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March 21

At dinner a couple days ago, Kristine way saying that transit riders are the next great untapped resource. People without cars are a little less than full people in these United States, and when they become equals, or when they become leaders, they will have much to offer. The first step on this road for carfree leadership is for there to someday be a transportation system that will work for them, that will serve us, and serve us all, and this is a transportation system in which mass transit comes to the forefront.

The ones without cars will be the ones who will have to train the car-bound masses how to get around without a car crutch. This is a future that we will face in not so many years. As the price of oil continues its steady back and forth rise, and car transportation thus demonstrates how unsustainable it really is, someone will have to lead the way, some group of people will have to take over and show the babbling car idiot addicts how to do life without a big steel portable prison. The ones who were carfree, the ones who had been crippled by living without cars in a world designed for them, shall have to lead, shall have to take all the dizzy car-less car-cold-turkeys around by the hand and show them how to be real people, and not the glorified slaves to their cars that they had been for so long, had been so deceived by the car-advertising propaganda complex into believing they were best.

Those of us without cars have been silenced for so long. Our voices don't carry without the car as megaphone. Our choices are not honored, we are rarely witnessed. But someday soon we will be the ones that everybody else will turn to.

Yesterday: a bike and bus story. I was waiting for one bus when I see another come around the corner. It's a bus that will get me closer to my home. I've been reading for a couple minutes so I have to set my book in my bag so I can reach for my bus pass. I do not think about how I do this - I simply obey my body and do it.

I was just in a movie and came out to the 1 in the afternoon sunlight of a bright melting first spring day. I think I was still a bit dazed by that, and dazed too by the mastery of the film I had just seen "Boudu, Saved From Drowning" by Jean Renoir.

On the bus, I realized I no longer had my book. I was ready to read it, but it was not in my bag. I was not sitting on it. It was nowhere.

I played the corner back in my mind as the bus moved swiftly blocks away from where I had caught it. I had put my book into the bag hanging at my side as I ran to catch the bus, but now I wondered if the book had really gone in the bag or if it had merely gone in between my bag and my coat. As I ran to the bus I kicked something - I thought it was something on the sidewalk but I bet it was my book as it slid between my bag and coat and bounced on my boot. I remember looking back to see what I had kicked and I did not see anything - my book must have fallen flat on the sidewalk and was not tall enough for me to notice in my quick glance back. I did not see it then, but I can paste it on my Photoshop mind as I play back the scene. I ran to the bus and had to knock on the window to get on before the driver pulled away. As I sat down, I felt the emptiness, as if I had lost a piece of myself. That was the book, missing, talking to me.

I connected to the other bus that took me home. I made good time, and once home, hopped on my bicycle. I pictured my book, the new copy of Jonathan Letham's "Fortress of Solitude," sitting on the corner, still there. I was only on chapter three. I had barely begun reading it. I had started reading it just last weekend, after I had bought it. I read the first two chapters in glorious Walter Library on the campus as I waited between two movies.

I imagined someone seeing it on the sidewalk and lifting it to a place of honor, like a newspaper box or a planter. I imagined its bright cover colors on the grey sidewalk, or maybe kicked into the wet gutter where the pages would get a nice ruffle. I pictured it waiting there for me to take it back, sitting there closed or lying on its spine, the sidewalk reading some random pages.

I raced on my bicycle back to the scene of the book-dropping. I retraced my route on a different mode of transportation. I told myself that either I would find my book and get it back or else I would just have a nice bicycle ride. Halfway on the trip I had to put on my balaclava to keep my ears warm. It was a sunny day and the residual snow was melting, but it was still cool, and made cooler by the wind on my ride.

As I got closer to the corner and my feet pumped faster on my peddles, I imagined the corner both with my book and without it. I imagined how I would feel if I could scoop it up and take it to be mine again, or my disappointment at finding the corner clear, as if my book-dropping had never happened.

I got to the corner. The book was not there. I looked around for a while to see if somebody had moved it. I pictured a scene, somebody walking around the corner and saying, "That's the book I had been meaning to read," and it is now theirs.

March 22

The sign said, "walk," so I started crossing in the crosswalk. My mind was on other things as I stepped between the painted lines to get to the grocery store across the street.

