HOLD ON TIGHT

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. ~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot Monday, March 12, 2007 new paltz, new york. steel nerves, says "batman", shaking his head. "batman" isn't really batman, he traded his executive dayjob and name to jump off planes for a living. at 13500 feet, new paltz stretches beneath me, the white and brown landscape is like a naked woman, free of pretenses, stark, beautiful. it is so beautiful that it leaves you in the absence of fear. my body flips, unsteady. then, i compose myself, tell myself i was once a dancer, i fall into an arch, stretch my arms, glide. at that altitude, you are so far removed from the ground that even as you plunge downwards, the earth ceases to advance towards you. in the 55 seconds of freefall you have between 13500 and 7000 feet, this produces the optical illusion of flight. it is winter in new paltz, but the loco ones come back in spite of the cold, say andre. andre is russian, his words tumble from his lips, thick as crust on bread. one of the men shoots an air rifle into the air, with flourish. he is injured, he had a bad accident, he is shorter now, he says, now that he has broken his back and neck twice. igor comes in, the skinny german with red emo specs, an orange parachute and pink shoes, this is his third jump of the day. he blazes against a pale sky like a firebird. he lands, the crunch of shoes meeting new fallen snow. a windsock in the middle of the airfield, orange against white. in the plane, the bearded veterans discuss the base jumping, sneaking into buildings afterdark, hiding, and waiting when all the lights have gone out, to freefall over a land of lights. they chuckle conspiratorically, before joining hands, and falling together into the wilderness. there is always nearly a car to pick them up, i hear, so they can pack their parachutes, and quickly melt into the dark. in summer, "batman" says, they pitch tents in the woods, make fires. there is much singing and beer. then all sleep under the stars. by sunday, the campers leave, returning to their cluttered lives. it is dusk. ams, the other russian and igor sit in the front of his car. russian trance plays to a landscape of sleeping trees, brown grass, white snow. quiet settles into me, the slow calm of a slow parachute ride into sleep. posted by dawn # 12:28 AM Comments: Post a Comment << Home		[publishing] Publishers Weekly . Dystel & Goderich . New York Center for Independent Publishing . Association of American University Presses . Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators [people] clarisse . nurul . aunty zarina (ummi's bakery) . jeremy . pak . cyril . softblow . karen & kenny (booksactually) . eric . joel . [other loves] digitaljournalist . ballet dictionary . poetshouse . urbanwordnyc [me] dawn, singapore, new york city, ithaca. [yesterday] meeting poet ken french and his partner is lovely.... the paradox of pain (from the book of 5am stories) i miss humidity, thunderstorms, perspiring and wea... bukit timah and bare naked ladies a general detachment, from love, from things. perh... if the influence of the sunlight love and learning dear god.i beg you to help me sleep. flowers, and etc [archives] January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot

Monday, March 12, 2007

new paltz, new york.

steel nerves, says "batman", shaking his head. "batman" isn't really batman, he traded his executive dayjob and name to jump off planes for a living. at 13500 feet, new paltz stretches beneath me, the white and brown landscape is like a naked woman, free of pretenses, stark, beautiful. it is so beautiful that it leaves you in the absence of fear. my body flips, unsteady. then, i compose myself, tell myself i was once a dancer, i fall into an arch, stretch my arms, glide. at that altitude, you are so far removed from the ground that even as you plunge downwards, the earth ceases to advance towards you. in the 55 seconds of freefall you have between 13500 and 7000 feet, this produces the optical illusion of flight.

it is winter in new paltz, but the loco ones come back in spite of the cold, say andre. andre is russian, his words tumble from his lips, thick as crust on bread. one of the men shoots an air rifle into the air, with flourish. he is injured, he had a bad accident, he is shorter now, he says, now that he has broken his back and neck twice. igor comes in, the skinny german with red emo specs, an orange parachute and pink shoes, this is his third jump of the day. he blazes against a pale sky like a firebird. he lands, the crunch of shoes meeting new fallen snow.

a windsock in the middle of the airfield, orange against white.

in the plane, the bearded veterans discuss the base jumping, sneaking into buildings afterdark, hiding, and waiting when all the lights have gone out, to freefall over a land of lights. they chuckle conspiratorically, before joining hands, and falling together into the wilderness. there is always nearly a car to pick them up, i hear, so they can pack their parachutes, and quickly melt into the dark.

in summer, "batman" says, they pitch tents in the woods, make fires. there is much singing and beer. then all sleep under the stars. by sunday, the campers leave, returning to their cluttered lives.

it is dusk. ams, the other russian and igor sit in the front of his car. russian trance plays to a landscape of sleeping trees, brown grass, white snow. quiet settles into me, the slow calm of a slow parachute ride into sleep.

posted by dawn # 12:28 AM

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