| The Focus loves winding down Sunset through the Santa Monica/Palisades hills. Taking a curve here and there a little too sharp, dipping and rising on well kept asphalt, does little to shake her confidence. No one behind her, no one ahead of her. Just some moonlight and a couple streetlamps complement her headlight and foglight combo.The itch of boredom was unbearable tonight. Relief caught my eye as keys sitting on my bureau. I hadn't gone out for a solo spin in a while; then again, I haven't smoked even longer than that.Thoughts don't race when the Focus slaloms; they fall into line, calming into scenes and narratives. Self-doubt clears for true reflection. Incomplete perhaps, thoughts die without dialogue - or pseudodialogue at that. Driving is not my chore; driving is passion that needs free expression once in a while.A shape runs across the road. And runs back. Slowing a bit, it runs again. A cat? the lights hit it; white face, shaped like a rat. Possum. I stopped for a possum; I've never seen a possum before. Its eyes seem less expressive than those of a racoon. The engine growls again.I was stared into a racoon's eyes on the porch in Berkeley. The first time I ever met a racoon. It held trash - food, that is - and almost looked guilty for doing so. And my focus broke, as I closed the door when I went back inside.The Focus seemed happier tonight. An oil change and tire rotation may have done the trick. |
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