27 Mar

Unlucky my son, rather you than me! Ain’t that the way though, it always seems to be somebody else? Whether it’s the stranded motorist in the middle of the H.O.V. lane or the wheel-changing gymnast on the hard shoulder; tired of life, dodging traffic with the dexterity of a dancing gnome, there’s always something to distract. 

SWISH….. as another forgettable vista WHOOSHES… past the wind screen. The road becomes so commonplace that one forgets paths most travelled. Did I already pass the tunnel? Am I through the stack? The mind has observed, but the eyes haven’t seen – the uninterrupted familiarity that is the quotidian commute. 

Travelling the same route day in, day out, one reaches a threshold of indescribable subliminal monotony. It’s the unusual which stands out – the out of the ordinaries, the second glances which brings the rest of the journey into crystal clear focus. 

A metaphor on life or a religious experience? 

Neither, it’s simply the way it is; one’s interest is only randomly peaked. Which subsequently, of course,  begs the question. Is this lack of conscious experience also happening during non-commutable hours- how much am I missing during the day

Q.E.D. – My boss speaks, I see his lips move, but no sounds come out. A revelation that perception is reality and that everybody’s reality is their own. Is that why we hanker for praise and recognition in order to justify our own virtual beings? If somebody recognizes our talents and failings then surely we exist? Unless of course you want to get existentialist about the whole thing and side with the Buddha who claims that all things are one. Consequently neither my boss, nor I exist. So what does it really matter anyway? Why did I even show up to work today? 

It’s the little things that jar us out of our own reverie, away from  personal thoughts, dreams, and aspirations. It’s the out of the ordinary which tickles our conscience. From climbing in the car, to alighting forty five minutes later, the whole journey is a blur, a miasma of nothing. If I truly concentrate I can probably cobble together a good five minutes of the complete journey. So what’s really going on during my travel experience? If I can’t remember the road, the traffic, the usual landmarks, where the hell was I? 

Was my brain on auto-pilot while my thoughts were fishing in Carbo, romancing with the lights turned down low, at dinner or lost in conversation? How many times have I found myself mumbling retorts to past arguments, posing looks in the mirror that I should have flashed? Time is relative. A week with a dying father may pass in a second, an intimate exchange of pain-for-cash with the dentist a lifetime. 

If I put a camera on the dash I know that I will have three quarters of an hour of nasal excavation, swilled coffee and concrete evidence of every vice perpertrated whilst ensconced behind the wheel.Where’s the Kino of the mind, where’s the magic lantern show recalling the journeys taken, the heated conversations of well worn-memory?

 A true separation of church and state, when we consider the body a temple and the state a mind. 

A coffee stain on my shirt proves providence that it was me in the car. The fact that my breath is rancid with the aftertaste of Java is televized- LAW-AND-ORDER-irrefutable evidence that I’m the perpetrator. Thing is though, I don’t remember. I don’t recall my passage through the tunnel, nor do I recall the majority of the commute. The I-10 is a blur, barely a memory; simply a realized experience which may or may not have happened. My pay check mysteriously appears every month so I must have got to work somehow! 

Even Einstein, when he wasn’t busy struggling with his shoelaces, declared time travel  possible – maybe that’s what I’ve discovered. My interspatial vehicle is a Volkswagen Rabbit, my worm hole a much in-need-of-repair, state funded, mettled chute through the space time continuum. 

So if I’m correct, and I rarely am, then life – or at least my journey – is nothing more than dream state interspersed with shiny red balls; distraction tempered with utter mind-numbing banality. Seems to make sense, when you consider  we have to peruse old photo albums to recall familiar, forgotten faces. Recollections of past & present, with the polarizing aid of instamatic Kodak-ism.

Neglected and displaced; imperfect recall enhanced by the prosthetic of a page. 

The past experience of home town visits that endeared us to those special few, now left shelved, forgotten and undusted until  elbow-nudged into foggy recollection by thought provoking luminosity. Precious time spent with loved ones now dependent upon a handful of post-it-notes and fading sepias – waiting to spark neurons and kindle fond rememberance. 

So if reality is memory, then we live in the past. If the past is only accessible through medium then clearly we owe it to ourselves to leave something behind. 

People often ask me why I write; I guess I’ve found my answer. 



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