“Who would have thought this would be happening in the little town of Ripton, but traffic jams do occur. “Flagman Ahead” is the seasonal refrain. I want to see what they’re man-handling, and what ballet-like maneuvers the bobcat is currently performing. It’s about the size of one lane of the two lane highway I’m idling on. They must be a bit jaded to the riff-raff mucking up their day at work, interrupting every well thought out piece of their exhaust driven choreography. Out-of-staters, tapping the steering wheel, with a predictable impatience. Overly solicitous electric car drivers, no one can hear or audio-locate. Big honking American made trucks, mostly down with the frequency of unexpected obstacles clogging their forward motion, but quietly pissed they’ll be late to work. I guess I’m one of those. Lately, I just put her in park and go zen. There are things to see during road construction, one could never access, just driving by on automatic pilot. Centuries old hemlocks, almost furniture invisible, standing vigil over dried up creeks. Vast cornfields, and acres of Japanese Knotweed, leaning over what’s left of the water, as if a life depended on it. The heavy, muggy mass of summer air weighing in, on top of every so-called “outdoor adventure”, measuring by the cartload, and lung-full, every ounce of what will never be given up to strangers, not without a fight. As the cars, they continue to come, and the SUVs continue to drive their bloated routes, GPSing their way, thru a postcard world. Past the mowing contraptions, hay wagons & graders, past the slower moving, cautious locals who drive somewhat to enjoy, and certainly not, to get there first. And if I were to liberate myself from any stereotype, I’d point first to the yard of bark mulch in my truck bed, and then to my broken tailgate, and then to the fancy rack of pro-audio tools, set up provisionally, in my bedroom. Then to the chop saw in my studio, & the pile of locally milled flooring stacked neatly, but in the way, that I wish could magically be screwed down by elves. My books, still in boxes, holding libraries of information about plants, natural remedies and literature. The trash bags filled with fiber glass and rock wool insulation, the aluminum sink waiting to be installed in the studio kitchenette. All of my impulses, I’ve had since I was a child. Rolled into one, gigantic embrace, for all the other lost people. Our immense ability to play and build inspirational artistic things, has never been more thwarted, and yet, more alive.”
