The secret Life of clichés

1/12/18

I am in my car, state of the art. I am comfortable in the driver’s deep bucket seat. It is pleasantly warm in the car. A gentle breeze comes in through windows which I have slightly open. At first it was winter. I have the heat on. Suddenly it is summer. I am alone. The colors of the night road and dashboard are beautiful, slightly out of my normal experience.

 As I leave Long Island, I think briefly of my unpleasant history with…

Back to the road. I am on the Cross-Island expressway - feels wonderfully ordinary. I am heading to Brooklyn when I realize I am headed for New Jersey over the Verrazano. I get onto US 1 heading south but then decide to go north to Vermont. It is August. I welcome the cool night air. Suddenly an intrusive thought about horror stories by Stephen King. I decide to go out west instead.

As I head west, I think of all the people who put dumpf in power. I think of going south west.  klansmen come to mind. I think about seeing the Grand Canyon. Its great glory is sullied by the realization of its terrible heat.

I make it to the redwood Forest in California. Feeling fresh, alive, safe…

Fires and mud slides not far off, I get back into my car, hit reverse. It is 1957 the year of my birth. Quiet, peaceful, just after dawn on a cool summer morning.

Can I ever have an original thought or be of service?

Do clichés have a life of their own?

Do all thoughts lead endlessly to more thoughts? 

The Life of Pi comes to mind, the last thing I think of before I awake in a hospital healing from the on-coming car I did not see.