Flying has become a mundane experience for most of us who do it today. Not for me though. For me flying is still magic, magic as Christmas when I was boy skating on a frozen pond after drinking a little of my dad's whisky under the northern lights of Motherfucking, Alberta.
Part of the magic is Sonja's insistence that we hold hands as if it might be our last embrace when we take off and land. Magic as the poetry of Patti Smith that is.
As Sonja and most of my fellow passengers dozed in the many contorted positions the flying public gets itself into, I looked out the window like I always do even when there is nothing out the window to look at that is not black as the ace of spades.
As we neared the Canadian border just past midnight last night, already descending towards the beer drinking and Hell raising country that made me the man that I am, I saw something out the window that made all the hours I have spent looking out into the darkness seem worthwhile. It was St. Nick on his sleigh speeding south through the night sky having already delivered presents to all the good children of Dope City and Canada beyond.
Much to my surprise he was pulled through the air, not by fucking Swedish reindeer, but by snow dogs of my own frozen land. The lead dog was none other than the pink nosed ghost of my tireless first dog Strangler. She was snatching the night air with her big furry paws like she had got into my speed stash to make it through this one night a year tear.
Yes, dear readers, there is a motherfucking Santa Claus.
Hands clasped, Sonja and I landed with a fearful bump back in Canada. We left another piece of our hearts in Mexico this year. The rest of us is happy to be home, looking forward to seeing the Hammer, looking forward to what the Mayans have waiting for us in 2012.
3 comments:
The magic of PSmith and aerodynamics is one thing, but....
You had a dog named 'Strangler'?
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Named after the band.
Flying is to magic what Ativan is to happy. You can't have one without the other.
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