“Well?” Me. Yelling out the window and looking at the driver’s side mirror. I see three friends pushing. Trying to rock the car.
“Wait! I’m in the way of the …” Jeff. I gun the engine of my ’65 Mustang and fling field dirt, corn stalks, grass, weeds, and rocks all over his instructions.
We were stuck in a rut. We’d taken that road not a road as a short cut a hundred times. But the farmer’d been out in the field turning soil for spring planting creating a rutted berm. A rut a tractor wouldn’t notice. A rut a ’65 Mustang would not overcome easily. Science recited gibberish in my brain. Something about an object in motion staying in motion.
“WAIT!!!” Jeff. “Just. Wait! Damnit!”
You date someone and they think they can order you around. Phffft! I gunned the engine.
The rut laughed at both of us.
I haven’t practiced clear creative art in years. I’ve been in a mind rut chasing technology’s idea of art defined by search engines, results pages, and AI algos.
I haven’t devotedly focused on literary writing or true art-felt art. Painting my thoughts in digital or canvas form. Piling chunks of focused wordsmithing to sift, filter, and refine razor sharp. I just wrote for my blog and social media chasing the machine’s approval. Good lord but did I murder my…
