Promulgated

The song “Black Sunshine” was apropos as Marissa floored it down the 10. She couldn’t let a freak storm impede the progress of her Shelby Cobra on its way to destiny. This was her date with death, if it came down to it. Traffic had to go. All this weaving was making for an even more miserable experience. Was she trying to stop a catastrophe for these people? Sometimes she wondered its worth, especially with all the persecution.

Being a manipulator of the forces around her was still a problem for those raised on too many fairy tales. Good and evil always begin in a neutral state. Those who use their mystical attributes take them down that road. Her father, Hogan, would often prance into her study with, “Oh-hoo-hoo, are you a good witch or a bad witch?” Such was his nature to be cheeky, and often used common society to irritate her to no end. Teenage angst, being what it was, would always seem to give him the satisfaction of a reaction to his facetiousness.

Those were easier times for the young sorceress, up in the Superstitions. It was a veritable paradise compared to the current state of affairs. Time was endless and there was always a centuries-old book to crack open. Scribbles could dance with the touch of her fingers even when they were much older than the country she called home. “The trade was eternal,” Hogan would say.

He left when she was 20. It may have been just a matter of independence, a going of one’s own way. That was understandable to a certain extent, but to never get back in contact? She couldn’t think of anything she did to turn him away. A second pair of hands would be well received right about now. There were countless, terribly dangerous users on the isolation planes that could peel the crust off this planet as if it were an orange and with little effort.

Signs were everywhere, but usually explained away with science and reason. Two new moons, sinkholes everywhere, the Flight of the Phoenix, and this unending thunderstorm meant something more sinister than mere traditional explanations. A male member of the tribe was resurrecting himself from suspension. This was a serious Council infraction and whoever it was needed to be put down like a rabid dog. She read no one was willing to return to their assigned dimension.

Turning off on a county road, she skidded left of center and back in time to miss a rig driver laying on his horn for all it was worth. Slick as the road was, it wasn’t nearly as perilous as the destination. A steadiness came over her as she pushed the needle past 80 mph. Everyone she knew, including herself, would be shot to Hell without doing all in her power to get there.

The reception square lay in a remote part of Arizona. Inconspicuousness favored sparsely populated areas. Convicted members would have to rest and regain their strength from such a brazen move. More than likely they would hole up in a cave or derelict house for a few days with their thoughts and motives.

Surrounded by sagebrush and sand, the platform disguised itself as slate rock partially buried in the Earth. Saguaro and yucca obscured it further from the road, but the inter-dimensional charge gave it a light white halo for the trained eye. Marissa was in the right spot; she’d soon find out who she risked life and limb to stop.

The Council of the Dogs was completely unaware of the happenings in Arizona. A New York committee spent that time arguing over the regulations of their charter, which have been known to take years on more than one occasion. She was the point of contact for the desert southwest, which meant little to nothing in the eyes of bigger fish. After three ignored missives, she decided to enforce the will of the Council herself.

 A tall cactus made for the best impromptu cover she could afford. Holding on to the relief of arriving early, rain beat down soaking her to the bone. Through stringy pink hair she surveyed the landing site intently, even though she wanted to fly far away from it. It was too late to have a change of heart.

The glow ceased and the rain gave way as a peal of thunder ripped a hole in the desert before her. A white eye with large black pupil shimmered and curls of darkness gracefully slid out into this world as the passenger came close to the exit. Marissa thought of the old 1950s horror films with their excessive use of dry ice and water. Someone’s science fair project won first place.

A sinister sight emerged from the portal and fell to the ground. Such was the way of  forbidden rituals. Even the most powerful of magicians would be weakened by it. Some fare better than others, but there was always a negative impact on the user. This was her best chance to gain the upper hand. Shouts as good as any law enforcement came forth as she charged the spent figure on the ground.

“In the name of Alexia Oroyo and the Council, I am here to enforce the rules set forth in the tribal charter. Your sentence was to be served as promised, and reintroduction is a clear violation of said promise. No exile is to return from their suspension unless granted explicit permission by the Council itself. Under these conditions, I must either escort you back to your imprisonment or destroy you. That choice will rest with your actions.” It sounded authoritative enough, even if she had no experience with either.

