Brian Purcell #9 The Weightless Graveyard of Planes

The Weightless Graveyard of Planes

Nothing that I understood was quite as raw as this, there was no consolation that it was the law. The phoenix rose to a place near heaven, the weightless graveyard of planes. I remember driving upwards for hours until I reached this plateau. So high, flat and endless. The sun was closer, the smoke of industry dissipating far below. And nothing on that plain existed below, the cropped grass a more intense green. Amor intense, but with whom? It seemed like a lover had walked on those plains, but had somehow left the frame.

I remember her waving, walking down a path no-one could follow. Almost imperceptibly the grass became longer, thigh-height, pampas, that I saw give way to soft green bushes, in turn giving way to small trees. And so on. And then she was gone. Or it was only a prelude to an advertisement for chocolate or menthol cigarettes, springs and waterfalls and the breathless smoke sent up by the rocks that the water had struck and vanished. This was a long time ago, several minutes, I can’t remember if it was a lover or a model, someone my children had carved from clay, dried and glazed, a super smile on its large clay head. No eyes, no nose, just a big smiling mouth. But lover or model, she may be there now, lately arrived at the weightless graveyard of planes.

And the thin hostesses (who no longer have to justify their anorexia, as there is no food) they have managed to weave an incredible garland of arctic flowers, and tentatively approach my lover (I hope you don’t mind me using that word, though I just can’t remember if it is true) stroking her bright yellow hair with the utmost solicitude, my lover is possessed by that large smile my children have painted, and simply closes her eyes, which she no longer needs.

After the directions have been taken, and it has been acknowledged that there is only one way down, we all group together in order to arrange the journey. But the glimpse over the edge is daunting, the track steep enough to challenge a mountaineer, and the hostesses have had no food for a very long time. Some of them take out their menthol cigarettes, that the grateful advertiser keeps dropping by monthly plane onto the plateau. The way they smoke is like true poetry, so rare in these times, and the children are astonished by the curlicues of smoke, that always rise heavenward.

Hearing the plane, the hostesses look up, no longer asking why there are no other rations, anything more sustaining, they stroll gracefully over to unstrap the packages, and distribute the cartons. We all know and receive our share, there are no arguments. And yet now they look over the side of the plateau, they have doubts. Some turn, unsteadily, towards the weightless graveyard. There is certainty there, and a few enjoy strapping themselves into the seats of an open fuselage, dreaming of flight, before contemplating the descent that they must make.