Zen & the Art of Freeland Maintenance

I started sputtering yesterday. Something was wrong. Off. And, instead of figuring out what that thing was, I ignored it. Went to bed with it. And it was worse this morning.

While I still don't know exactly what it is, I'm sitting down. Meditating. Pulling out the plugs, the sprockets, everything. I'm going to blow dust off everything. Grease what needs to be greased. Make sure every piece is in it's perfect form, before reassembling it.

What exactly does that mean?, you may be asking. Well, it will take various forms: fasting, then a vast change of diet for a while, starting with citrus fruits and then foods with more caloric complexity, until I know what's working for me and what isn't; a return to a spiritual center; taking time to be alone with myself without feeling the need to hide or fix something; maybe a long walk; writing again; reading again; tea instead of coffee ... Well, not too much too soon.

What do I know now? I know that, although I never really liked it before, I've developed a taste for ginger. And, I only told one lie today. And it was a small, correctable, one.

Traveling Too Rare

This past Saturday, on my way to my university alumni rugby game against the youngin's, I was pulled over for my first time in a while. True, I may have been going a little quickly, and it was true that I had sped up to make two yellow lights through an s-like intersection, but I've been pulled over for a lot more. At least I was in my own car.

I spoke with the officer, who was pleasant enough, who told me he hadn't liked the way I had come through the intersection. He stated this to me the same way one would state that they hadn't liked the olives in their Greek salad. I justified to him that I felt I had committed myself to the intersection and that hitting the breaks, especially on wet pavement, through a circuitous intersection seemed to me to be more dangerous than making the light. I apologized for the maneuvering in and out of traffic I had done to make the lights, and he gave me the impression that my answer was thoughtful and somewhat reasonable, given the situation.

He took my license and registration with him back to the car, and I waited in mine, listening to Van Morrison and nodding at the gentleman across the street who was half-working, half-checking out the scene in front of his business; the expression he wore was one of curiosity more than accusatory. The officer returned a few minutes later and handed me a written warning: traveling too rair. (It took me a few minutes to make out what the offense was, until I remembered the average intelligence for police officers is around 100.) For the first time since law enforcement officers have been writing me citations, fines, tickets, and court appearance dates, I smiled in light of my transgression.

Traveling too rare. I still like the sound of that.