Inside Out
Short Stop
Taking the bike out on its maiden voyage this year. The sun creeping behind the mountains, less hastily than usual as we’ve become friends, and it would be impolite to leave without saying goodbye. Just a short little ride, jot of jaunt. Not what course to chart, directions spin through my brain and scenes of spring revival curl through my glasses. My mind seizes upon a promising destination, my pedal strokes gain meaning. Turning up Aviation Road, I remember the wind. It throws a playful breeze against my normal rhythm.
I stop for a breather. Bird calls wash over me, engulf me from nowhere, someone pressed unmute, my ears begin to hear. They call for loneliness, they call for love. All the things they’ve dreamed of nestled deeply into their down through the bleaker season. Their calls are strong this year, maybe winter has been forgiving for a change. A drowsy mosquito is wheeling about, to my chagrin and amusement. Shaken out of bed too early, it can’t decide whether to chase me or turn in for the day. All this part of this world where we grew up. The crunchiness of autumn decay, buried under timeless drifts of snow, only to reveal itself again, transfigured like man resurrected.
This moment I am aware of standing still. I am gazing at wind borne caves pecked into sandstone cities under the vast flag of the Jomsom trek. We are clambering like soldiers on campaign onto the wooden benches of a quiet mess hall. Ordering dal baht, our stomachs ask no other questions. Moments of sudden stillness come and go.
60 in a 65
It seems like something Gurdjieff would say. Or even Osho. That we should move through life at a different speed than those around us. We become aware of the car when we shift gears, smoothness interrupted. Stopped in front of a red light at a deserted intersection, for once we hear the car engine idling louder than distraction.
If I drive to Albany at 60 mph as opposed to 70 mph, I spend an extra eight or nine minutes doing so. In the absolute terms of time, why wouldn’t I drive faster?
A molecule of water is dancing in a stream. The stream narrows, flows fast and deep, clear. Is it possible that this molecule will not travel in the single-minded direction and force of the entire mass of water? Can you imagine the far-flung arms of a galaxy spinning in time to a symphony played over the course of billions of years, and a single star floating in its midst, carefree, unbound by the rules of the great system? In time-lapse photography of the cosmos, a pin of light weaves to and fro as if in a dream, with a mind of its own.
At a different speed, I am passed, passed again. Somehow, I see a little better, I feel a little more awake. Gangly, nameless trees whiz by, each with its secret of a thousand tender buds. I feel more at ease. I am driving of leisure, not of necessity. As I fall further behind the pack, I notice I am not the only one. There are always followers, ready and willing to move to another kind of music. I am lighting this path, old man who drives so slow.
Quick-froze Quiznos
When I think about the waste, I get angry. Tin cans of tuna, plastic jugs of pickled condiments, glass bottles emptied of artificially flavored contents, all thrown directly into the trash, to be collected, and collectively forgotten. Expired product, poof. Bread ends, poof. A magic trick this disappearing act, I know it to be sleight of hand. But it’s okay because, in the end and all things considered, we turn a profit.
Besides, who has the time to think, let alone the luxury to be angry about something ordained from above? My hands are already flying to the chicken, to the scale, to the marinade basket. My head is already craning to peer through the wormhole oven to prognosticate future sandwiches. Without my issuing the directive, still my body does.
“I believe in you.”
“I do it for you.”
“Without the shade it’s a lonely view.”
Kitsch served up by the 1984 machine plays in a brain-numbing broken-record loop. It is not enough for us to occupy your body. We must completely possess your mind-space. You are more productive this way, research proves. You cannot sing, you cannot whistle, you cannot rebel against our background music. It is agonizing and relentless. Myles and I take turns voicing the depths of our loathing as each song comes on … again. Of course, in endurance of will, we are bound to lose to the machine.
At home, I remember a term Lucie coined: gray people. In my mind’s eye, a sea of people are flattened onto the anime page. Slowly, vampirically, they are drained of color, until all that is left is a mere outline of their existence. There is no depth, texture, or detail. Their color has been swallowed by the force of habit. They are the shell without the ghost; repetition has made them automatons who lack even the power of judgment. Certainly they do not have the ability to reflect on the reality that they are subject to and actually become angry over it.
The gray paint is smeared on thick and suffocates, when you’re not looking. Wash it off, wash it off.