Feb 27

Lather, rinse, repeat

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Time again for short story time. Gather around the fire, kids, and enjoy a fanciful tale of intrigue and monotony…

The more I think about it, the more I realize that all of nature is just… autonomy. Lots of it. Squishy and gooey and fibery and everywhere. Nothing has any real purpose, other than to be a cog in the machine. And this machine does not seem to satisfy any purpose other than to serve a place to put cogs.

Take for instance, bunny rabbits. Cute little white tailed bunny rabbits. I know, the cuteness center of your brain is completely stuck on ‘awwww’ right now, but cut it out. Are all bunnies innocent? Do they spend all day dawdling in cute little forays into the forest, painting all of nature with a brush made of cute? You want to think that. You really do. But don’t, just for a second. What do you see? Little furry plant munchers, droning on, responding to simple stimuli. It gets dark, go home. Notice something large moving, hide. If it is edible, eat it. Hormones say it is time for little bunnies, find mate. Nothing could be further from the truth than cuteness. It is merely what we perceive to be true of bunnies.

Case in point. A rambling case in point. I drive a lot. I mean, a lot. Enough to have earned my million mile badge. Or at least, damn close to it. During this time, I have seen a lot of bunnies. They appear on the side of the road. Sometimes slowly. Sometimes quickly. Invariably, however, they appear to be on the wrong side of the road. Maybe this is only true when I am around. How funny would that be, that I have to be present to force an outcome of bunny-logic? Regardless, they always bolt for the other side of the road. Right in front of me.

The cuteness center of my brain, already in the midst of a sustained ‘awwww’, interprets this action, instinctively forcing me to yank the wheel, mash the brakes, in a desperate bid to prevent little furry death. Every single time I do this. I’ve mowed down truck loads of bunnies. I’ve also missed an even more substantial number of bunnies. Why? What does it serve to me to prevent, by all accounts, purposeful bunny suicide? Am I a bunny god?

This brings us to a truth that seems simple in retrospect, but apparently, was a truth that the cuteness center of my brain has been trying hard to hide. The truth is, dear reader, that I too am a cog in this machine. Ohhh you say, that is not true, Man is outside of the machine, Man serves his own ends. Bull plop. Why else would I avoid bunny demise at the cost of my own life, unless it was something bred deep within? Perhaps bunny-avoidance is my cog?

Enough with bunnies. I’m not saying they should be put to death, I’m just saying, bunnies do what bunnies do, and I don’t think even the bunnies know the why behind the what.

So, as I said, I drive a lot. Out here in the wild west, we fail to have such wonderful conveyances as subways and mass transit systems, and have to suffer the indignity of doing the navigating ourselves. Personally, I am fine with this, for the most part. Oh, trust me, some days I would love to just strap on my gigantic headphones and crank the iPod, blissfully unaware of any developing traffic scenario. But that never seems to happen. I come close sometimes, alone, on the highway, music cranked, deep in thought, deep into tunnel vision, miles chunking away, barely noted, until something soft and squishy like a bunny decides that perhaps the other side of the road would be far better, and far better right away. Simple bunny. Simply flattened bunny, odds are.

Sometimes, however, the drive is not really a means of getting from point A to point B, but rather, a reason to drive in and of itself. I’ve done it many times, really. Someday, when the oil reserves run out, and the atmosphere has burned away, I will feel bad for having so very, very much enjoyed wasting all those resources, but not today. To find a curvy road, a challenging road, to drive it quickly, precisely, cleanly, to tune out the world around, to tunnel in on the asphalt, to place my mind between those white and yellow lines, to be pushed and pulled by a sympathy of physics, oh my, dear reader, it is a thing to live for. There is something about being there, and doing it in person, and knowing it is for real, not points racked up in some fake cyberspace, no free ‘resets’ in case of calamity, just… something with depth and consequence. Enter the turn, breathing long slow breaths through clinched teeth, gripping the wheel tightly, feeling the weight transfer, knowing you just are not going to make it, that white hot starburst in your chest of adrenaline, the quickening pulse, and then… blissful, complete, harmonic perfection of flying out of the corner with not an inch to spare, only to do it all again, NOW.

What a cheap, simple thrill. You can do it any time, night or day. You can find some amazement on the most boring of roads. It doesn’t matter what you drive. Just get out there, enjoy the rush, the thrill, of grasping your life by the BALLS, looking it straight in the eye, and letting it know just who is in charge, who is calling the shots, who, dear reader, is indeed the master, well, that is just sweet, blisstastic, harmony…

But mow down just one little bunny in the prime of his cog fitting, indecisive life…

~if you always get up late, your never gonna be on time… and that’s a shame…. ’cause I like you… I never see you~