“Are you a good witch?” Inquired the fatigued warlock, “or a bad witch?” He couldn’t quite raise himself up off the floor, but was trying regardless.

Marissa knew that voice. So long had it been, the sound of her father moved her to tears. This was the last person she’d expect to meet at a charter breach rendezvous. Why was he in limbo to start? It certainly would explain his disappearance, but the new question was a little harder to answer.

“Dad! Why are you here? Why were you there?! What’s going on? Tell me! I don’t want to kill you, but that’s not saying I won’t.” Patience wasn’t the strongest of her virtues.

Swallowing hard and gaining moisture back in his mouth, Hogan tried to explain. He wanted to lay out the whole story, but could only manage “needed to see you.” With this he took in slow deep breaths and looked at her for a reaction.

No amount of training could prepare a member for this situation. Sifting through her thoughts she lifted her father and supported him on the way to the car. Many people make poor choices; she was willing to gamble this time. The Council certainly wouldn’t approve.

© 2014 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

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Saturday, March 22nd, 2014

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday. Well, it’ll be later than that when you read this post. I seem to have ground a little too hard on the last story and find myself in a fog today. Certainly things like the laundry got done, but nothing creative. I feel like a lout when that happens. To be in the flow of writing is such a wonderful experience. It’s direction in an otherwise listless existence. There’s even a writer’s prompt I’m halfway interest in. It seems as though I’ve not the energy to answer it right yet.

I love Saturday night. It’s a night I like to be out of the house. Unfortunately, I’m trying to figure out if it’s worth spending the money to sit at a bar and pay $5.00 plus tip for a Fat Tire. Now before I hear “that’s cheaper than (location)” I’ll remind you they pay us less in the Fields. It’s a wash. I suppose I could hit the $2.00 Bud Light specials… no, I’ll go without before I go Bud Light.

The additional work is still in the searching phase. It seems if I don’t have a Commercial Driver’s License (re: trucking) or manufacturing experience, I’m out of luck right now. There is an ad for an exotic dancer. I’m sure they’re talking about females. Even if they weren’t, I’m not exactly dancing material. I even hate doing the hokey pokey.

One thing that cutting back has helped me with is cooking at home. Granted most people would get tired of baked chicken, but its time delay lets me do other things around the house. Normally, I’m the type to focus on what I’m doing with little distraction but manual work’s always multitasking. Funny how that works.

My mind’s getting to me. Where did I put my car keys?

Saturday March 8th, 2014

Today I have a couple of things to say for a change! There is reason enough to believe I should break them out into separate posts, as they’re different topics. What fortune! I think I’m more excited about that fact than I am the actual material but what happens next is still a bright spot on the grey-matter-gone-black that is my mental faculties. There may have been a spider or two that scurried away as I cracked open that cellar door.

Last night was shaping up to be a real Emo-city, cut-and-not-so-dry, window-gazer of an evening. All dressed up in suit and tie from a seminar I attended that day, I went to eat dinner out. The hurried, mechanical pace of American restaurants and a waitress too young to flirt with didn’t satisfy what I craved. Fortunately I keep a book at my side, being that dining alone is a way of life here. I thumbed the pages of The Jungle before setting out for a different venue. Ho-hum. That’s not in reference to the book, just the atmosphere.

Next stop was a swankier bar downtown. I’m not entirely sure why I went there. Maybe it’s because the women dress better? With better dress though can come attitudes, especially with the clientele being employees of a large corporate headquarters a few blocks away. Just as a side note, it doesn’t take much money to gain a sense of superiority in the Fields. A yearly salary of $70,000 could cultivate a behavior similar to that seen on “The Real Housewives of…” It’s slightly amusing, as I have been to much more wealthy locations in this country, but mostly tragic… and annoying. Most annoying was the woman so drunk she was laughing like Salacious B. Crumb and loudly.

