Michael Estabrook


Row 13, Friday the 13th, June 2003, flying from Stockholm to London on an Airbus A319, like a crowded train sliding through the sky. I can't imagine following all the emergency instructions, pull this, tighten that, blow into this tube, walk along here, jump out there. I still can't understand the reference to a “water landing,” Jesus, in all the history of aviation has there ever been even one instance of a passenger jet making a “water landing?" Talk about euphemisms, fucking idiots. But I'm not complaining, at least it's not raining, they had a little white pillow to help support my crumbling lower back, and the little old brown woman sitting next to me who's obviously never even seen a seatbelt let alone try to snap one together hasn't yet sneezed on me or had to use the barf bag. Also, I'm superstitious, but not about the number 13 (at least not yet) so keep your fingers crossed that it will remain a good day, particularly during the landing over on runway 1-3.

Mike Estabrook tells Plum Ruby Review that he's "A medievalist at heart (and by training) disappointed (though reconciled) with the modern world, particularly with the materialism and mercantilism bludgeoning life, smashing our brains into the ground, our hearts into dust. I'm still hoping to find a true and meaningful “cause” in life, other than scratching out my pale poetic murmurings like trying to write in hardened concrete. But I need to find my “cause” pretty soon before I turn to dust myself."




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