Conditions for traffic.
You need a lot of cars.
You need too little road.
You need loss of time.
You need a driver fishing for a cd on the floor of the truck, some one opening a pack of Fig Nutons, someone who can‘t put down a book, etc...
You need at least three thoughts, not on driving, for each behind the wheeler.
Driving to me is about watching things go by, not necessarily about watching where I’m going.
Chloe notices that,
“The blue mountains are closest to the sky.”
As we do because we can, on another level I was thinking of how painterly the clouds seem. But if painted this haphazard on canvas it would look contrived.
...And thinking about when to paint the return. What if the return is already painted another color and thus the returns begin to argue over which is the real return? Return to forever? Return from where? This implies that we got there safely. After tagging the wall do we turn and head back?
...And, also regretting not being able to write something down, since I was already reading while I was driving.
‘Drew’s voice wafts into the front seat. He heralds seriously to Chloe how it is going to be.
“Well, I have some bad news and some good news. The bad news is that the Earth is going to blow up. The good news is that we’re all going to be gone.”
Always eager to up the wager, Chloe responds,
“Yea, well, I learned how to speak Spanish today. I can say corn! Cornalito!”
“I am so over you, Chloe!” ‘Drew blasted, frustrated at her lack of obeisance.
from the unfinished book image, above: Chance Neglected
She hailed a cab by using obscure hand gestures.
The cabbie zooms by a costume shop named Just Decide. A restaurant called Food. A leather place run by Hell’s Angels that touted a teetering lineup of hogs on the front sidewalk. Tiny, the tallest Angel, wore boots covered with retablos, buckles and buttons. Scraps scavenged from the shoes he repaired. This layer, in turn, was covered with the dust of his exploits. She saw memories in every shop, on every corner, every greasy spoon offered a fleeting tease of an image, color, or conversation, until the collective experiences blurred and flew by as a giddy roller coaster in suspended animation.
A painted tin votive rested on her kitchen altar. It was her attempt at visual gratitude to those who have interceded on her behalf. When she half prayed, she also half wondered if this ex-votos stuff was effective.
This was indeed a traffic meander, but it’s what I do. Happy TTsters.