Scratching cold starts in my journal, I could only stare out the window in efforts to find some sort of inspiration. A video comment by Ira Glass found on Jodie Llewellyn’s blog was running through my mind at the time, and I felt I needed a running start to have the spirit move me. I ended up walking out with little to show for it. The gloom of a failed evening was starting to follow me. So, I did the best I could: change cities.

Driving about 20 minutes north reveals a small college town with a better tone throughout, in my opinion. I set up camp at a sports bar near the highway just to sit and read. Those are what I’ve decided to be the staples in my life right now: reading and writing. Most of the time there was being conscious of a presence sitting next to me. Cocksure and country alpha, I could feel a pissy nature emit from the turned back of a patron. Was he jealous that I was reading, or just a jerk? Later in the evening he was joined by another and his dialog only assured me of the latter. Foul with crass etiquette (i.e. spitting), his  conversation covered a gamut of gems ranging from aggression to sour grapes.

Not quite ready to give up the ship, I stopped by a bar I usually visit for some tonic and whatever else I could squeeze out of Upton Sinclair. I don’t like the idea of being so frequent to an establishment that I either lose interest or wear out my welcome. Last night was not one to mull over that fine point. It turned out to be a great decision, as a girl broke my concentration with an inquiry of the reading material. After a well-received joke, I went back to reading as her significant other body-blocked our field of view. He was definitely jealous of our rapport, and I relished it like a villain.

Stepping outside for another broken promise, I had the pleasure of meeting two gentlemen from the local university. Both were philosophy majors with a interest in books. Naturally they opened up with my selection for the evening and we had a delightful conversation that ran almost an hour in the freezing cold. Steinbeck, Hemingway, Sinclair, Dick, Asimov, Kerouac, Bradbury, Heinlein, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald were all under the same roof. I could not have been happier even if I wasn’t a fan of some of the authors. The spectre of depression had been banished to the void for at least a night. Happily, I drove home content for a change.

Sunday, January 5th, 2014

The Tubes are as 80s to me as the fake-animal-print clad David Lee Roth, and provide Hallmark wisdom in a way only the era could deliver. I did tip my hand too much in the previous post about the strip club experience. It’s not easy talking about such personal memories, being that the Internet is so vast, but if I were on my deathbed would I appreciate not saying anything? This post isn’t going to candy-coat anything. If you are the type to either be easily offended or insulted, I strongly advise you to visit another day. I’m not the type of person to tolerate bullshit either, and this won’t be up for debate. This is simply a story of how my life played out on one Saturday afternoon in April of 1997.

I was 18, and it was a few days after my best friend’s 18th birthday. His rambunctious mind could only think of one thing, and one thing alone: strippers. He was always after ideas sexual in nature: Playboys (for the articles, my ass), video pornography, John Valby aka Dr. Dirty et al. They revolved around him in an electron fashion, only drawing closer to the nucleus with each passing moment. There seemed a sort of Christmas excitement that ran across his boyish face when he talked about it, and he spoke of it for weeks. I knew that day was coming, even though I already had deep reservations about it. Most people don’t give me enough credit for my intuitiveness, but it’s definitely there. Maybe it’s for personal use only? Regardless, I was being muscled into his quasi-wingman as we ventured to a larger city for the venue.

There was a feeling in the pit of my stomach the whole way there. It was not something that sounded great in the first place, but like usual, I felt coerced by societal norms (e.g. “this is what you’re supposed to be like: dumb and horny,” or “why not? Are you in the closet?”). We ended up in a strip mall in Toledo, where I handed over a matinée price of $7.00 to a short man with greasy ginger hair kept in a long pony tail. The insides were painted black, lit with black lights. UV light accented all the fluorescent materials present with a thin veil of smoke drifting from the seats to the stage. It wasn’t too long ago that people could smoke indoors.

