On a train going nowhere, I couldn’t have written it any other way…

A unique perspective demonstrating the beauty of uninhabited plots of familiar land, slow moving, which is a replica of pre-modern times, ravaged factories and abandoned settlements now painted with the colors of graffiti, the train moving in the direction of the wind across the water, sun sailing on the surface as eagles swim in the sky, past Benicia, state capitol once upon a time in the forgotten history of California, golden arches of grand allure in the backdrop of hillsides.

I am enamored with the sights of the bay from beyond the window of a breeze. Battleships with baffling capabilities sleeping side by side, shades of green light meadows with prickly plants which engulf pale gray ponds where cows sip beads of water and stand still as if studded in the canvas of the prairie land picture. Horses prance as if to dance to the rumbling of the passerby, folds in the earth are filled with furry foliage of forest fauna, I cannot resist the temptation to witness rays of soil ascending in perfectly planted rows in the valley of farming where fruits survive till September harvest. A kaleidoscope of agricultural artistry illustrated before the ever-changing window of the moving model. Spanish styled architecture of sun-burnt flavors and sun tanned skin toned walkways paved through pristine channels of a quiet settlement. A bunch of bike riders in bright yellows pedaling parallel to yellow speckled highways, and the high ways of captains containing crops in winged crafts. Suburban boxes painted in pastels and markets of outrageous artifacts, Wild West history on the faces of historic housing, the era of enchanting colonialism coloring the aura of this chapter in the trip.

Up and further still, cascading elevation of thousands of lengths where miners once had a multitude of money-making moments now faded in the momentary blackouts afforded by the barriers of concave funnels protecting the traveler from the treachery of snow and sleet. Skylar’s Colfax is crested in sands of fire and stone, a 6am cocktail isn’t such a bad treat, brick walls and balconies and daisies in the cracks of cemented sidewalks.
Pumpkin coated slopes and baby undergrowth, spiny pillars of deadwood peeking out from the shade of old man evergreens and secret cabins. Purple poppies and odd shaped conglomerates, dark spaces and drop-offs. Vertical striations in pale panoramic layouts, barbecued rock, jagged and unfriendly. Mirror glass tubs of rippling fresh water, cotton clouds blanketing the peaks of poignant pinnacles.

When driving our vehicles, there is no greater crime committed against us than being cut off. It makes us feel as though we are invisible, as if a physical impediment is placed upon our right to progress; our right of way. Some of us become hostile, activating the annoying voice of our car horns to profess to the other driver the act of injustice which has been so wrongfully accomplished. Some of us seek revenge, operating our machines in an aggressive manner so as to make the original prosecutor feel threatened. And some of us shrink within the walls of our mobile cage, silently cursing the offender, but offering to let the matter slide easily into that deep abyss of our minds, joining other decayed memories rotting in the coffin entitled ‘awkward confrontations with assholes’.

There is no standard protocol dictating reactionary measures for traffic incidents of this sort. But I think we can all agree that being victimized in a classic case of roadway cut-off is an overall unpleasant experience.

In fact, we are taught the social importance of respecting personal space as our very first lessons in school. Standing in line for chocolate milk, all the little tykes are encouraged to practice discipline and patience, and are rewarded with gold stars for good behavior. This medieval practice of praising positive behavior by offering positive feedback educates little people about the significance of adhering to this social convention, and also teaches children to acknowledge the presence of their fellow little friends. In other words, we as children are taught that if you cut in line, play time will be cut in half.

As an adult, the conversational equivalent of cutting in the chocolate milk line is being cut off mid-speech. And, like the vehicular version of interruption, it is a serious violation of the principles under which every individual operates, that sacred code which says that every person be granted the freedom of expression and progression, and that that freedom be unrestricted and honored.

Nobody likes the playground bully, and the over aggressive drivers on the road are as equally unpopular. The habitual interrupter takes a seat amongst these social rebels, having in common that one characteristic which binds them: impudence. Once a man comes between a woman and her train of thought, the relationship is soured.  Bachelor blue eyes was funny, smart, and had a decent set of morals, but he came between me and my train of thought, and instead of continuing where I left off, I candidly said my peremptory goodbyes. After all, it takes courage to volunteer conversation on a date with someone with whom the potential of a future together is entertained. So ladies: be cautioned, be assertive, and unafraid; if you find yourself consistently cut off, stand up for your right of way, and move in another direction.