Bui k
(published in 2004 review)
When I fell into the seat and shut the door, I knew it didn’t matter why I’d been crying. I turned the key and the engine welcomed me. The world around all my windows was vibrant and alive, filled with infinite changing life in each direction and flooded with the yellow glow of a fresh March sun. I felt an adrenaline charge in my veins as I sped away, giving the car a little more gas than necessary. It was as if I’d defeated danger in a brave and daring escape. Perhaps I had. I was escaping the stifling darkness of being still, letting my own thoughts be all that moved around me. It isn’t natural to drown in my own thoughts. There is a world greater than I am. I am a speck on the surface; a surface that curves and moves. The earth rises and falls with its slow, patient breathing.
My little red Buick, or “Bui k” as it said on the rear, felt it with me, I think. It was no muscle car, nothing fancy, no 4-wheel drive, but it gunned ahead at the gentle nudge of my foot and took rocky back roads like it was hungry for the hills. You’d never guess I had such affection for that car. It was covered in a year’s worth of dust, which most would interpret as neglect. But, the dirt was more of a record of history, or perhaps a decoration of medals, for each hill that we had conquered together. The crack in the steering wheel was really a snapshot, from a night long before when I’d beat my fist on it. That was another night the car held me inside itself, like a cocoon, until I had grown a little.
The sun glowed hot through the windows. It was warm for March. Those surprise days are the best, a bonus glimpse at summer when we’re used to bitter cold. There were still icy lumps in parking lots. The gray piles were strange monuments to the dreary weather of the week before. They made the warmth of the sun seem so much richer by contrast. Could it be? Maybe it’s warm enough even to ride with the windows down. The wind barreled through as I lowered the glass. It seemed overly excited, since no one had welcomed it inside all winter.
As I slipped onto the highway, the damp wind became a little too much for me, but I was not about to cut it off. I turned the heater on low, aimed at my feet, and I drifted off onto the next ramp towards the country. The wind smoothed my hair back, like my mother brushing it back to braid it. Then, the wind would get too giddy and flip it into my face, like some playful game of teasing. I felt the gravity leave me when the hills would fall off below the wheels, then it would push at me again, then let go. I was riding on its knee like a child. The music on the radio meshed with the waves like it felt every push and drop with me. It all came together, the wind beating frantic rythms on my eardrums, the sun’s heat and liveliness, the melodic sway of the curves… I was caught in the middle of the crowd when the earth, wind and weather all decided to dance. I let it sway and tug at me, lifting me up, and dropping me again, giving me little moments of weightlessness.
In that fury, caught up with the winds that seem to sync with the radio, my mind channeled something from inside myself. Words come from somewhere once buried. They all seemed so profound, so meaningful, so inspired. My fingers stumbled through the dark crevices between the seats and around the molded plastic shapes, looking for paper and pen. I scrawl words and phrases in mutated hieroglyphs on envelopes. Only I could interpret them, if even I would be able to after the moment had passed. My eyes flashed clipped images of the road, just enough to aim the car, but focused mainly on the paper where my life’s work was growing, evolving, becoming something on it’s own. Is this the spine of my novel-to-be? A poem, perhaps? A song?
But it was not the words that mattered, it was the rejuvenation that brought them forth… not the product, but the energy. The words aren’t lyrics, just words, but the song that they were wrapped up in was the hum of my exhalation, the spewing forth of my soul into this warm, liberating breeze. The words will be discarded when I reach the next stop, or maybe be lost in the layers of forgotten scraps on the back floorboards. The life that the wind has forced into me today, and the healing from the stale air that was thrust out – that will remain.
Such a simple thing, the sunlight heating my chest through the window, the hills and valleys undulating like waves to either side of me… I’m sailing on the movements that are life and nature, letting it tug at me on the curves. It throws me into the air at the apex of hills, like a child tossed up by her father’s hands, and catches me each time in safe little valleys. I don’t remember why I was crying. It must have been something so small that I lost track of it. It was like some speck of dust that I could no longer train my eye on, once I caught sight of this big world around me.
