Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Wan Dence

I drove home using only my left hand. I was curious about how difficult it'd be to be crippled in such a way and still do daily chores. Morbid training I guess. Every store I passed I checked to see if it was open, if lights were on. The holiday season's shut in most of society due to cutting off our ties with the outside world: consuming. With nothing to purchase I drive towards the heavy dark woods of the city outside the city. The pine-wood architecture of the surrounding forest cuts clear definitions in the night sky. On a moonless night, the syrupy molasses construction of the woods stands in contrast to the near perfectly dark sky. It's impenetrable. Radial skeletons of poorly executed geometric patterns consume most of the mass that makes up the lines between dark and darker. There's a stretch of straightaway deeper down the two lane drive that I've got a score with. Alone and bored it's easy to start speeding up down the line. A blue-green light, filtered through tree limbs is visible throughout the duration of this stretch. It conjures up thoughts of a low altitude search team sent out to find and execute those escaped from a clinic or prison. Cold cylinders of steel and aluminum, cast black with chambers built for shells resting on their laps. The just-passed pseudo residential area comprised of four over-weathered homes, filled with elder black folk must be the source for the eerie emission. Fear builds in that brights-on-something-moving-in-the-corner-of-your-eye sort of way, but pure enjoyment takes over as I continue pushing down. Nearing the turn I consider leaving my foot cemented, confident in control, until the sharp snap of cymbals from the Motorbass song strike reality in my spine. I lightly tap the brakes, slowing for the turn. I'm nearing my driveway, as the windshield begins to bathe itself in fog. Like a lens dilating, my view becomes warped and docile, clouds consuming the dark exterior. A notion of concern pings in my nervous system as I approach the drive, neighbor's dogs are out, their blackened silhouettes taken unkindly by the windshield's newfound love for obscurity. I slow rapidly, fearing canine contact. No mutts found, sleeping or already under the wheel of previous passer-byes. The gates opened, and the reflective ruts of puddles from previous weather guide my vehicle through the autumnal crunch of red and yellow deciduous. Empty chairs line the outer edges of a man-made pond, ducks silently cutting holes in the black empty that makes up what must be liquid. A monolithic white structure opposes the temptation of the surrounding black forest.

Sometimes you'll want to think like this.

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