CP (#18) / True North Con
It’s the Constitution, man. That’s our True North. Our internal compass. The True North Con. It’s never failed us. And never will.
True North Con
A dream, or hallucination, takes hold of me when I’m least prepared. I’m flying through the clouds in a single-prop plane, hopping up, down and sideways on billowing gusts of air. My destination is clear in my mind’s eye. A small island off the coast of Maine.
But my mind’s eye sees for shit. And right now, with a failing sun somewhere to my left (I hope), all I can do is focus on finding a cloud break.
I don’t use instruments, except when absolutely necessary. And since the absolute, by definition, arrives too late for the necessity to matter, I don’t use instruments, period.
To be sure, John F. Kennedy, Jr. is also on my mind. John-John flew without instruments. But he was a Kennedy. Straight as an arrow he flew his plane. Cutting through the clouds like a knife. Gliding upon a horizontal plane straight as his jaw line. His destination, Camelot.
I’m no Kennedy. And don’t want to be. That cursed Irish Catholic dynasty. All of them, every last one – so cocksure their internal Kennedy compass would never steer them wrong. True North they called that Kennedy compass then. And Truth North it always shall be.
Me and John-John. We’re still looking for that cloud break. We assume it’s out there somewhere. But it’s okay. Like I said, we’ve never flown with instruments. Never needed to. Always brought her in safely.
It’s the Constitution, man. That’s our True North. Our internal compass. The True North Con. It’s never failed us. And never will.
True North Con it remains. And True North Con it always shall be. While our plane, like a dagger, plunges into the heart of a rouge-red sea.
We see for shit, me and Johnny. Both of us. Accelerating along the chin line, clean like destiny, toward a cloud break that never arrives.
