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A blur of taxicabs speed across the four lanes of the one-way downtown street, the red glare of stoplights reflecting off the shiny yellow cars. I wait for them to come to a stop then reach my right hand across the dash and punch the release lever on the parking brake. My truck lurches forward, the heavy load in its rear shaking all twenty-four feet of the vehicle. I press the gas, slide the wheel to the left and begin cutting across all four lanes of traffic, inching slowly as the obstructing vehicles slide out of my way, moving cautiously forward, condensing the herd of traffic that sits awaiting a green light.
To my left, cars still race toward me, their drivers yet to register that there is a thirteen foot tall yellow rectangle nearly a quarter the length of a football field blocking the road from curb to curb. Then begins their chorus of honks, a cacophony of beeps and moans echoing between the tall buildings like the cries of wolves through a canyon.
Thoughts race through my head. There are the cars and the horns and the lights and the buildings and the people on the sidewalks… and there's more. There's stuff in my mind, topics and analogies all going on. I remember events and relive old emotions all at once – the mosaic of sights, facts, opinions and truths that construct my reality each apparent to me. The individual pieces are real, multi-dimensional and whole in themselves as fractals.
If not behind the wheel, I would snatch the notebook from my back pocket, grab the pen behind my ear and start taking notes. That’s what I do and I’ve been doing it for almost five years. The initial idea was to take down notes whenever I got inspirations for stories. The side affect from long-term practice though is a pesky sense of awareness. The strands of life’s tapestries appear, as if I’m able to see the individualities of each tree in the forest, recognizing also the similarities that create patterns, expectations and stereotypes. Unfortunately though, what I see so often is an overwhelming mish-mash of people, intentions, thoughts and philosophies. They come fast so I have to take them all in and attempt to navigate through them, like tacking a sailboat through a headwind. I go back for those scribbled-down thoughts at more convenient moments, looking for them in my memory and in my notebooks when necessary, finding their meaning as I’m more able to digest them.
Through the rounded lower mirror on the right side of the truck’s window, I see the yellow guide beams that mark the driveway entrance. I step on the brake, shift into reverse, then ease my foot down on the pedal. Slowly I back up, turning the wheel as I do to angle the truck into the driveway.
I cover much of the same ground as when I initially moved forward only now I change course, spinning the wheel quickly now until the truck is squarely in front of the driveway, ready for the finally approach. Things are slowing down now in my head. I’ve catalogued so many of my racing thoughts into my notebooks that I don’t worry about forgetting them. Instead I recall them as clearly as when I wrote them down and as I remember them I am re-organizing them, re-combinating them into a new pattern that makes a little more sense out of this complex world. And as I chart those thoughts and read again the notes that spawned them – notes on people, on speeding cars, on work lives I’ve witnessed, on conversations I’ve overheard, on the emotions and the realities I’ve experienced – I’m more and more able to spin them into the stories I work on each night.
Now with the truck aligned with the narrow lane of it’s alley parking spot, I progress directly up the driveway, giving it a little more gas as it’s rear lift gate grinds against an uneven piece of sidewalk. With a thump I hit the brake. Now I have an unload to do. Then I have the keys to turn in. Then I get on the subway and go home for the evening to work again on my writing and my notes and my observations before going to sleep and waking up for another day behind the wheel.