Montauk Highway Madness
For a reason for which I have no clue, I find myself when driving, sneaking a peek into the windshields of cars coming the other way, as if seeking to find some sort of communion with the face in the opposing windshield;
I’d like to pretend that the banality of the grimace, or lifeless gaze of the oncoming motorist is merely a self defense against her being exposed as a tragic unrequited Clytie, unable to see her Helios as the morning sun invades her easterly ride along the clouds of the fogged Montauk Highway.
I expect that every infant, after initial fright about being in the light and away from the tired out warm and humid waiting room, does a little jig, at least with his toes, to be free and open to possibility, (even if the kid can’t spell the word);
and, think about it: later, much later, when the Department of Motor Vehicles says he is truly free, he chooses to give in to that fetal impulse again, closes himself up and travels with only peeking knowledge of other embryonic pilgrims inhabiting the dream avenues with him.