A car was making a left turn and was going to cross the crosswalk I was walking. The car was making his way toward me, but instead of slowing down to let me pass, it was accelerating into its turn. The driver and his car were headed right to me, he and his tons of steel were not going to stop for my walking. The driver didn't even see me walking. Maybe it was the sun; maybe the mind of the driver was on other things like my mind at that moment was on other things, but he was headed right toward me and he wasn't slowing down.

My ancient nervous system was seeing a gigantic buffalo running right toward me. My ancient nervous system said that the thing to do now is to yell, to frighten the buffalo to change its course. I just yelled "Whoah." I yelled it again. The car put on its brakes fast and I could see the driver, the guy inside the buffalo, the guy inside his mobile living room, and he was well-dressed and a few years older than me. I kept screaming at him, "Why don't you watch where you are going!" I couldn't stop myself. It was my nervous system speaking; it was my brain stem making loud conversation. I felt bad that I was doing this. I felt sorry for him that I had to yell but I couldn't stop myself. It was reflex.

Inside the car, inside that mobile living room, that speeding buffalo, I could see the driver. He looked as scared as I was. I do not know which is more frightening: to get hit by a car or to be the driver that hits a pedestrian. But I do know deep in my heart that the driver is responsibility for the actions of his mobile living room, for the driver has chosen that weapon for his transportation.

The driver stopped his living room from walloping into me and I was able to finish my walk across the street. It was a close call, but I made it to the grocery store.

Pedestrians get hit by cars all the time, every minute of every day. Many of the half a million deaths by car each year in the world are pedestrian deaths - many of those killed are children. Car-makers work hard to make cars safer for the people inside them but do nothing to make them safer for the pedestrians who walk around outside them. Pedestrians do not even exist in the world of car safety.

When somebody chooses to get around in two tons of metal and living room comfort, they take responsibility for the consequences of their choice. But only in my mind. They certainly do not pay the consequences in the legal system. If you want to get away with murder you just need to remember to use a car as your weapon. Courts are usually light on sentences if a driver kills somebody with the weapon of his car - particularly if the person he killed was a pedestrian.

I do not remember all the various ideas and gestures that made me decide when I was just a kid that I never did want to drive. But one of the strongest reasons, I do believe, was that I did not want to have this casual power of life and death that drivers have.

I remember well a certain day when I was five or six. I know I was in kindergarten. It was either a few days or weeks before my birthday or a few days or weeks after it. I was walking home from school that day. I crossed the slippery icy street and ran to beat a car coming down the block and fast. I slipped and fell into the roaring car's path. The car almost hit me but the driver stopped barely in time. I do not know how close the car was but I do remember feeling the car's hot breath.

I knew even then that the car could have killed me. Tiny notions of death came right to my head, and they frightened me, and my fall frightened me, and the car, more than anything, frightened me.

The driver opened his door to get out and called "Hey" after me but I was already on my feet and running home. I felt guilty, that I was responsible, that he was going to get me, I felt so many things and could only run away. I went home and said nothing about it.

I blamed myself. I felt bad for crossing the street. I felt bad that I had fallen in the way of that car, for cars were so important, they were what the lives of adults revolved around completely.

A five year old should be able to walk home without the fear of death by car. A five year old should be able to slip and fall on the ice without facing a smashing by tires and bumper. A five year old should be able to play in the street without the fear of getting shred into blood and bones by some adult's mobile living room, because some adult has given up on his own set of legs and has to do transportation by potential murder.

I remembered that incident, that power, that death, and I didn't want to have that killer's driver seat. I didn't want to take it, and I shall not take it or even take a ride in a car today, so help me. I have not ridden in a car for almost three months. I like it like that. I like the responsibility of that. I like the humanity, the life of that.

March 23

Our American government saw tyranny in Iraq and we thought we had to act on it. So we brought our violence to that other nation and we used our violence to deal with that tyranny. We killed thousands of people there; we killed and maimed thousands of ourselves to address that tyranny, to try to make it go away.

Young Jeff Weise saw tyranny in his school, in his Red Lake High School, and he thought he had to act on it. So he brought his grandfather's guns to that school and he used his violence to deal with that tyranny. He killed ten people, including himself, to address that tyranny, to address the bullies who had bothered him, to make them go away, to make the tyranny go away.

The only difference between the acts of U.S. government and those of Jeff Weise is the difference of scale. Weise came second; he followed the higher authority that demonstrated to him how to go about it. Weise was only following the example set by the so-called moral leadership of our nation, the people he was led to believe are the greatest examples for action and life. He acted according to their example; he did so in every detail, even when the police started firing back at him in the school, just like the grassroots soldiers in Iraq fire at our army and we have to fire back to kill them.

