87poem

January 25, 2011

In the living room beside the kitchen, there was a Buddha statue, a bean bag, incense spirals moving on our breathe. The two areas blended into a general convenient comfort. Upstairs there was a bedroom with one window, a broken laptop. She was loud about her new car that would be ready to pick up the following week. Her revelry so matched the volume that my words had to be repeated and shoved toward the kitchen, I said:

“But it’s just a car.”

Unacceptable response; it didn’t fit into her plan. In her younger years the only wheels that mattered were the ones that carried her from where she was to where she wanted to be. As she grew older the world upgraded—the destination became the journey. She now needed to get there in a hatchback with a bumper sticker that cleverly summed up her worldview.

“You don’t understand, I’ve never had a zero miler, people will watch me drive to the beach and know who I am.”

Her dream was an object, fair enough. Maybe I didn’t understand. A line of incense rose straight into the air like a perfectly launched rocket. The problem with investing such volatile hope into physical things is that rarely do they expand beyond their borders. The dream ends at the parking lot.

Dreaming an idea is more dynamic. A dream idea bounds and floods above its original intention; it bubbles and flows and redefines itself like water. By thinking outside of definitions the color of things to come amplies beyond factory standard.

We finished our meal and changed the subject. That Sunday she went to pick up the car mountains and days away from where our conversation took place. We’ve since stopped talking to each other. Maybe she passed several times in her silver two-door as I strolled the uneven sidewalks. I wouldn’t know; her car looked the same as the others.

LOCATION: Diamantina, Brazil – A summary of a story I told Angela over dinner when she mentioned her smalltown’s attitude toward growing old.

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