Opera Hall (Ongoing)

Opera Hall

On a car-driving trip between states, leg muscles tire and brain cells devolve into those little tassels on leather loafers, with 15-second lifespans. Windows tend to get smudged. Foreheads wrinkled. And drivers thankfully trade off with passengers who become drivers, as mothers shout directions from backseats. They worry aloud about missed highway connections, possible food poisoning, and the plight of offramp, overheated cup-n-hands.

As the hours go by, and the miles pile on like gritty windscreens crusting over, maps are unfolded and spun, inspected, or tossed into backseats. Paper coffee cups tipped, as eyes wander, nearly leaving their sockets, from the flashy time-lapse blur of passing trees, to the ongoing nonsensical language of billboards and highway signs.

Coffee fuels these trips, of course. As do gasoline and electricity. But it’s the yearning for open roads that ignites the fuel. Slowly at first, and then reviving and revving with the gas pedal. Stained with boredom; washed clean by adventure. That’s the Human way. Even the most content home-dwellers give in to the travel tokens dug from their primal brain pockets. Rub the lint off. Rub the power switch free from its socialized bondage… and drive. Drive!

K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Humorist | Mad Assassin


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