The first stripper was a petite blond with cropped hair to match. Her gaunt figure danced upon the pole to a three-set of Beatles songs. “Sexy Sadie” was her stage name, and the bits of metal from her piercings held tightly to her b-cup breasts, glinting every now and then when she’d spin. After “Helter Skelter” was over, she bounded right up to us. Being that my friend was the cause of all this, I let him buy her the brink which turned out to be apple juice. Even though we weren’t of legal drinking age, there wasn’t any alcohol on the premises. I suppose I could see why. Drunk men and naked women could present a problem. My friend and I were also required to have a drink in front of us at all times, and we chose fountain beverages for the free refills. I still remember vividly how bright and pink my plastic daiquiri glass was. It was cheap, exactly like how I felt.

After a few minutes of light discussion, we were hit up for some additional dancing at the booths across the stage. Fortunately, my friend could not turn the offer down and went promptly over there with her. I was left to watch the other two women perform their sets. I began to fidget, trying to keep a calm exterior about myself and pretend I was enjoying it. There were a few other men around, smiling at me. They were having a good time. I wasn’t, not in the slightest. I felt like I was being used, not only by the dancers but by my friend. He didn’t want to go alone, but I didn’t have that many friends. I didn’t want to cause a rift because I would feel awful in a strip club.

The air felt thicker and denser as time inched along. I felt snake-like coils move around my face and head, whispering offers of faux-affection for $40 a turn. I was even startled when an African-American dancer slid her green-tipped fingers down my shoulders. She approached me from behind. So, I never knew she was there until I was jumping an inch out of my chair. I know they meant no real harm, though. They were just trying to earn a paycheck.

So often had I pined for female ardor, it made for many a lonely night. This sadness brought to me by my peers was heightened with whispers of high school girls not quite out of earshot, providing quite the venue of criticism from weight to attractiveness to creepiness. Everyone did it though. There were several males who would make themselves feel better at my expense, but it always stung worse to hear it from the girls. I could be jumped or clotheslined or socked right in the face, but it was their words that would ring in my ears for years. Admittedly, that day in April was the first time being in the presence of naked women. It wasn’t real though. None of it was real. All of it was a delicately-wrapped lie for a price, a group of women trying to sweet talk me only for what I had in my wallet. I didn’t have a whole lot of it to start. It hurt; it hurt like the Devil. I felt ashamed, and tried to overcome a burning face at the notion of having to buy my affection. What the Hell did I ever do to require buying love?

Were they whores? Were they sluts? Only if you include the audience and me. Whether it was for money, lust, or my desperate need for belonging, we all sold ourselves at some price. My area of interest just happened to be the size of a planet, instead of a Marlboro-tainted skin shop. Those buyers and suppliers were not on my list, as I had other business to attend to. After my friend got his inaugural lap dances, we folded tent and left. Rarely have I ever felt relieved as I did that day, with the slight wind at my face and a drive through the fields of Ohio.

Radio Schmadio

“Eleven past midnight’s a good enough time for anything anymore,” he thought as he raised the garage door. Overhead, the moth-spotted light flushed space with visibility and clumsily tugged at the door. The ’57 Chevy Bel Air glowed with its two-tone Tropical Turquoise tint. Clean and polished, he winced as his mind thought of the fingerprints he just put on the body getting in. “What is work without use?” He politely admonished the senator from Hygiene, and advised him to take his seat.

A quarter turn gave the car power and his displays lit up. Georgia Gibbs welcomed him. Three-fourths of a tank would be fine for a ride. There was plenty of asphalt, if you knew how to plan a circuit. Reversing out into the street, he sleepwalked with Santo and Johnny. Oxford skies cloaked while he drove the roads alone. One traveler without destination or purpose.

Absent from its day job, traffic lights stopped in conversational anticipation but were received with the silent treatment. Miffed at its foiling, a reluctant green light was given for safe passage. Safe passage from the ghosts that haunted these streets. Ghosts of the dead, ghosts of the gone, ghosts of his youth, all spun strings helter-skelter around him. Like Cole Porter, anything goes. He had driven since he was sixteen. He knew almost every inch of road in the city, and that which he didn’t wasn’t of any consequence.

