That something that unites us is as temporary as a ballet pose it’s as easily snapped as a spider’s strands. A background conviction floats somewhere in my brain: I am part of some larger pattern weaving together all these characters and their fleeting missions. In my seventeen-year-old rice burner, surrounded by complete strangers, I and others jostle urgently as if mobbing the gates of heaven we are all on the same trajectory, the only one available to any of us: from the past, in the present, toward the future. My ears tune out extraneous sounds and tune in the br-bump br-bump of tires over pavement seams. The Unique Rewards, and the Unexpected Sophistication, of a Not-Great Movieīody rhythms - blood pressure, breath - fall into the swooshing caress and percussive thunk of the windshield wiper. Thoughts While Watching Sweet Home Alabama
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