The Flight of the Rocketman

"Each wave is a different size, and meets a different resistance, and as a result there is an infinite variety of rippling, breaking, chopping, gliding... The pattern is never once the same. Do you see what I mean? Do you understand me, Steve Nicolin? You rather be holding on to what can be made to last than out hunting the new. But good luck to you, brother. Do some good for us out there." - The Wild Shore by Kim Stanley Robinson

It is another sunrise that I have come to meet with my back turned. Another night that I remain awake until the morning. It is not healthy but I find that with the kind of life I meet, I'll take my seclusion and solitude when it comes, in whatever form - be it alone in an elevator or 4 o'clock in the morning where everybody is asleep.

I will admit this much: there was a point of time, about 4 weeks ago, where I had failed to sleep at all and I took a trip to Tagaytay. On my return, right after dinner, I went straight to bed. I slept at 8 in the evening. When I woke, it was 7 in the morning. There was much that I was able to accomplish because I wasn't rushing for time. Everything is just opening and things move so much more smoothly. The following days were greeted with the same routine of early sleep and early awakening. The whole world was at my feet. My body felt rested, I will admit that I looked better and ate less. But all it takes is one paycheck and a weekend out with friends to revert back to my old life.

My old life. I make it sound like I'm 67. How old must one person be before he can say back in the days, considering I find myself saying that often. As long as you are living your life well, fully can you say that phrase. Back in the days. Nostalgia is a kind of punishment, isn't it? Looking back at history with a certain bit of longing. Remembering the good old times, as they would say. Why do we constantly flog ourselves when we all know that regret is such a bitter pill to drink?

Because we can not where we are going if we do not know the route that we take. It is as if the road vanishes from view if it has to begin from that point. It must begin at the beginning or else it is not a story. And we are all just stories waiting to end and then, eventually, we are just stories that must be told.

Slowly, the temperature fluctuates. The cold air still lingers but the sun begins to sizzle. My feet, covered in the darkness below the counter where the computer sits remains in the cold. The back of my neck is struck by a sliver of sunlight and it begins to burn. My senses are sharp right now. I'm about 10 feet away from the speaker but I can distinguish every instrument being played in the song that is coming out of the CD player. I can feel every nerve begin to fire up. It's a last ditch effort to remain awake as my whole body is beginning to require some rest.

I just watched People I Know with Al Pacino, Kim Basinger and Tea Leoni. Quite a sad film, actually. I don't remember having ever seen Al Pacino so tired or washed out or defeated. What a character to play! A very urban, New York type of Willie Loman for the 21st Century. It isn't going to be a classic. The analogy is weak because Willy Loman will always be remembered and Al Pacino will always be remembered for better films. But there was a time I wanted to work in PR and use my social skills to its utmost potential and schmooze my way to a certain sort of success. But after a while, I prefer that my smiles remain sincere while I can still afford them to be. I can be tired but I don't ever want to be jaded.

And now the house comes alive. It will begin its regular dose of rejuvenation as the floors will be swept, mopped, waxed or whatever. Water will be boiled for coffee or tea. Dirty laundry will be picked up and brought to the washing machine. As everything comes alive, I prepare to let my body go and sleep.

The Rocketman glides his hands over the steel fuselage of his ship. He has gone all over the infinite blackness of space with his yet unnamed vessel. He re-fuels it, gives it a good wash, gives it a tune-up on a regular basis. But there is no better way for him to show his affection and gratitude except by putting his skin onto the vessel and taking it from top to bottom before going back home. That there is still this connection even if they are not traveling in space. That it is admired and loved even when it is not doing its purpose. To love something even after it has fulfilled its purpose is a kind of gratitude. He picks up his helmet from the ground and begins to walk away. He will go home and rest. He will speak to his family and tell them all that he has seen. He will fly again. Maybe tomorrow. But as he walks away from the vessel, he whispers "We will fly again, baby, we will fly again." And though it is just an object without the capacity to hear, it knows it is loved.