white noise

I haven’t seen the movie United 93 and I won’t.

I defy terrorists and defeat terrorism every time I set foot on a plane. I think about flying now and a cold, strangling fear crawls up my spine. It wasn’t always this way. I loved flying; I loved feeling the plane take off from the runway, the quick acceleration, the rapid rise, how it pressed me back into my seat. I loved the way the world beneath me grew smaller and smaller, until the plane drifted high above the clouds, leaving the ground below with no more shape than a topographical map. Stretches of farm country turned into geometric shapes, mere patterns on a quilt, while I delighted over mountains that shrank to anthills.

Nine-eleven shattered all those tiny thrills.

I haven’t been on a plane since 2003. This coming September, I’m planning a trip for us to visit my family and friends on the west coast. On the trip I made here in 2003, I remember assessing my surroundings in the cabins of both flights (a total of 4 for round trip). I made mental notes of all that which I might use in my defense should one of my fellow passengers be stupid enough to try a takeover. I remember the fear and my resolve. Every passenger plane seems to me an aerial casket now. Now, to overcome my fear, I resign myself to death, into the hands of the Universe because I won’t hand myself over some moron whose noble idea of God relies on killing in the name of said God.

I wouldn’t kill in the name of any God, but it doesn’t stop me from believing I could kill for the sake of survival, or in the name of thwarting another from achieving his or her goal if that goal meant the destruction of others.

Fear is morbid. Predatory. Animal.