He drove at night to lose himself, maybe run away. Was it mental anguish dripping from his forehead? He wiped. The smooth rub revealed nothing tangible, much like his thoughts. Another ghost. Haunting like it knows how. It hurt, but the injury couldn’t be seen by naked eyes or cleverly dressed imitations.

The ghosts drifted about. Memories of all kinds sprang forth, and most of them lamentable in one way or another. In the day it would be the zombies. He wasn’t sure what was worst. “Probably daytime,” he reconsidered, as the undead had Mass. They would all worship the space he possessed and collide violently over the possession of such.

It all became too much around a side street. His childhood home was present, barricaded by the thoughts of long ago. Spectral walls rose from the world around him and towered with malice. It took but the light October wind to blow them down about his mind and he pulled off in a small park. Disappointment was the last and heaviest brick to land. He thought of what he had done, the alternatives, and most of all he thought of the silence and its contrast to the Five Satins.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I don’t know where you are. I’m sorry I couldn’t find you. See you. Know you.” The leather-wrapped headrest gave a little to the right. Crackles and pops of pebbles underneath the tires competed with the crickets, which would win had they persisted. Moments passed and the noisemakers picked up where they left off. Life moved forward, as it always will. Burning vision pulled itself up from the steering column. It was time to go home, when Double chimed in.

“Oh, shut up!” The radio went silent with a push of the button.

© 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

Driving on Observation and Instinct

Driving without navigational aids (i.e. GPS, Google maps, etc.) is rewarding to me. Understanding that interstates with three numbers are a beltway and two are a stretch of road brings so much more to the travel experience. Other bits of information like odd numbered interstates generally run north and south, while evens run east to west fit smartly in the library of my mind. It’s like I’ve taken control of my activities and wield them in powerful ways.

The biggest lessons of all aren’t presented by any department of transportation, however, and come with experience. First and foremost is the emotional conditioning a driver needs to shrug off things like panic. I’d assert that panic is just as deadly as drinking/texting while driving. You make poor decisions out of fear.

One big fear as a rural kid was the fear of getting lost. As directions would have it, there is an impression of one true way to get to your destination. After phrasing it like this, we all know that’s not the case. We never think of it in terms of that though. Do we? “[expletive removed] I missed my exit. What the [expletive removed] am I going to do now?” Well, there are a number of things and all of them do not involve slamming on the breaks and trying to cross eight feet (~2.5m) of asphalt at 75 mph (~120 kmh) with ten feet (~3m) of clearance.

After five minutes of working on the planning efforts (timeline, webbing, etc.), I decided I had taken a wrong turn with My City by the Bay. What do I do next? It certainly wasn’t panic, as that would be pointless. The fortunate part for me is this story is only in draft format, has not been to an editor or any publisher, and certainly hasn’t been purchased by a reader expecting to be entertained. That’s the good news. The bad news is there’s about 4,000 words I’ve spent quite a bit of energy on which have no identifiable use as of right now. That’s not to say they could be recycled later on, but for right now I see them as a square peg in a round hole.

This is a time where I should see the situation as good thing, a chance to reflect and change things for the better. On the other hand, it’s also going to be a time spent throwing a metaphorical ball at a whiteboard like Dr. Gregory House.

When Nature Calls, I Raise.

Hit me! No, that’s not right. What are we playing again? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m not much for gambling. In fact, I’m a terrible gambler. The only time I went to a casino was in Atlantic City six years ago and lost $100. My companions said it would be an excellent experience. Right. That money was sorely missed, as it could have gone to more hoagies at Wawa. It’s not a sophisticated meal, but I liked them. Stop laughing.

When I started this post, I thought the title was amusing. It still is, but doesn’t tie in well with the rest of the entry. Blow it. I’m keeping my title. So there.

I get ideas for stories at inconvenient times: upon waking up, eating a meal, but more often than not in the car. There was a case of waking up last Thursday, where I desperately tried to type out an idea on my computer while battling my recovering motor skills. I could feel the memory slip away with each stroke of the key. This was all very reminiscent of Guy Pearce’s character in Memento, where he’s desperately trying to write himself a note about a conversation with Carrie-Anne Moss. The dream got a little mangled in the transition.

As mentioned before, driving’s the most common time for my ideas. The fields of Ohio are perfect for long drives at night, which are a frequent hobby of mine. There’s an appreciation for the quiet and I’ve gotten used to the thick blanket of cover across the sky. It’s often cooler outside, and the air is quite enjoyable brushing up against my face. The lack of other motorists is also an undeniable perk.

A driver’s mental workload is reduced over time, when the route from point A to point B becomes a routine. This allows me to concoct wild thoughts, and that probably makes all you more nervous. It’s OK. I’m an excellent driver. Yeah, definitely a good driver. Definitely. Yeah.

The latest nugget of joy came at a different time of day, but was the same in principle. Without giving the meat of the story away, it started with the anxiety of crossing the Canadian-American border on my next trip. I’ll be visiting Niagara Falls for the first time in my life, and decided to party with the Canucks. During my commute, my mind began working off of this anxiety to create a rather interesting scenario. The thought struck me at my core, and that is important to me.

As luck would have it, I was able to get to my laptop and spill the beans on a Word document before the gossamer floated away via distractions. Writing for me is like making gold leaf. It starts with a lump of gold, or an idea I think very valuable, then I hammer it out into pages. After a while, it starts to look like a story.

Does anyone else run into this? Has anyone thought of a subject that strikes them so hard in the gut they simply must write it?

TSA Security Level: Butterscotch Paisley

As I mentioned before I left, I’m not a huge fan of going through the motions at TSA checkpoints. I’ve seen checkpoints pre- and post-9/11, and they’ve never made me feel all that safe. If anything, they only create more stress. My observations of their conduct have given me the impression they’re not truly there for my safety either. This is above and beyond talk of privacy violations.

I was body scanned at Port Columbus Int’l on my way out to the coast. This was the more updated version, as it was now “only an outline.” Apparently TSA realized what a bad idea the original body scanners were. If I’m not mistaken, pictures were posted to the internet even after TSA denied it would happen. I suppose they didn’t understand the human nature of their employees.

After removing my belt, pocket contents, and shoes for the x-ray machine, I was ordered to line up near the scanner with two other people. No more than a few seconds later, the TSA “technician” yelled at us to get back. Considering the screening process is already very stressful, I could not contain a sigh as I walked back to my original position. This caught the ire of the short blonde with control issues who gave directives to us in the first place. With a passive-aggressive flair much savored here in Ohio, she let the two passengers in front of me go through a metal detector. She then looked at me and pointed at the scanner, as if I was such a naughty boy for sighing. Too bad she never got much of a reaction out of me.

You see, I was going to go through that scanning machine whether she let those passengers go or not. I don’t look innocuous enough. Her actions would only have an impact, if I had any chance of going through a lesser invasive and less time consuming process. That just wasn’t going to happen.

The way I see it is I prevented two of my fellow countrymen from performing more humiliating exams in front of these little dictators. In vocalizing my disappointment through a completely protected First Amendment way, I gave Blondie McEgotrip a contrast on who was going the extra mile to make her job more pleasant. Without that contrast, she wouldn’t have thought anything about it. I’m actually very happy about this, because I made something positive out of her little negative attitude.

As stated above, I’ve never received the impression from the Federal government or TSA that all of these measures were for my safety. Of course, that’s what they tell you, but it doesn’t feel genuine. Instead, every time I’m there I get the distinct impression I’m guilty until proven innocent. Also, it feels like the interest lay in avoiding embarrassment in Washington and protecting the assets of corporate airlines. After all, if they truly cared about a citizen’s safety, they wouldn’t use violent pacification as a foreign policy. That seems to fuel quite a bit of aggression against us.

During these trips, I’m reminded of a random conversation I had with a traveler outside of Logan Int’l airport. She had a motto: TSA Fearever. That has stuck in my head ever since.

