Thursday, November 03, 2005

Subjective Time: Writing Backwards in the Fast Lane (2.0)

Speeding along as if I had never known rest, I am in motion.

Present: Very Tense.

Until recently, I had enjoyed an especially lonely stretch along the epistemological highway. From the serenity I created behind Gigi's tiny windscreen, I had no need for the carpool lane, and frankly no stomach for it.

Parked somewhere near the literal border of here and distinctly, ‘way-over-there,’ I simply sat, observing, lulled by the steady stream of muted colors and the mild, moderate tones of rational public radio updating my always-already-expanding knowledge base of political collisions and pedestrian double-crossings.

In fact, if it weren't for this congestion of broadcast and broadband in cellulite phone technology and PDA blue dentistry continuously lipo-suturing the vehicle of my fuel efficient autonomy to a broader somatic switchboard, the surface route to yoga might have maintained its blessed inertia indefinitely.

Nonetheless, something has ruptured my silence. CRASH!

Public discourse rages, loud, red, electronic, valvular overload.

Testing the jugular juggernaut, I pump the pedal for more petro-plasma, and somehow I see myself emerge like a smoldering Mad Maxine, 'mise un-seen.’ Racing like a synesthetic wildfire along the circuitry of post-industrial capillary and 24-hour sinews, I am no one’s native daughter, un-writing myself.

Thus, I complete my first parabolic adventure; hail myself as I go by and pull over.

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