But there might be another difference. Perhaps young Jeff Weise was very much deceived by our so-called moral national leadership. Perhaps our government really did not go to that other schoolroom to vanquish tyranny. Perhaps Jeff Weise is morally superior to Bush, for Weise really did believe he was going to his schoolroom nation to vanquish tyranny, while Bush said one thing but really knew another.

Perhaps Bush said we were going to vanquish tyranny, or weapons, or something like that, but he really knew we were going there for the sake of our national oil addiction. As an oilman, he knew where the oil was, and you attack the place that has the thing that you want if you have that Neanderthal free-market capitalist world army brain, if your head is full of lies and illusions and the haze of oil addiction.

What if Bush said one thing and meant another and betrayed the Jeff Weises of the world who thought he really was showing them how to deal with bullies. Bush turned our army into the ultimate bullies, and he betrayed Jeff Weise, who became the ultimate bully at his school by going there with a gun.

And it all comes down to the rage to quench a thirst with oil. Even Jeff Weise could not carry out his brutal act until he had killed his grandfather and stolen his grandfather's police car. Now Weise could drive a car to school. The car gave him the initial violence he needed, the authority and the courage that comes from car destruction; it was the first act of violence to get him exactly what he thought he wanted. He drove the car right up to the door of the school. He transgressed the sidewalk space and drove the car just a little too far beyond its usual use. It almost looked like he wanted to keep on driving it into the school, and make his violence from inside it, or make his violence with it.

March 24

We were talking about slavery, and how slavery and cars had some things in common. Kristine had a theory about this.

The height of the age of slavery in the southern U.S. was a relatively short time that was hellish to be a part of. It was bad for slaves and it was bad for slave-owners. But the illusions that people held at the time, and the ones that lingers in many minds up to this day, is that it was some golden age, some perfect time when all things were in harmony. It was never like that, it was not like that back when it was in force, and it certainly cannot be seen as such in retrospect by rational minds.

Each person whose ancestors were involved or even remotely touched by slavery still has the psychic damage of it to deal with. Even tho the institution has been gone for more than one hundred years we still have not recovered from it in our minds and our society. It created dependencies on all sides that caused cultural brain damage, and it has screwed up most things that followed after. It was the cause of wars and of environmental destruction. It was bad for everybody and everything.

The age of cars will be gone some time in the future. It will actually be a very short age when looked back in retrospect from the fabric of all human time. But I can imagine that the people looking back at the age of car will remember it as if it was some perfect time of freedom and release. They will think sweet thoughts of that time they remember so fondly, and meanwhile everybody and everything will continue to experience the damage of this destructive age. The effects will linger long after the institution is abolished.

When the age of car finally comes to its close, there will be new definitions of black and white. There will be new shades of right and wrong, and everybody will have told you so. The damage caused by cars when they actually were running will still get much worse before things get better. It will be a huge scar on our culture, and we will only recover from it most likely when some other demon replaces it in illusion.

It is so absurd for me to be walking down a sidewalk when all these metal monsters roam in their vitually human-free space on the streets around me. It is absurd and it is bad, and yet so many people cannot get their minds around its overall wrong. We are living the psychic damage that car culture has given us, has made from our lives. People in my neighborhood complain that bike racks on the decks of an apartment building are unsightly while they can't even see the unsightliness of a huge autombile culture in all sides around them.

After the cars stop running, cities will still be scarred for a long long time. Minds will be scarred, relations among people will be challenged. A new race of underachievers will emerge out of the formerly automobile addicted. Their families will suffer serious social problems for long into the future because of that troublesome institution and what it did to them. They will suffer for generations because of the cultural brain damage wrought and kept and held onto much too tightly in this horrible age of car.

March 25

Transportation is necessary. Transportation is unnecessary. Living a life is necessary. Then you must walk to get to a place. Your feet have to rub the ground, you will make contact with the earth, you will massage it with your journey if your journey comes with feet.

On my bicycle, I can make a magical balance. I have two wheels - they stay there in midair. There is hardly any contact - you can see it in the snow as a single line, or two if the tires do not follow the same path exactly. I can draw a line on the world, just a line, like a saying, like a loop of letter, like a picture that I made with my balance. The line I make is barely thick enough to kill an ant. It is the tiniest line of contact, and it holds me up and moving in a direction.

