IF only I could capture the random ideas that flit in and out of my head while I'm driving down to Mt. Holyoke every Saturday morning and afternoon. I've realized there's a standard collection of themes. EVERY time I cross over a bridge I imagine losing control over the car and crashing over the railing. Would I begin trying to get out of my seatbelt if I was heading for water? I wonder. The weirdest thing I do is take other driver's behavior personally. I get passed a lot, because I am no Joey Chitwood, we all know that. Sometimes I notice a car bearing down on me in my rearview mirror and I start speeding up a little--alright, alright, I'm going, already. I think to myself. I always think I get passed with a "there's no telling about some" shake of the head.
Although I should spend the valuable hour listening to a quality kid lit book--like A Wrinkle in Time, I find I keep scanning commercial radio stations for either Led Zepplin songs or what I call my Secret Shame songs. The newest SSS is the John Mayer song about running through the halls of his high school. The original is Kiss on My List by Hall and Oats. I hear that one almost every drive down. I feel guilty when a good, obscure Beatles song comes on and I choose not to listen to it. I dream of making a song collection full of ELO, Led Zepp and that one John Mayer song for the drive down. And that new Regina Spektor song about making it better or something. SSS's really help with the mind flush reverie I get going during the one-hour drive. Full of flitting thoughts of car crash deaths, dreams of fame and fortune that could be mine if only I could find the wherewithal. Then I pull up to the ol' Ivy-covered brick pile that is one of our Seven Sisters, heave out of my filthy car and head to a three hour class with a random assortment of future librarians with Masters.
Bob and the kids are at a kids party at KidsPlayce. (Kidsplayce: A playce to Scream your head off)'its in the basement of a downtown building. It was a gay bar in the late '70s, so I'm told. It would seem there's been some kind of attrocious behavior occuring in those bathrooms of one kind or another for almost thirty years straight. I realized that listening to kids screaming for two hours is not the kind of thing to get me unwound and ready for a work week that will include not only screaming kids, but yelling kids, whining kids, complaining kids, confused kids, crying kids, and all manner of unpleasant kids. It's the dead of winter. Vermont kids are looking pretty chewed up right now. Pale faces. Chapped lips. Muddy boots. Dirty snowpants.
Instead of the scream fest I am here, initiating a blog because I miss interacting with all of you. I thought Pownce was the answer, and it could be, I suppose. But I'm going to try this, for lots of reasons. Like you, and you, and you and you and you.
2 comments:
I'm happy to see you flap your doodle, and in public no less.
Good luck with the blogged world. I'm here you, living in cyberspace.
Love, anne
and I thought I was the only one with that bridge horror fantasy. Mine extends to the plan of action if I have my three year old in the car with me. Would I have enough time after we crashed into the water (before submersion) to get him out of his car seat? Would my power windows still work or should I roll those down as we fall? I'm sure there's a name for this condition and hopefully some fast-acting medication I could inhale or something just prior to crossing a high freeway expanse over water (it's only these biggies spanning rivers, etc. that get to me).
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