A Small Taste from My Journal
When the plane starts to shake violently, I immediately think of two things: 1) the Tailies, and 2) Tyler Durden.
I think about the plane splitting in three, and finding myself, seated as I am in the third to last row (near the toilets), amongst a rag-tag group of magical island castaways. I think of preemptively shooting Ana Lucia. No one would have missed her anyway.
I also think of the phrase, “… water landing at 700 miles per hour.” I agree with Tyler - I don’t think the brace position is going to cut it.
And I think of myself at 17 - I guess this is three things - riding in a 16-seat commuter plane through one of the worst wind storms in modern memory. It was like being on a roller coaster.
So is it LOST that has so effected my joie de turbulence? As I sit there, gripping the Asian vegetarian meal I unfortunately dared to request, I wonder when did I get so old that I fear falling from the sky? Have I finally gotten wise to the seemingly impossible physics of air travel? Or is it simply the ten or more 300-plus Americans I saw board the plane in LAX?
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