When I fell into the seat and shut the door, I knew it didn’t matter why I’d been crying. I turned the key and the engine welcomed me. The world around all my windows was vibrant and alive, filled with infinite changing life in each direction and flooded with the yellow glow of a fresh March sun. I felt an adrenaline charge in my veins as I sped away, giving the car a little more gas than necessary. It was as if I’d defeated danger in a brave and daring escape. Perhaps I had. I was escaping the stifling darkness of being still, letting my own thoughts be all that moved around me. It isn’t natural to drown in my own thoughts. There is a world greater than I am. I am a speck on the surface; a surface that curves and moves. The earth rises and falls with its slow, patient breathing.
My little red Buick, or “Bui k” as it said on the rear, felt it with me, I think. It was no muscle car, nothing fancy, no 4-wheel drive, but it gunned ahead at the gentle nudge of my foot and took rocky back roads like it was hungry for the hills. You’d never guess I had such affection for that car. It was covered in a year’s worth of dust, which most would interpret as neglect. But, the dirt was more of a record of history, or perhaps a decoration of medals, for each hill that we had conquered together. The crack in the steering wheel was really a snapshot, from a night long before when I’d beat my fist on it. That was another night the car held me inside itself, like a cocoon, until I had grown a little.
The sun glowed hot through the windows. It was warm for March. Those surprise days are the best, a bonus glimpse at summer when we’re used to bitter cold. There were still icy lumps in parking lots. The gray piles were strange monuments to the dreary weather of the week before. They made the warmth of the sun seem so much richer by contrast. Could it be? Maybe it’s warm enough even to ride with the windows down. The wind barreled through as I lowered the glass. It seemed overly excited, since no one had welcomed it inside all winter.
As I slipped onto the highway, the damp wind became a little too much for me, but I was not about to cut it off. I turned the heater on low, aimed at my feet, and I drifted off onto the next ramp towards the country. The wind smoothed my hair back, like my mother brushing it back to braid it. Then, the wind would get too giddy and flip it into my face, like some playful game of teasing. I felt the gravity leave me when the hills would fall off below the wheels, then it would push at me again, then let go. I was riding on its knee like a child. The music on the radio meshed with the waves like it felt every push and drop with me. It all came together, the wind beating frantic rythms on my eardrums, the sun’s heat and liveliness, the melodic sway of the curves… I was caught in the middle of the crowd when the earth, wind and weather all decided to dance. I let it sway and tug at me, lifting me up, and dropping me again, giving me little moments of weightlessness.
In that fury, caught up with the winds that seem to sync with the radio, my mind channeled something from inside myself. Words come from somewhere once buried. They all seemed so profound, so meaningful, so inspired. My fingers stumbled through the dark crevices between the seats and around the molded plastic shapes, looking for paper and pen. I scrawl words and phrases in mutated hieroglyphs on envelopes. Only I could interpret them, if even I would be able to after the moment had passed. My eyes flashed clipped images of the road, just enough to aim the car, but focused mainly on the paper where my life’s work was growing, evolving, becoming something on it’s own. Is this the spine of my novel-to-be? A poem, perhaps? A song?
But it was not the words that mattered, it was the rejuvenation that brought them forth… not the product, but the energy. The words aren’t lyrics, just words, but the song that they were wrapped up in was the hum of my exhalation, the spewing forth of my soul into this warm, liberating breeze. The words will be discarded when I reach the next stop, or maybe be lost in the layers of forgotten scraps on the back floorboards. The life that the wind has forced into me today, and the healing from the stale air that was thrust out – that will remain.
Such a simple thing, the sunlight heating my chest through the window, the hills and valleys undulating like waves to either side of me… I’m sailing on the movements that are life and nature, letting it tug at me on the curves. It throws me into the air at the apex of hills, like a child tossed up by her father’s hands, and catches me each time in safe little valleys. I don’t remember why I was crying. It must have been something so small that I lost track of it. It was like some speck of dust that I could no longer train my eye on, once I caught sight of this big world around me.
posted by TwistedNoggin | 7:36 PM
1 Comments:
LOVE this story. Man, it's so good. It's like you took flakes of brilliance, sprinkled them all over the canvas, and somehow managed to get them all to hold hands.
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