image via safoocat
It’s yellow day today, and there’s this: on the surface road portion of our morning commute we drive under a blinking yellow traffic light. Blink. Blink. Blink. Our path is on the main thoroughfare and the light reminds us of the side road, a tiny little slip of a thing hidden by old trees that leads back to some beautiful wide-lawned homes. Maybe once a month or so we’ll approach as some reticent car from that side street needs to join our noisy southbound throng. Blinkblinkblinkblink. And so we get a faster yellow before the light blooms red.
But before that road rises up to meet us, we take a six-minute jaunt across the new highway. To access it I wait in a left-hand turn lane with a blinking red arrow. (Saturday was red day.) Blink. Blink. Blink. It blinks and then it’s done. Solid red, and no turn, and no warning. We’ve watched a car in front of us run the red light without noticing, so busy was he concentrating on studying a break in the oncoming traffic pattern, and I’ve had it change from blinking to unblinking as I was mid-turn.
It’s a little unnerving. To use G’s current parlance, why no blinkblinkblink? Where blinkblink go?
Today as we waited and I measured traffic and wondered when the unblink would present itself, an ancient man on a bicycle made his way slowly up the slight incline of the sidewalk. His path would eventually take him into and through the crosswalk at the beginning of my on-ramp. In a distant field of my brain, barely visible in through the pale-bright early morning sunlight and evaporating fog, a voice in a megaphone called to me, “good for him, plodding tenaciously uphill of his own locomotion.” From a nearer valley just out of sight came the quip, “no nursing home for that dude!” And the forefront voice, the one that lives in that frustratingly unseeable spot right between my eyes, it threw up its hands in exasperation. “Great. Now I have to worry about a break in traffic, the light turning red unnoticed, and not killing the inchworm bicyclist.”
What can I tell you? The third-eye voice isn’t always PC. It’s also never quiet. It balances the kind voice and the always-joking voice, though. Put them together and my viewpoints are usually pretty comprehensive.
Do you ever catch a person with a certain expression and ask all friendly-curious, “whatcha thinking?”
If I ask you what you’re thinking and all you give me in response is “nothing,” my third-eye voice calls you a liar. I mean maybe, I suppose, there are people out there who are sometimes thinking nothing, but I can’t envision that because my brain is never quiet. Their brains certainly can’t be as interesting as mine. You could poke mine for hours; I’d surely entertain you with it.
My point is (you may be wondering): this week marks the fourth anniversary of this blog. It’s a medium I took to naturally because of all that incessant thinking; it translates easily to rapid typing.
Thank you for four years of reading the transcripts of my layered internal monologues. This is so much better than walking around muttering to myself.