Looking out the molded porthole, the double-paned punch-out in the jetliner, I see the San Francisco hills growing more and more hunched, crowded and real until the horizon is no longer all sky, high cirrus clouds bent in a hoop, and the deep Pacific inflated far below like a runaway beach ball. Now the world is blowing toward me, and I shall have to walk into it without my wings, taking only the delightful Heinekens the bustling steward poured for me along in my tummy, rolling out into my arteries in breakers of shushing foam. A small man wearing safety orange coveralls comes by in a tram as we brake, hops out, and chucks florescent blocks under the plane’s wheels, which have come down so lightly on the tarmac. The great stretch of getting here is over, and the time when the entire Earth seemed so available and focused, an eye-object I could toss between my hands, that is over too. I no longer have the perspective that lightness and speed had granted in the air. Now I must move among objects with my body, my private mind-world a stranger here, myself an unsober bear swaying weightily on clumsy black paws.