Jack and me

Yesterday was a road trip. It was by myself, but there is no shame in that. One has to understand the current state of being and not be destroyed by it. I hadn’t spent time out of Hooterville, in earnest, for months. Much to my satisfaction, the weather cooperated and traffic wasn’t atrocious. Several drivers needed to have their licenses yanked, to be sure, but the flow remained uninterrupted for the majority of the way.

All of this driving was for the benefit of seeing the Serpent Mound in southern Ohio. A good friend of mine living in Massachusetts with his boyfriend was posting pictures of their recent visit to Cahokia Mounds. For all of the time I’ve spent here in Ohio, there are plenty of natural history sites I’ve never visited. Being Memorial Day weekend, it seemed like the perfect thing to do.

Badger, badger, badger, badger, badger, badger, badger, badger, badger, badger, badger, badger, mushroom! mushroom!
Image © 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

As you can see from the observational deck photo, there’s not a whole lot to the monument itself. There was a trail leading around the park, but I didn’t think I had enough time to hike it. I was also leery of mosquitoes; the itching drives me crazy.

The fact it was built or its relation to the solstices weren’t nearly as interesting as the preservation society’s strict adherence to Midwestern ideals of lawn care. That place is manicured! Control. Control. Control. I have never seen a picture of it in tall grass.

A friend of mine last night made the observation that a less maintained approach was not only desired but necessary. We both agreed that the Fort Ancient culture would not have broken out the John Deere to tidy up the place, but he went further to say the overgrowth provided an additional, artistic element: motion. With the wind periodically sweeping across the earthwork, it would give the perception of the serpent moving toward the egg it’s about to swallow. I thought that sheer brilliance.

I found the destination to be worthwhile, albeit a one-time event. With all of the other attractions out there, it was good for what it was. I doubt I’ll have any reason to revisit the place, though. It’s approximately a 4-hour car ride.

Small adventures, such as these, make up for the large journey I crave at the end of the day. It brings back memories of reading On the Road, which is a favorite of mine. It’s not that I find the author to be cool, or it’s what all the cool kids read, rather the basic concept of the book is delicious. I’m not terribly interested in the author as a person and all the cool kids can go stuff their heads into a tin can.*

“It’s the journey, not the destination.” We hear that maxim often enough, right? That saying bothered me for the longest time, because driving is unpleasant. There are so many hazards on the road, and I can’t look around that much. Eyes on the road, mister! I was more happy at the destination, because I didn’t have to focus on getting there. After yesterday, I believe I have an acceptable solution.

I’ll revise it to say, “it’s the journey, when you stop moving,” as divided attention on the road is deadly. For example, had I not been paying attention yesterday, I wouldn’t have had time to dodge the deer doing a pirouette across the interstate. Unfortunately for the minivan in the passing lane, the local fauna did a number to their right headlight and fender. I hope the doe died on impact, because it would undoubtedly be in agony otherwise. It made a grunt so loud that I could hear it over The Dillinger Escape Plan’s “43% Burnt.”

On the lighter side of things, I got to watch the locals of Hillsboro, OH (possibly “Hillsburah”?) in action. Being Sunday, all of the mom and pop restaurants were closed. This vexed me a bit, but my hunger pushed me to eat at an Arby’s. The employees proceeded to chatter among one another in spotty, country accents. The prize winning story was of [insert relative name here]’s disdain for using the “au jus” of a French Dip & Swiss on his sandwich. Instead, he would, “drink it like a beverage.” That statement almost cured my hunger issues right then and there.

This would have never happened, had I not paid attention to the world around me when traveling. It makes me feel better, now that I have come to an accord with the dime store philosophers of the world. Their triteness gets under my skin at times, but they tenaciously cling to that thread of truth of which their outlook on life is based. To find a happy medium, not only sound in principle but functional as well, is a breath of fresh air.

The big question is: where to next?

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* – This makes me recall my diatribe about “nerd love” these past few years. I think I’ll make a post about it someday.