Rob Storrs

Tuesday, April 7, 2009



I have been driving for many decades now.  I always thought of a car as a mechanical conduit, a way to get from Point A to Point B efficiently, holding my breath till my life could begin again at the next imagined existence.

But now I view it differently.  It is insular, closed off, a cloister from the world trafficking in ideas and actions.  Like the Mustang inventing the individualized bucket-seat, rather than the Plymouth or pick-up’s family bench seat, here is a chance to will one thing, a Kierkegaardian meditation.

And yet, out of that solo prayer, there is a yearning for more: a communion of travel, a connection with something greater than myself, a parish of motion.  Rather than the sign of the cross, a rudimentary “finger wave” marks the driver’s first evolutionary step on dry land from the swimming life, sliding over on the family bench seat to relate to a new congregation.

“I see you.  You’re beautiful.  I am you.  Who are we.  Hi!”