Crystalline crosshatches stretch across the

January 27, 2004

Crystalline crosshatches stretch across the convex glass of the mini van rear quarter window. This type of ice signals the onset of temperatures at twenty below or lower. Add to that the wind chill created by a metal pod fighting aerodynamic drag under a cloak of snowflakes. Dormant hogweed and long tan strands of grass hold the snow to the shoulder of the highway. Gray white sky and white farms dotted on their edges by bone bare willows move backward at a steady crawl. Foreground fast. Background slow. The continuity is accentuated by the low square woven wire fence expected to cut down on road kill. Rabbits, deer, anything near the size of a bread box. Road grime gradually builds up on the window to provide a softer and softer filter. The light gets lower but always evenly diffused. Its warm in here. Car heater warm. That is its own claustrophobic type of warmth. It doesn’t have the longer throw of house warmth. It comes on faster and leaves even more quickly. The illusion is that the white world closing in on you from outside is also warm. The soundtrack is reminiscent of a Tourettes support group meeting over old coffee. Mindless pornographic babble in counterpoint to microchip cluster ring tones and a radio on too low to be noticed. The anesthetic effect of the outside world has unhinged the connection between language and thought. How many hours and days have I spent in this world? Desperation peaks just as you arrive at your destination. Somewhere before that you have tried to sleep just because its something to do. There is a gauzy cloth wrapped over your brain. Carbohydrates and caffeine curl into each other in rolling I Ching symbol teardrops. They congeal in your vascular system.This viscous cocktail pulls down hard on your motivation. You see extra time to achieve goals during all these drives and hotel recumbence and the only thing you can do is turn the TV on and off. The environment itself has reduced your expectations. Bob Evans is always across from a Red Roof Inn and on to one lamp on each side of the bed, the seven hundredth Tim Hortons, Rush Limbaugh and his pain killers, mall oxygen, escalators up to a level that is no different than the level below, a clock radio, dial 7 for room to room, 9 for local, a night of fashion success at the Golden Globes, sleeping sitting up, key card right back pocket, seven days of underwear, the NHL, NFL, NBA, MLB ticker at the bottom of your screen and a consistent low grade hangover. Suspended animation. This may be why musicians age more slowly. They arrive home with no personal development after a lot of living in the moment. The looming future is neutered. I have written myself from dread all the way to appreciation. I thought sacrifice for the cause would come with a stinging pain rather than a low 60 cycle hum and a numbing fluorescent grunge. I ride the road down through the movie studio lot facade of North America. It doesn’t matter whether there are staples in Staples or an actual Harvey eating in a Harveys. We only need the facade to assure us we are moving past. Temperature no longer matters. I do not know who made this van. It isn’t important to know but I might look next time I get out. It will become a Dodge or Ford when we get to the next multi-food franchise retail pit stop. There may be cock rings and cologne available in the toilet of this rest and refuel haven. Will there be brown paper towels or hand dryers? Will metal strapping hold the lid on the toilet tank. Some urinals now smell of vanilla. How much water will be on the floor. My expectations have doped up to meet the situation. Foreground fast. Background slow. A steady crawl.