ROSIN THE BOW
Up and above Europe’s broken glass mosaic I sat next to a sleeping old man and the window. Every house and ant of a person sat below. It's easy to get sentimental about it all when your heart is crossing over the lemon meringue Alps as they stop living as mountains and become a diorama in a science fair project. So then you're not in the sky or Europe at all anymore. You're in an elementary school gym with carpet instead of a hardwood that burns your knees and shows all of the spit-out gum, stuck forever.
Any house with a chimney with smoke billowing out and twisting into the clouds can make you feel all the hell of the way sentimental. Some people might say that up there is when a person is able to get a bit of perspective, as if there's this one way that's better to look at things than another way. They’re probably right.
When you're in the sky and your plane is cutting through cotton balls, and all you can see is the white on top of some giant rocks and wonder if Greenland or northern Scotland might look the same, and the flight attendants give you coffee and a biscuit for free, and that house with a chimney in the middle of nowhere sticks out like a smoking pimple on God's crooked nose, you realize that that's the middle of everywhere for the person in that house and that out their window the giant plane you're in looks so incredibly small that they can't even see your face enough to know how big or small you are.
But the only time you feel small in a plane is when you're flying over water, and you see your reflection and realize that you're surrounded by nothing but the sky and the water. When you're above the mountains, you are the mountains.
Up and above Europe’s broken glass mosaic I sat next to a sleeping old man and the window. Every house and ant of a person sat below. It's easy to get sentimental about it all when your heart is crossing over the lemon meringue Alps as they stop living as mountains and become a diorama in a science fair project. So then you're not in the sky or Europe at all anymore. You're in an elementary school gym with carpet instead of a hardwood that burns your knees and shows all of the spit-out gum, stuck forever.
Any house with a chimney with smoke billowing out and twisting into the clouds can make you feel all the hell of the way sentimental. Some people might say that up there is when a person is able to get a bit of perspective, as if there's this one way that's better to look at things than another way. They’re probably right.
When you're in the sky and your plane is cutting through cotton balls, and all you can see is the white on top of some giant rocks and wonder if Greenland or northern Scotland might look the same, and the flight attendants give you coffee and a biscuit for free, and that house with a chimney in the middle of nowhere sticks out like a smoking pimple on God's crooked nose, you realize that that's the middle of everywhere for the person in that house and that out their window the giant plane you're in looks so incredibly small that they can't even see your face enough to know how big or small you are.
But the only time you feel small in a plane is when you're flying over water, and you see your reflection and realize that you're surrounded by nothing but the sky and the water. When you're above the mountains, you are the mountains.