Advertisements

Posts Tagged Cars

The Day He Began to Change for Real

He parked his too-large automobile
in front of craft shops, wondering
who was watching him, who was judging

his journey, looking up slightly
at the seventy-three hundred
addresses, thinking about West and East,

thinking about which way was going
up so he could find the place. He knew
going in was a chore commanded of him

through a very brief moment of self-discipline
while knowing that this is the last place
he would ever want to go.

These people
are not the people
he would ever choose to be with.

The daily commute had been tortuous
for years. It had been part of his insanity
incubator, his car had become the prison

that had fostered the growth
of the most severe anger at the most
inconsequential things, not a violent anger,

but a fearful one, an anger that starts
with being born, an anger that starts
with his parents, but not an anger at them,

an anger at what they had given him,
all of those disgusting genetic defects.

.

Advertisements

, , , , , , , , , , ,

2 Comments

Tiny Trifles and Tall Trees on 6th Avenue

Despite the most severe damage to my life’s memories by my long-lost foe, alcohol, one of the memories that has stuck firmly in an anxious sort of visual way is one particular ride in and my image of Dad’s blue Oldsmobile convertible from some year in the 60’s. I am not positive it was an Oldsmobile, but it seems likely (despite the fact that right at the moment I cannot imagine GM making an Oldsmobile convertible), and I know it was 60’s sometime because I was five-years old when I had the ride that sticks to the very front of all of my cultural and ethical sensitivity.

Perspective is odd. To this day, I do not think that a car has ever been made in such a beautiful shade of blue. It was the blue with tinges of many things: cool temperature, metals, grays, coal sparkles, shine like no shine, and it was perhaps like the most rare and beautiful color of sky, a shade that might only be witnessed once every few years. Now, I wonder if it was that beautiful, but I cannot deny the truth of my memory. When I think of denying the truth of memory, I remember as an adult going to the neighborhood I grew up in from the age of three until the age of twelve, and discovering the houses were now less than half the size that they were when I was a child.  This was the neighborhood where I learned how to be a boy, where I rode my first motocross mini motorcycle, courtesy of my uncle and rammed it  full speed into the brick wall of the family room, causing Mother to come out with the dog, Nicholas, who was barking frantically, screaming, Mother was,  that I was not allowed to ride anymore until I got a helmet, where I learned Read the rest of this entry »

, , , , , , ,

5 Comments

%d bloggers like this: