I have to admit it: I used to know what I was doing in life — at least I thought I did (that is: I FELT like I knew what I was doing, where I was headed, and where I wanted to go) — but now I have no idea what to do or where to go. And I have no clue where I have been.
I have no desire to aim in any direction; I'm just drifting. Of course I wish to avoid hardship, to steer clear of trouble; but that's about it. My desire has dwindled to the point where simply continuing to mosey is sufficient. Mosey slow or medium-speed: it's all fine; just so long as I don't stop.
If I were a boat, I would wish to avoid capsizing. If I were a buggy, I would hope I could avoid driving into a ditch or getting stuck in the mud. If I were a Forest Ranger, my prayer would be "Lord, help me not to step in a bear trap".
And why is stopping undesirable, while merely moving is not? I don't know. Maybe someday I'll reach the point where stopping seems fine, and then I'll reminisce about how I used to feel satisfied with aimless ambulation but now I just sit tranquilly.
Yes, all I know is that I'm not yet to the point of existence where staying put brings contentment. Tho I have no more wanderlust, I'm not quite ready to settle down. In my youth, I traveled far and wide — I was an adventurous lad: After growing up in Uruguay, I moved to Paris for a while; then I visited some islands in the Pacific; then I set up shop in Antarctica; I eventually toured Canada; and, one after the next, I lived for at least a year in every country of South Africa.
At one point I even built a large ark and floated on the ocean for what seemed like an eternity. I just hoisted my sail and let the wind blow me about. That's what led to my current phase: all that smooth sailing helped me acquire the taste for perpetual motion.
Then, one day, I hit land: it was a beach in California. So I clomb down the ladder of my craft and purchased a hot rod and started to cruise. (A hot rod is a motorized vehicle that has been specially modified to give it extra power and speed.) Nowadays I spend my time driving around the block in my shiny new hot rod, revving the engine and picking up businesswomen:
I pull up alongside a businesswoman of any hair color or body type — I favor them all, as long as they're wearing the style of outfit known as a pantsuit — and I honk my horn and say "Wanna cruise?" Then, as the woman eagerly approaches my hot rod's passenger side, I lean over from my seat on the driver side and push the passenger door open. The woman enters and draws the door closed behind her. She turns and smiles at me, and I smile back; then I look out the windscreen to check the color of the traffic light, which, at that moment, changes from red to green; so I press the vehicle's accelerator with my boot-sole, and we resume cruising the block.
Incidentally, this routine of picking up businesswomen is the only time I bring my ride to a halt; otherwise, I always keep on cruising. As I explained, my taste encompasses all varieties of U.S. businesswomen: every individual allures me in her own way. I also frequently visit Russia and pick up businesswomen there; for I find them equally bemystifying.
There is an AM/FM radio installed in my hot rod which I use to play rock-&-roll music. The playlist is determined by me myself: I command the disc jockey via wireless telephone. (A disc jockey is a manservant who introduces and plays recorded music over the airwaves.) I keep my speakers' volume at a moderate level: loud enough for me and my passenger to enjoy the full range of sounds, but not so loud that it bothers any creatures in the vicinity. Say that I pass by a pedestrian who happens to be strolling down the boulevard: only when I am within three meters of this person will he be able to discern which song I am listening to. Never is anyone annoyed by low tones or bass thundering from my automobile: I treat my fellow beings politely; I am repulsed by acts of rudeness.
And I am especially deferential to owls, because they're associated with the goddess Athena. Whenever I find one perched on a sign at the side of the road, I slow down and send salutations thru the window of my hot rod. Before doing so, however, I am always careful to turn down the vehicle's audio system, so that my feathered friend does not need to swivel her head away in disgust at the sonic disturbance. Then I ask "Is there anything that I might do, to help you catch mice in the dark?" And sometimes there's a small favor that the owl will appreciate me performing for her; but usually she just stares silently: lost in sensory perception, preoccupied with night-hunting. (It might be worth noting that the myth of how the owl came to symbolize Athena involves a princess from the Island of Lesbos.)
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