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Among my top ten stimuli for hurling unrepeatable swears at the heavens is auto mechanics. It's not that I don't accept the responsibility of maintaining complicated machinery, or the eccentric technical philosophies of foreign designers, but for god's sake, make a repair manual that gives it to you straight. In that old AutoBiography episode, it's pretty obvious that the bias has been to non-domestic cars. Can't help it... barges or non-descript granny cars are good for a lark, if you're doing non-granny things in and with them (my old chevy wagon, with the red-gold-green racing stripe, took me to see the Clash, Psychedelic Furs, Gang of Four, Elvis Costello, the Talking Heads, Burning Spear, Black Uhuru and others), but it's a different line across the bodywork, the rort of the exhaust, the line through curvy roads that grabs my attention. In a perverse way, this line of thought describes a lot of my attractions... including the feminine. Getting there is half the fun. Word. Uppermost. Keeping the dream alive... there's the rub. And the scrapes. And the bloodletting. The immovable or broken bolts. Parts that don't fit, and have to be ordered from the other side of the world. The Red Herrings. The deflated bank account. But, anything worth doing, is worth doing right. Even if it means weeping, wailing, and flinging of tools. At least there was no weeping, this day. After the expense of the afternoon, and more black marks on my record for eternal damnation, the Volvo rises like the Phoenix. Today. Of course, there was the baptism by gasoline sequence, and the cryptic manual For Which There Is No Rosetta Stone. However... After being cautiously satisfied that things were buttoned up, I decided to take the plunge and take it to the road (and it's way to heavy to push). On the return leg this incredible sunset was in the windscreen. Instead of just feeling awe for the gift, I was fuming over not having the camera with me. Wanting to share it with others. Tangerine and caribbean blue just don't happen together that way ordinarily. That's when I just told myself to stop it. The bitching. The negative side. The ignorance. If it happened that this was my last day to exist, and well it could be, would that be the way to spend it? So, I said "Wow," to the colors and a smoothly-running four-cylinder (and no mechanic to pay for it). Would that I could have the same effect here in my home. Granted, this time of year sucks immensely... not just the confinement of dreary weather, but that so many that have been close to me left, forever, in these months and weeks, over time. No manual for those repairs. No amount of raging against the light to put things right. Just keeping on. I'm reminded of a monster reggae song that says, "Each is given a bag of tools, A shapless mass, and the Book Of Rules." Maybe I'm too agnostic, or pantheistic... but it would help if the rules, like sense, was common. Some things beg for attention in their repair or creation. And there's so much, always... and always I think of more. A marriage more akin to companionship. Buildings to erect. Images to conjure. Injustice to rise against (and if you're as sick as I am about saber-rattling, go here, soon). Responsibility (root word "respond")... governed by that thin line between love and hate and indifference and abandonment. It would be fine to have some fun, getting there. |
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