Approximately one week ago on a plane ride to Paris, France I could not sleep so I sort of sauntered between thoughts, the narrow aisles of the plane, and agoraphobia.  There is something completely unsettling about transatlantic plane trips that span over night.  It’s the expectation that everyone on board should sleep at the same time.  I wonder if the pilots envy us passengers while they have to stay awake and we sleep or if they come out and stroll amongst us and consider whose carry-on or personal item they could rifle through without being noticed.

With each safety video I tell myself that if in the event of an emergency landing and evacuation I will not leave behind my personal item.  It always contains my camera and if I survived I would want to document the most movie-like moment of my life.  If told to leave the bag small enough to fit under the seat in front of me I would tell the flight attendants it contained my life sustaining medications.  If it were a water landing I would swallow the SD card.

I closed my eyes about twenty minutes into the screening of Mirror Mirror and I had a feeling of weightless movement.  Separate from the movement of the plane, the same as the moment at the peak of a roller coaster, just before the descent.  Strapped to a machine that will pull you back down with it, doing so violently and without consent wrenching the bottom out from under you.  Otherwise, if you timed it just right, you could float out of your coaster cart and never have to descend again.