Rollerblading through the cosmic shopping mall

READER WARNING: I am entering my annual fixation with maps. Proceed at your own risk. Snakes and poison ivy are gonna get you if you wear flip-flops.

All night every night our brains are processing the journeys of the day through time and space, trying to form a workable road map for the morrow. The brain gets out that set of twelve colored pencils required for students in Miss Couch's 7th grade American History class, and tries to reconcile the grid of linoleum floor tiles beneath the desk with a cloud for storing digital data. Then the brain stirs in those collective fears of losing keys, stolen wallets, missed flight check-ins, forgotten locker combinations, orthodontic retainers left on lunchroom trays, invalid passwords, and endless parking lots full of silver Toyota Camrys. And right there Homer meets up with Dante and Robert Johnson.

Do babies cry because they can't remember the route they took to get OUT HERE? Warm water. Tight tunnel. Bright lights. Are all meals included in the package tour price?

I used to keep myself awake until I could remember the whole route for the '54 Chevy to Grandma's house, 120 miles. I needed to know in case my parents forgot, or I needed to run away from home. Somebody's gotta know the way over the river and through the woods.

© 2013-2015 Nancy L. Ruder

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