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19 the wind i mean There are knobs he turns and knobs he pulls and knobs he pushes and knobs he turns slowly and knobs he turns quickly, a knob that changes the speed of the propeller and a metal bar on the floor he raises or lowers and something else that feels like the plane is stopping, like we are not so much flying as floating— bobber on a line, tugged by current, as though what’s controlling us is above us, not him in the seat beside me, one hand on my knee, the other on the yoke, not him rolling a cigarette, tapping ash out the window, Sonic Youth on the headsets— as though this is a secret we both know but can’t share— I could call it crosswind, the rear of the plane swishing like the tail of a fish, or the tailwind that makes us fast, the headwind like a wall, the shudder of carburetor ice, or just mild turbulence, not even the kind that could shake us like a ball attached to a paddle by elastic string, fling us against the roof, the walls, if we weren’t buckled in— but it isn’t the wind I mean. ...

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