Would that I had a series of notebooks to fill, or even a single notebook, instead of this paltry paragraph, then I might illustrate how we are at the mercy of forces larger than us, forces that not only steer the vehicle in which we ride through life, but construct the vehicle, appoint it, paint it, place within it a state-of-the-art stereo system that allows some of those within the vehicle—the driver, primarily—to listen to music at extremely high volumes without sacrificing audio fidelity, thus allowing for the deciphering of lyrics that would, if transmitted via a less sophisticated system, or transmitted to someone sitting elsewhere in the car, be garbled, blurred, and muddied, to the point where one of the vehicle’s passengers might, tilting head and narrowing eyes, say ‘Did he just say, ‘Out for glub’?” to which the vehicle’s driver, positioned at the exact center of the car’s latticework of directional sonic vectors and thus at the optimal location within its immersive soundscape, would, with level head and open eyes—open not only because he is driving, but because he is confident and relaxed (the seat is also peerlessly comfortable) laugh and say ‘Out for blood—blood.’” And just like that, no more space to discuss. Has the metaphor been permitted adequate respiration? What image is in the mind of the average reader? Are people thinking of fate or of automotive specifications? A bunch of notebooks would be better for explaining, is the point.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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