driving and walking

I had an interesting revelation a few days ago when I was, once again, forced to drive to work because of a tight time knot that someone had made for me. When I drive home, even though the drive itself only takes about 10 minutes, I'm not actually at home for about another 25 minutes. I'm in some kind of strange netherworld, neither here nor there. Head in the clouds, or somewhere much less interesting. Mushy brained, in transit, like those scintillating beings in the original Star Trek when the transporter beam was not quite up to snuff and Chekhov was madly sliding those controls up and down trying to recompose someone's body. When I walk home, it takes me 35 minutes. And when I get here, I'm here. All molecules intact and accounted for.

I spent a good chunk of the weekend driving through big swaths of Ohio. Sometimes I get a bit tired of Kunstler's undisguised glee about the collapse of America. But I have to say I know exactly what he's talking about here. There's definitely something tired, tragic, and beaten about much of the place these days.