cunt”), I have never been at a lack for words.  Also, due to a significant number of years invested in my education (still happening, by the way), I have acquired the skills necessary for choosing those words precisely and, hopefully, with time, quite wisely.

But I shall confess:  My recent break-up — left me utterly speechless Because there we were:  a couple of friends who were slowly — and gracefully — becoming a couple.  The affair had a very natural flow to it.  For the first half of it, we were taking it slowly; cruising along as lovers who enjoyed each other’s company immensely.  Days at a time were spent together, without either one of us acquiring an anxiety or getting on each other’s nerves.  And the best part about this ordeal was that we “chose” to spend time with each other; and in that choice, there was a wonderful amount of freedom and dignity.  No one was making demands.  No one was feeling trapped.  We were in this — willingly.  (Or at least, so I thought.)

Sooner or later, however, there was a turning point; or as I like to call it:  “Time for an Upgrade”.  The lovers began traveling together.  They maintained a daily contact.  Friends were being met.  Questions were being answered to family members (how ever carefully, on my part).  Yet still, the affair was characterized by an certain ease:  Both lovers were still in it, seemingly willingly, and no one was asking for any assurances.  We — were cruising.

Perhaps, it was because this “very pretty cunt” has always been quite independent.  Not since a tumultuous marriage way back when have I treated a relationship as a solution to my personal lacks.  Perfectly complete and competent on my own, I treat a partner as a mere traveling companion:  I choose (here is that word again!) to spend time with him; and that’s just so much better!

Moreover, I don’t believe in making demands from a man; because for the lack of better words (of which, may I remind you, I rarely have a deficit):  Making demands — reeks of despair.  And I just don’t do despair.  Fear causes wrinkles on my face and makes my hair fall out.  Chalk it up to my vanity thing.  So.  Yeah.  I don’t do dat!  Fo’ shiz.

Which means that I’m never the broad to demand keys to my guy’s apartment, or a ring; or a notarized contract on the chronology of “where exactly all this is going” — with clearly established deadlines.  I mean, I have NEVER even asked for a relationship update on his fucking Facebook!  (And by the look of it, I will NEVER have that opportunity in the future either, because at this point, my Facebook profile — belongs to my rant blog.  I’m a working girl, you see:  Whomever I may be shagging at the time — that’s irrelevant for my networks.)

“I’ve always seen you as this…  how should I say it?… a free spirit,” one of my witnesses testified over a month ago.  Every bit of a gentle-man, this creature has learned to deal with my radical opinions with admirable tolerance and subdued judgement.  That day, he gently confronted me about my aloofness toward this now obviously significant other.

“Perhaps, you’ve never been in a normal relationship — because it’s YOU who’s avoiding it.  And if this man is important to you, you must tell him that!”

Oh, no!  Oy, nyet!  Have I become too much of a cruiser?  One of those bohemian, universal-love, everything-happens-for-a-reason, Namaste chicks?  Nothing wrong with that, of course; but regardless of my love of freedom — and my respect for my partner’s freedom (AND his choice) — I do aspire to be IN a relationship.  In a LOVE!  So, have I been disrespecting this beloved man of mine with my aloofness?  Have I kept him at bay by “taking it easy” and “just going with it” — just “cruising”?!

“I must correct that!” I thought.  “He needs to know that I love him, that I am — ‘committed’!”

And so I did!  At the very next opportunity for mutually free time, I brought it up.

Cut to:  It was over.

Yep, in that very same talk that was merely meant to communicate my feelings and clarify my intensions, my man’s response was that HE — “just wasn’t ready for a commitment”.

I was speechless. 

And because I was speechless, I turned to the other gentle-men in my life, for their capable and eloquent evaluations.  Here is one testimony:

“So I was reading an article about airline pilots, and they all agree the most comfortable and safest part of the flight is ‘the cruise’… which is the max comfortable cruising altitude.  All blue skies up there.  They can even take a nap legally, eat, and talk about their lives.

On the contrary, the most dangerous part of a flight is take-off and landing. The point: Changes in altitude are dangerous.

Your relationships was in ‘the cruise’.  And your [relationship talk] was a request for a change of altitude.  Higher.  Thinner air.  The plane (your relationship) needs more speed to stay aloft.  Makes ‘pilots’ nervous.”

Um…  Okay.  I hear that!  Trust me, there ain’t another woman I know better equipped for the cruising mode — than me.  And when it came to this particular affair (now, obviously NOT a “relationship”) — I was a fucking co-pilot!  It took other gentle-men — people of my man’s kind — to remind me to treat my partner with the respect, and the recognition, and the acknowledgement that he deserved:  To let him step into my cockpit.

And may I also say:  What is it about the mere word “relationship” that makes so many men so very, very nervous?  Why have there been so many tales of gentle-men treating a commitment like a life sentence?  Or a fucking plane crash?

I cannot speak for other women here, but this “very pretty cunt” was not asking her man for obedience or some materialistic assurances.  Due to the mere fact of my overprotectiveness of my own freedom, I wasn’t asking for the surrender of his. 

No, my gentle-creatures:  This co-pilot was not demanding to take over the control panel of that bloody aircraft.  I was not changing the course of our cruising or contacting the ground station for the coordinates of our final destination.  The very respectful conversation that ended us — in mid-flight! — was merely meant to establish the equality of our titles as “co-pilots”.  I dared to ask for a recognition, just so that to other gentle-men and -women in my life, my relationship didn’t sound like morse code.

But don’t you worry, my gentle-creatures:  This pilot — this “very pretty cunt” — shall be quite alright.  Because she’s never latched onto her man for survival or asked him to pay for her fuel, the return to flight will resume sooner rather than later.  And judging by this rant blog, even her speech is quickly coming back to her.

So, okay:  It’ll be a lil’ while before she regains any communication with the self-dismissed co-traveler (obviously NOT a co-pilot!).  And it will be an even longer while until another fearless pilot steps-up to the plate to co-navigate to higher, unknown, thrilling altitudes.  But until then, she’ll just enjoy this unexpected landing and explore the scenery of self-examination she otherwise would not have gotten a chance to witness.  Because this free spirit — was NEVER afraid of cruising!