Before the Rise of the Oceans

I bought a new car. I bought a used car. I replaced my old car with a newer, older model. A car with more room in the back. A car with less cup holders. A car with better air conditioning. A car with worse radio reception. A car with a cassette player. A car without a CD player. A car with all four tires attached to their respective rims, and two working catalytic converters still attached to the under body and not scattered in broken pieces on the ground and a rear passenger quarter panel that is not crumpled and broken and slightly imprinted with the logo of a Suzuki XL-7. I'm also trying  to sell my motorcycle. I got a great deal on the car. I think I will lose money on the motorcycle. Hopefully everything will end up in the middle. That seems to be the tendency.

Here's an interesting photograph that I took of a lamp:

Cliffs and Cliffhangers

The last three weeks have been a whirlwind. Getting into that car crash has turned out to be a bigger inconvenience than I ever imagined, although I am continuously reminding myself that I was lucky I didn't get hurt. Losing my car has been a hassle, but a sort of frustratingly bland hassle, the kind of hassle with a strong undercurrent of consumerism, the kind of hassle which is probably experienced in its purest form in the United States. Of course I must buy a new car to replace the functionality of my old car. When I bought my first car, I was accompanied by my mother. Now, on my most recent outings to inspect potential candidates, I am accompanied by my father. It is a giddy and exciting rush at the beginning. The whole situation is charged with a sort of masculine bravado; my father and I fighting against the forces of lemons and flakes.

Sometime during our journey, usually between the first and second cars, the attitude changes. I am along for the ride and my father is driving. He is in his element in the absolute fullest sense of the word. He brings dirty dip sticks close to his nose and smells engine oil, he rubs transmission fluid between his fingers, he crouches low and inspects undercarriages. I occupy myself with the struts; I lean on the back of the car, pressing my weight down and feeling the slow compression of the suspension, my whole body is tuned for the areas of friction, of slow movement, of unsuspected sounds and sensations. I run my hand over the rubber gaskets which seal the windows, I test headlights and air conditioning units. Together we are inspecting a car, but only in the sense that we are both inspecting the same car. We stay on opposite sides. If I get to close to him as he circulates, I'll back away and talk to the seller.

Old drunks, migrant workers, a woman who is probably high. A ripped receipt for a Dunkin Donuts. An empty plastic wrapper that used to house packets of dry soup mix. A pair of shoes. Our vehicles are very real manifestations of our minds. The insidious, the hideous, the haunting, the beautiful and fragmentary pieces left to flutter in the void of our subconscious. We leave things behind in our cars when we sell them. Do we leave things behind in our minds when we die?


Here is a photograph I took of a rock face on a recent hike with two of my friends. I've included one of them in the shot near the base of the cliff to add a sense of scale, depth, and the often-missing human element

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