flinch

As the rebar comes flying through your windshield, you flinch. You flinch as the ponded puddle at the curb is about to inundate you. An infinitesimal moment before the crash, you flinch. As would I. Similarly, we hunch our shoulders against the wind, rain, or snow. We squint at the blinding light. We brace ourselves for the verbal daggers flying toward us.

Tell me. Does the flinching, hunching, squinting, bracing, wincing, cringing, or shrugging alter the results one iota? And yet we seek these armours, these paltry shields, involuntarily. (Are they ever voluntary?)

Powerlessness 101.

slip slidin' away

Drove from Stamford, Connecticut, to Syracuse, New York, today, experiencing wind that nudged the car, brief whiteouts of blowing snow, and even bouts of clarity and relative calm. Several cars slid off the road or were involved in significant accidents, especially in the Catskills. Along with all these elements, the drive home delivered its metaphorical sermon on powerlessness. Sure, I grabbed that wheel and opened my eyes wide. But . . .

What would Kierkegaard say?

Just A Hunch

Under the delicious deluge of autumn rain this morning, I (umbrella-less) hunched my shoulders as I scooted from parking garage to street to sidewalk to building entranceway, a short distance.

Did the hunching help?

Did it make me less wet? Did I think hunching would protect me?

Hunch. A great word. Merriam-Webster declares its origin unknown.

Hunch conjures up combinations of huddle and scrunch and hump, which if performed simultaneously would tie one up in potentially orgasmic-enhancing or orgasmic-squelching knots. (Take your pick.)

The fecklessness-of-hunching metaphor raises this question (or raises nothing at all, if one is rendered impotent by such contortions):

What other hunch illusions do we fall for?

After all, does your flinching matter as the I-beam sliding off the semi slices through your windshield?

That sounds dark and gloomy, but isn't, really.

It is meant to underscore the illusion of power we live by, afraid to surrender to the reality of powerlessness. We do this as individuals and as a culture (and as a government).

Powerlessness is really such a relief.

Alas, easier said than done.

My letting go (or failure to do so) typically leaves a bloody trail of claw marks on the object of desire.

(Pare it down, and you've got a Leonard Cohen song or poem.)

One Direction Home

One direction home, or to work, or to anywhere. Yesterday, my power steering became powerless steering, challenging me to exert strength just to stay on the path. Don't you rednecks read too much into this, but left turns seemed harder. Mechanic flushed out the system; seemed fine. Then wasn't. Brought it back; was fine for the mechanic, of course. The mechanic, the Deus Ex Machina, said drive the car around, let the system flush itself, let the new blood, so to speak, work its way. So, is he saying, steer more? Is that the answer? The metaphors here are screaming at me. I need all kinds of steering, let me tell you. But if I let go of the wheel, where do I go? What do I hit?

I'm so confused. I need so much help.

Maybe I should be walking or taking the bus.

Let someone else do the steering.

I am a semicolon.