I sit by the fireplace as it flickers highlight and shadow with inspirational scenes.
Dana and I had walked to the tip of south Manhattan. Our heads are hanging over the cement pier so all we see is the choppy water. The water sparkles with fallen stars. An animation of birds flying upward. This transforms into feathers sifting downward, fitting together in that complicated Escher-like geometric way. I get dizzy and look up in time to see the Circle Line Ferry way off turning into the sunlight. The glittering sun hits each flat square pane of glass, sparking a flash, one after another in a kick line routine. As though each passenger were twinkling a bright idea.
Drivers travel on the expressway in the northeast, hi-way in the south, freeway on the west coast.
Riding in a car as a chain of thought.
Most of the crew sat in the back of the Hong Kong taxi. Usually it was Lonnie, brave soul, that sat up with the driver. This was 1996.
One of us asked, “What do you think about the hand-over?”
It got real quiet and the cabbie looked around for a hidden mic. I leaned over the front seat and asked, “Hand over, what hand over?”
Once I saw Fidel Castro driving a Dolly Madison truck. He was eating a cupcake that had broken open ‘accidentally’.
Dropping letters into a mail box, one afternoon, three nuns in a Rambler stopped by to ask if I was a post man.
Burl Ives drove by in a green VW today. He didn’t look very happy stuffed in there like he was, so I didn’t try to brighten his day by waving hello. It’s great when I see folks that aren’t around any more.
An endearing car memory has a college student genré. We’d see them eight or ten stuffed into a rusty Duster barreling south bound on thirty-eight toward Daytona Beach on spring break. I reckon I was waiting for the day I’d be one of them. By the time I hit graduation age I couldn’t have been farther from their reality.