I stay up thanks to the domesticated horizon. That is what Peter Kubelka called it. We have tamed the flatness and we have made it serve our purposes. We have flattened through domestication, and that is what I make my lines upon.

Balance came to me when I was young, and when I started moving forward fast enough. This was quite a hurdle to get over at first when I was learning how to do it. Bicycle balance did not come naturally to me - I had to learn it over some time, and with training wheels. Even those extra two wheels, metal down to plastic spinning on the back tire near the ground and wobbling back and forth, seemed very treacherous at first. But the day came when they could be removed, and I could go forward and keep my balance despite the stumble in my soul.

The forward motion keeps me up. I do not keep still, for that takes an even greater sense of balance. It is my bicycle magic trick, with my hands on the handlebars and I can go even faster if I have a bicycle lane to make my own way and space despite the lumbering heavyweight car artillery beside me, belching and brawling.

I do not even know that I am moving, but I can feel the night wind pushing against me. I need to crank my feet so much harder. Sometimes I have to stand up from my seat to make the leverage. I make that circle with my feet like the whole world turning. I turn with the world, I follow it, event horizon, as I make my way forward so easily, and on such a thin line, and with forward, absolute forward, for my balance and my friend.

March 26

I just thought right now and now is Saturday morning, I just thought right now that last night was the Critical Mass ride in town this month, and I missed it. I forgot it and only remembered it this morning.

I have never been to China. I have never been to a place where day to day bicycles are really the traffic. But I have ridden in a number of Critical Mass rides over the years and have felt that assurance and have felt that peace and heaven for the short time of the ride.

When there are enough bicycles so they really are traffic, when they hit that critical mass, when enough riders are riding to take over a street in at least one direction, then we achieve something quite remarkable. Then you can easily chat with the people around you on their bicycles, then the bicycle is not forced to cower in the gutter while the cars practice their road mastery. When you ride on such a ride you become aware of the great absence of automobiles, there is no car beside you to fail you with its road-rage superiority.

A Critical Mass ride can be hundreds of bicycles, but the street is then as quiet as their swish and their chat. The police may try to run them off the road, the police may try to beat up the bicylces for their disturbance and their transgression, but when the police do this they might as well be beating up god. They might as well be closing down the closest thing to nirvana on earth in their police service to the death polluting caraholics that lust to take back over with their leers and their motor outrage.

I remember a ride where we heard the siren of an ambulance behind us. We, all the dozens of bicycles, all pulled over to the side of the road together at that instant. We as a mass of bicyles were far more legal than the usual road practice, where all the vehicles wait until the last moment to see if they should pull over or not. The natural illegality of cars makes them try to ignore the siren even when it is on top of them, and so they are reluctant to pull over to the curb. The natural perfection of a road full of bicycles pulls over at the slightest sound.

It is only when bicycles have to negotiate the illegal and impossible road of cars that they have to turn into robbers and steal the stop signs and traffic lights. This is necessary in the horror of the day to day car-controlled road rage – the bicycles are outsiders and have to move thru the environment like thieves, to get anywhere and live to tell about it they must act like criminals. In the illegal and unnatural world of cars, you must act the role of criminal to get back your humanity.

The mass ride of bicycles, the bicycle ride that takes over the entire street or road, is one smile of happiness, is the perfect time and place to be a human. And I just remembered that I missed the ride last night – the first monthly ride of my new bicycle riding spring season.

March 27

Yesterday we pretended that we lived in a city with a good mass transit system. After spending the morning on some house cleaning, we walked the long beautiful walk downtown to catch the train, our one train line in town. We did several things along the route of the Hiawatha Line, that one new light rail transit line in town. We visited a coffee shop, and we walked through Minnehaha Park and looked for a while at the drapes of ice that had frozen around its rock waterfall horseshoe. We also looked at all the little people like ants trespassing thru the mud to pay a visit to the back of the falls, to walk in between the ice and the rock, to poke their heads out in the holes where the spring melting had made a window. Then we walked thru the campus of the Minnesota Veteran's home. We walked across the one lane 1908 bridge into the Minnehaha Creek canyon which was a big crayon nest of brown bare trees. We rode the train north to the Lake Street station, and got off there to get a sandwich at Manny's Tortas. We did these several things along the line and rode the train from place to place. For an afternoon we lived in a kind of heaven, we lived in a city with good transit and where many other people rode that transit and were having a good Saturday time, their heads bobbing back and forth enjoying nice thoughts of good mass transit.

