On a small plane travelling east towards Poland, the setting sun on the clouds makes me think of a million sheep being led to pasture. The orange sorbet, tangerine dream sunset glows softly. A child sings a relentless rendition of “Vive le Vent,” French equivalent to “Jingle Bells.” I try to imagine how it would feel to be a mother, unable to silence your offspring in such a confined area. I am overcome with a sudden surge of relief at my own better judgement. I’ve always known that motherhood wouldn’t suit me.
I’ve been drinking far too much for far too long. My body is now stubbornly refusing to stay thin. My pants are cutting into my once flat stomach. As a reminder to me I suppose. Of where I have been and where I am headed. I imagine my body like the trunk of a tree, every ring representing a year. For me, the thin years would represent spiritual, moral growth. The thick years would be the evidence of time wasted, of sickness of body and spirit. In spite of my new literary endeavor, 2012 seems to have left an awfully thick ring.
I watch a movie on the computer of teenage boys between the seats in front of me. Vanessa Paradis seems to be the star of the film. She has a really perfect mouth like a beautiful rose that a sweet lover like Sacha would offer you. She has really imperfect teeth. This imperfection only makes her more charming. The film takes place in Monte-Carlo. This makes my mind stray to Théo . I once said to him (ok, probably 1,000 times) that my ass was becoming the size of a small country. He suggested Luxembourg or maybe Liechtenstein. I told him I preferred Monaco. It is a place I am more familiar with. In my white wine-in-a-plastic-cup mind, gliding over the Italian Alps, my ass is like a new tax haven, a place where one can deposit his wealth in secret. This idea pleases me immensely.
I am writing now because my efforts to communicate with my spouse have not been successful. Now that I am happily occupied, scribbling away, he pouts because I am no longer paying attention to him. This is not part of the script he has envisioned for our flight together. I suppose that he fears me writing about him. Or about us. Well, those fears are quite warranted. I see my married life like a game of second-guessing. I always know what he is going to want before he does. I try to make sure to give it to him before he asks because the sheer repetitive quality of his requests makes me feel completely crazy. I go to great lengths to avoid hearing them. There are times when I just quit playing and do things my way. He is always a bit bewildered. Marital troubles shared with my friend AM. (we could both easily forgive our spouses most anything, if only we were getting laid on a regular basis.)
I imagine diirrty flying on some other airplane over some other beautiful landscape and then I imagine how it would be meeting him in the tiny lavatory of this very airplane, how our bodies would compensate for the lack of available space, clicking together like Lego’s, enmeshed, entangled, him filling my empty spaces, the space between, limbs entwined, rolled up into compact unity-a ball of yarn of a thousand amazing colors. I got a full-scale wax job yesterday, not really because I anticipate putting that freshly plowed landing strip to use, it’s more so an effort to be as appealing as possible by the pool of our hotel in Kraków. But as I think of this not so romantic interlude in the toilets, my glabrous wa seems to be taking on a life of its own. The image of an oyster being sprayed with lemon comes to mind…although it can’t speak, it is alive. Communicating. Reacting to stimulus. It flinches. I allow myself to think for just an instant of his mouth buried in it, his rough chin in contrast to my softness, his prickliness to my new-found baldness. Dancing on his 5 o’clock shadow. Shadow dancing I guess. I can feel myself liquefying. I am fascinated by how a simple idea, a fantasy, can have such real, physical manifestations. The fantasy is invisible but the result is tangible. And wet.
To feel aroused in public embarrasses me. In such a small space with so many other people. I cut myself off. I think of how in France, after the Second World War, militia groups scoured the country in search of women who had slept with the Germans. They were brought to public squares and had their heads shaved as punishment for their betrayal to their country. I can imagine the humiliation that they must have felt, and the ugliness. The heartbreak as well having probably lost a lover forever. We are en route for Kraków, Poland. It is close to Auschwitz. We won’t be visiting the camp. I have visited the Jewish Cemetery in Prague. That was enough. There is something appalling to me about how a place so filled with horror can be a tourist attraction at the same time. I say, “There should not be vendors selling refreshments at Auschwitz.” although there probably are. People are generally solemn and respectful in places so charged with emotion but there is always at least one asshole in every crowd. I can’t bear it.
I think I’ll stop here. I AM the passive voice!