Up and out I go.

Berkeley. Berkeley. Berkeley.

I have a window seat, 17 F to be exact. Getting on the plane, however, was certainly not exact. My mind was a mess. Splattered into a million tiny specks of circumstance and what ifs and why comes and such. So, I left my boarding pass at check in - as it was pointed out to me at baggage check. Whoops. Not a very efficient use of time, Krissi. Then I dropped my wallet and my roughly 40 one dollar bar bills spilled across the busy airport floor. One of the busy passerbys surely assumed I earned those on the pole. I would have assumed such.

Geez.

One should be clearheaded and focused to travel. Or not. I choose not. My lunch, the triple V of V8, vodka and valium created just enough fuzz to remind me how I stay up. I feel no shame towards my efforts to self medicate. This is a mad world and travel is a jabbing reminder of that truth. We have to imagine, contemplate and prepare for the worst case scenario. So as to prevent it. It: the crash. It: the terrorist. It: the turbulence. It: the Bermuda Triangle. (I may be the only traveler in the continental United State to worry about this phenomenon.)

When at airports, I follow the rules. Wait patiently. Smile. I understand the dark parts of the human psyche. And gravity. What goes up, must come down. I understand that it is these factors that make traveling such a drawn-out chore. I understand that traveling is not always polite and seamless. How could millions of travelers each day maintain calm and good and pure at heart? People fall from grace, just as planes fall from the sky; it is simply the nature of this existence.

What I do not understand is how such a weighted ton of steel and energy and explosive gasses stays afloat. Or how we as humans manage to raise up when, we feel the knees of circumstance pressing into the backs of our necks. Miraculous engineering of brains & planes.

There are numerous external and internal factors to examine and encounter when flying. Enough contemplation to make the ears smoke. So, I cocktail. (I shall use that as a verb.) To take the edge off the seemingly inevitable possibility that we shall fall. From the sky, from grace. Whatever. So, yes, cocktailing is a necessary travel companion. This notion was cemented by others as I sat in an ABIA sports bar amongst many weary-eyed cocktailers. They were scribbling on napkins - adding Boeing 747 + sky + safe and it never quite equaled up. Seems more like magic than science. So, they guzzled $8 Heineken and called upon their faith.

Now, here I sit. Mashing my heavy head into the thick pane and studying the earth through the window of a Shrinky Drink Oven. Treetops turn to broccoli crowns and buildings to Tetris blocks. The clouds make skeleton knuckles. Wisps, whispers, wishes, waves. Swooshes, dollops, dances, frolics. And, if we are lucky, when weaved together, they form a buoyant safety net just below. Just in case. Just because. Behind me: the grind. Ahead: bridges and bays and stiff white bed sheets. Cool air that I am not accustomed to.

Oh, and it is Fleet Week in SF. An army of men working only to do one thing: stay up. Up, Up, Up. No fallen soldiers in this parade. Just jets and ships and j.a.g.s. All upright. Defying the odds. Defying the gravity. Standing tall. Up and out. Together, we go.