A year ago in this town, there was no mass transit. A transit strike led to over a month with no buses. That was the worst of times for us. That was a time when we felt like we were not at home, where we were the furthest place from home, where we were aliens in some alien place that did not want us, that did not want to make a shape that we could cope with.

We scratched our way by. We lived our lives as best we could. Mostly we spend a lot of time at home. I rode my bicycle quite a bit, and began riding earlier in the season, before the weather was as warm as I like it when I return to spring riding. We barely made it, and we were so happy when the buses started running again.

One of the worst aspects of the transit strike was that opening day of the Hiawatha Line got pushed back. It was first set to start running on the first weekend of April, but when the bus strike dragged on thru March, the opening day got pushed back to the last weekend in June. That extra three months of waiting was hard to take. The best day for transit in fifty years in the Twin Cities got rolled back. That was hard to deal with back then but it has since lost its edge with time and forgetting.

Public transit means a little more this year. Last year the newspapers were full of voices of critics who were saying that transit was a waste of money, that we did not need a transit system. Reading these criticisms made us feel like orphans in this city. The loudness of these critics was one of the reasons that led my mother to make her decision to leave Minneapolis and move to Portland, Oregon, which has great mass transit.

We do not hear those voices any more. The critics have gotten quieter, but they are still around. But neither do we hear the real support that mass transit needs, the support which must come in dollars. A fare hike and many route cuts are proposed for later this year. These route cuts will hit us very strongly in our neighborhood, which has marginal transit service as it is.

But yesterday we had a good day. For a few hours in the afternoon we could pretend. We could pretend with the people and their bobbing heads on the train. We could pretend that we were in some other place, and we were in some other place, at least for the 12 miles of that one line.

March 28

Tied together
With a parkinglot
As if a sense of place
Needed a guardrail

Can't quite make
The leap across
This sidewalk
A metal
Terror monster
Colonizes the curb cut

If only we had
Eyes inside our wheels
Maybe then we would notice

The things we hide
The things we seek
And how a windshield
Turns air to glare

Will we ever
Find ourselves in the reflections
Our mirror prisons
That take us far far away
From where we needed to be

This is not a journey
This is an illusion of place
Spread over a million miles
Poisonous

If I walk
It might take a while
I've made a car
Out of my skin
And breakfast

It is so easy
To go fast and reckless
What is the point
Of waiting or staying

There is no need
Of responsibility
If you are the driver
Of the getaway car

It is not so easy
To get out of the mess
Of your making
If you have to walk away
Pedestrians have to be more careful

On two wheels
That's all I need
And some balance
I kid you not

March 29

Our Ford, Henry Ford, Henry Ford with his assembly-line hair, did not know what he was getting us into. Or else he did. He just thought he could beat some others with a better motor car, and a different way to make it. There was so much competition in those days that the cows had to leave the barns. The horses, too, had to spend so much time in pasture. The straw could be cleared from the floor of the barn to make room for some tinkering, to make room for some thinking and cranking and trying it out.

Just a bunch of crazy guys in overalls hanging out in barns inventing motorcars, that is how you must picture it back then. And now they have all morphed into crazy guys in business suits, hanging out in board rooms and in corporate headquarters and in seats of state power in many a nation. They do not care quite so much about the vehicles that burn the crude these days as their jobs are all about the powers of locomotion, the oil that makes the modern carriages go. That is what they deal in words and gestures, that is the color and the liquid of their greed.

The John D. Rockefellers of a hundred years ago spent their money, or some of it, on making churches for learning, but now his modern miniature men are all starved for world power, are too fixed up on that drug to worry about giving away their money. They are buying elections and declaring wars and invading pristine wilderness to squeeze the last drops of the stuff out of this sponge. They are too busy scaring out the last glass of dinosaur juice and looking for more to keep it going despite all science and wisdom. That greed and that need and that bringer of speed is all that matters to them, not tomorrow or brief candles, because it is the oil of today that will keep their pockets paying for their power.

