:mattLandia:

I spent last night flying above the tropical green canopy of a mountainous island bay with my Grandaddy in what I think was a WWII B-17 bomber. Grandaddy took great pleasure in featuring the various performance aspects the plane, such as stalling the engine and letting us slide into a slow albatross spiral. As we quietly plummeted towards the jungle below, he would hoot with glee and then throttle the props back to life, pulling us back into the blue, my panic turning to pure elation. I can feel the breeze coming through the cracked cockpit window, and the rumble of propellers through steel and aluminum. I can smell the oil and fuel. We don't talk much. There is no need. His smile says it all. It's been 15 years or so since I visited with Granddaddy in my mind's night, so the dream sticks with me as I pull through the cloud of morning sleep into the dark quiet of Wednesday morning. Good to see you old man. Glad to see your still flying.

Posted by mattLandia at 09:43 AM | Permalink

I'm sitting on the Northbound connector - rockin' the Hyundai. I'm surfing morning shows, squinting into another late morning, on auto-pilot. Toucher, that douchebag, is on the radio occupying my headspace like a pair of wet jeans under the covers. "And now the latest from U2, Vertigo"... Uno, dos, tres, catorce.

I am in an arena, rows away from the left corner of the stage near The Edge. I'm wearing ripped jeans, a white t-shirt and I have the volume of a thousand unfullfilled men coming up out of my throat. I am a revolutionary, and I am coming up out of the masses. "Uno dos tres catorce. Uno dos tres catorce. UNO DOS TRES CATORCE" I am a sonic Che, complete with mustache, and I will overcome oppression.

I am heard. The blue lensed singer reaches down to a pop-politic comrade and I ride the shoulders of thick yellow shirted men into the light. "Your head can't rule your heart.." I am possesed. I am resolute against the light and staring across a sea of jealous discontent, my volume on 11, hurling lyrics to the rafters, "..of ink with gold, these boys play rock and roll..."

I swagger to the mic, forehead to forehead with Bono, and with large, pulsating rock and roll neck veins in full coil, I bend in back-arching euphoria. "Hello, hello! I'm at a place called Vertigo It's everything I wish I didn't know Except you give me something I can feel..."

"Feel-ee-eeell."

LURCH. The house lights melt into brakelights. I'm left here, on 4 wheels in a long line of industrial habit, in the sole company of Korean hi-fi speakers and cold toast, wondering how you write 'Feel' the way Bono sings it.

Posted by mattLandia at 09:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)