Driving I-95 S. Miracle? All of it. 

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7 am.
Clear. 50° F. Blue skies.
I’m flowing down I-95 S.
I lower the windows and rest my arm on the door frame.
The gusts fill the cabin. November chill.

70s on 7 is spinning Neil Sedaka and Bad Blood.
Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, do-ron-ron

To hell with these nonsensical lyrics. I plug my own.

I do what I want to do.
I hear want I want to hear.
I See. Thank God I can See.
Good Blood. Good Blood. Good Blood.

And the brain train starts to pull,
the steel couplers snap between the rail cars,
the words begin to slide down the rails.
And here they come.

Tinsel dripping from two new books on my night stand – the authors, alchemists, stringing it sentence after sentence.

Colum McCann’s new fiction titled Thirteen Ways of Looking: “Curious thing, the blood we inherit. Slapping around inside, making us who we are…”

And then from Sven Birkerts’ The Other Walk: “First I was somehow being granted a glimpse of the conjectural life, a picture of how things might have been if the coin had landed tails, not heads: if this and this and this turn had not been taken by my father, my mother, if I had not gotten myself born as who I am, but in what they had grown up believing was the intended place.”

And then back to Sedaka.

Doo-ron, doo-ron, di di, dit, do-ron-ron

And then to my super imposed lyrics:

I do what I want to do.
I hear want I want to hear.
I See. Thank God I can See.
Good Blood. Damn it. So much Good Blood.

And then the chorus line, altogether now!

You are one lucky Son-of-B*tch.

You are one lucky Son-of-B*tch.

You are one lucky Son-of-B*tch.


Inspired by Albert Einstein’s quote: “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”


Notes:

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