In this scene, the oil barons should not be played so much by human actors. Maybe potatoes dressed in business suits will work best in this greatest performance. The mission of potato, or of oil executive, can be expressed completely in gravity. The potatoes rolled in oil have a business plan. This nefarious business plan is portrayed by a slight incline. They roll down that incline that is the finite of their resources. At the bottom of this incline, where the finite meets their majesty, there just might be these blades for making french fries out of their guts and the whole world too which is also cast as potatoes and rolling with the oil execs down the business plan, that slope. The incline may act as the plan of the human earth, which is really no plan, just the command to keep eating.

And here we go, on down for the ride. That is you and me too, rolling deeper for a shredding, because we are slaves to that oil and to the world that seemed so flat we would never believe in falling. How many more scenes before the blades cut us all up into future natural resources, into scraps that will sit and brew and maybe fire some other succeeding creature's earth bending vehicle in some far off future?

March 30

Possessions imprison us. The greatest freedom is to be without them. The greatest prison of them all is the car.

Freedom is to be able to just put your feet on the earth and take yourself to your destination. I like the speed I can make with my bicycle. I like the elegance and efficiency of its simple marvelous physics, but it also can be a drag on me. Sometimes it works perfectly, and I hold the illusion of freedom, but sometimes it works less than so. A flat tire can let me down, a squeak or a wobble can screw up my locomotion. If I go with my feet, and just make it with my walk, I do not have to worry. I just have to go.

Public transit is nice, but sometimes I have to wait. Waiting is part of the fabric of existence, waiting teaches patience, it teaches me how to be a part of my environment. Sometimes the bus is very late, or broken down, and does not come and I have to learn more waiting, and I have to learn how to deal with my impatience and disappointment.

But I do not own the bus. I can use it and share the ride with my community and so I am free. I am free to leave it when my bus stop comes up and I finish my trip, as always, with the freedom of walk, with the freedom of my legs to take me and nothing more powerful than that.

The greatest prison of transportation is something that I can not believe in, something that I do not practice, but to which I am a party, to which I am a witness, a silent witness, a not so silent witness. At least I try. The greatest chain and lock down is the car that takes you nowhere, is the car that sinks you into its cell of torture, is the prison of the car and its web of associations.

The greatest prison is the car mind control possessed by some that some that they cannot go two blocks without getting in their car. The greatest prison is to own your own car, which leads you to notions of owning the whole world, which means that you can torture it and everybody upon it.

The greatest torturers are the greatest prisoners. I have no doubt that the most supremely talented torturers will be the humans most enchained to their cars. Only they have the talent and endurance to make things suffer so, to make things wail under their pounding. If you can do it with tires, you can do it with other forms of torture. If you can do it to the planet, you can do it to your brother and sister.

You own a car and there is a list of bogus behind you, from its threat of murder to its teaching of torture to the way it taxes the lungs of our planet, to the way it eats its way thru the entrails of our solid land, our home, our place. You are chained to the enforcement, the police state, that tries to keep the illusion of safety on roads and streets that are by definition dangerous places if we let the cars take them over, if we let the cars and their torture minds rule them.

The car prisons your mind in its sense of steel reality, in its weight of world pounding, in the twisting of its hatred. There is no greater prisoner than the driver. There is no freer human than the one who practices walking.

March 31

I have gone three months now without riding in a car; I have gone a quarter of the year without utilizing one for my comfort or convenience. And tho I have not partaken in one myself, I am constantly surrounded by their mission and their madness.

Like that rip of sound that just broke a huge hole in this tiny calm morning, and the metal that will roar and rumble at me as I negotiate my way about the day. Our little house is a small island in this shit, is floating on this sea of car and car misery, and tho I have stayed completely outside them, I am touched by them, I am humbled and rolled over my world by them.

The car is the great dictator, there is no way to get around this mistake. All you have to do is stare across the remarkable parking lots, all you have to do is make the error of stepping into the street. They make the smoke that gets in your hair, they get into your blood thru the powers of physics and eating and breathing. Even if you are only around them you are made up of them. They are the center of the actual American religion. They are the god and government that these citizens really get led by the nose from.

I will walk my la-dee-dah, I will take my bicycle around. When it rains hard I will wait for the bus. I will watch the raindrops race down the bus windshield. I will walk to get my morning, I will use my super three transportation team to get me with no car insides. I will stick to my challenge to say hah to the war for oil and to the global warming that is toasting us from the inside, that fries our heads and hair to garble. I will insist on going way slow while the world around me races to its fast oblivion.

April 1

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