Time is not an accident or the result of chance, rather, it’s a motion pressed through a sieve of energy, the resulting strands are filtered through the allegory of a clock, and peering through the windshield of my machine while holding on to its steering mechanism, I find myself watching the flapping of wings across the sky as they vanish before reaching the horizon, with little evidence of their passing, except for the droppings on the ground;
I travel across the land and cityscapes, positioning the body for a yoga breath, flexibility to ward off rigidity, the mind loathes the truly vacant stare, while searching for its inner Muse, channeling the metaphor of a Genesis unrealized with award giving ceremonies of winners and losers, and knowing such is the Game of Illusions;
Clarity and focus the Muse whispers in my ear as we explore each other between mystical blue sheets, the beckoning stirs, I know it will all vanish tomorrow, regardless of the pace, a decision made to enjoy the ride, for my preference is to drive a quality engineered machine, but when push comes to shove I adapt to a Deus Ex Machina that awaits me rather than the other way around;
Destination is an idea shaded by detours, the all season tires feel the intimacy of the heated asphalt, roads to Charleston, South Carolina, Chicago, Illinois and Carmel-By-The-Sea, they have one thing in common – all begin with the letter C, and each trip that I plan is based on the selection of a different letter in the alphabet for the sake of which I do not need the answer;
And each trek does vary, driving the machine in the sunshine is exhilarating but cloudy days are easy on the eyes, and storms with or without a name are opportunities for meditative breaths, there’s a richness to my indebtedness of motion for my machine was meant to be driven, and not being on display in a garage, driveway or parking lot, still I know all good things are in need of unaffordable repair and inevitably must be reclaimed in a dignified and honorable manner to save face;
The uncertainty of the escape is a pleasure in and of itself, and as things would unfold, I stopped before reaching the third dot on the map and serendipitously crossed the path of someone I hadn’t seen since the last century;
Bemused we shared our adventures, and decided to walk to a makeshift bench overlooking a vineyard, sipping some wine we watched the grapes grow with a smile, woven with a fond memory or two, the third city in my destination would have to wait, my devoted but weary machine was spared the plausible ending of being driven over a cliff, and finding myself at the intersection of a mutual reflection, it was for all judicious intents and purposes a simple matter of being side-tracked.