Driving

Everyone has dreams, I suppose. Not as in grand, majestic aspirations, but rather simple things. Moments born in the ideal. Moments you can see so clearly and so often it's as if they've happened. Here's one of mine:

Seated in a car I am hurtling through the warmth and torpor of August sunlight. Windows down and the all-encompassing rhythm of popular music. Radio. Connected as it is to time and place, this is now and virile and quakes within my chest. At any given moment I can tell you exactly what this song is.

The leather is hot, clutching skin when we slow, and colored glass blocks the sun's heady amplitude. I grip the wheel and feel my palms jump in starts against the plastic. I can smell her. Despite the highway air and my soap and toothpaste I can clearly discern a nameless perfume and draw it in.

The seat behind is crowded with bags. Towels and books and footwear. I have folded the seat to accomodate this purpose, and the cabin is unusual in its spaciousness. Wind whips at straps and cloth unsecured. They flap in time to the music.

The road commands attention. Rigs and weaving cars bear plates from up and down the seaboard. I shift my head and our eyes connect. Sundressed and sunglassed your lips squirm at their corners.

I put out my hand.

I put out my hand perpendicular to my body and just above the gearshift. I uncurl my fingers. You place your hand in mine and squeeze. That's all.

35 miles out and I wonder at the time we're making. It doesn't matter. I came for this.

I have considered this so often. There have been so many women in the seat beside me. There haven't been any. Each reflection was an attempt to see the particulars of that face; to trace the contours of fabric and determine the outline beneath. I wanted to know who she was. Needed to know.

What I had never considered was the identity of the driver. I am not that man. I took for granted that when such a thing eventually came to pass, that I would have since transformed. I took that for granted. A sobering thought but a hopeful one. The real journey. The wheel I'm holding.

Non-Verbal Response

I have always hated discussing poetry.

There is something wrong-sighted and vulgar about that practice. I used to deliberately not explore the specifics of my reaction. It was enough to conclude that this was something pedants do.

I enjoy the exchange of information. True, my experiences were often confined to the classroom, with all the democratic frustrations that involves. Regardless, I do enjoy serious exchange with serious people. I've gained from it. It has value.

It is also not the case that I resent explanation. Real work has weight and grit enough to support its own structure regardless of what meaning we may attribute to it. Often, I have found my conclusions to be wrong and been pleased to stand corrected.

No, the real issue here is with medium. Poetry is the most sophisticated form of verbal expression. Responding to it by simple talk is possibly the most inelegant act imaginable. It would be like browsing through galleries of the Old Masters and then reacting through fingerpaints. One could respond to poetry with poetry, but that simply postpones the issue.

It is for this reason that I feel secretly compelled to respond non-verbally. I want to scream or punch someone or to beat my head against a wall. I want to acknowledge a triumph of language without defilement.

Salutation

It's important that we speak.

It is equally important that our speech convey meaning.

I am going to say things and then you are going to say things. We are going to say things. Things will be said. Here is a mathematical represenation of our speech as expressed by hidden onlookers:

>D >D >D >D >D >D >D >D >D >D >D >D

It is a sequence of fishes. Remember that for later.