When the mind wanders...

I cranked up my MP3 player the loudest my eardrums could withstand. “Game Day Music” I referred to it as. The kind of music that when played loud enough could make you want to punch someone in the face and spit in their eye; no remorse, no questions asked. My intentions, however, were not to act out in a fit of rage, but to completely block out my direct surroundings. A last ditch effort to completely immerse myself in the wilderness, just out of my reach.

As the train snaked it’s way through the wilderness, along rivers, through valleys, under mountains, pass villages, a sense of the fictional time travel is possible. Seeing so many variations of backdrop, in such a short period of time, gives a sense of invincibility. That I’m a bird, not flying over the present, but soaring through the centuries. Receiving glimpses of cabins of the past, villages of the present, power plants of the all to inevitable future.

Clarity as to the tirades of Thoreau and Emerson and their intentions. How I wish to be by the river bank! With no other earthly possessions then a bottle of Vino, a block of decent cheese, a good book and a blanket to my name. Only the richest of men could accomplish such a status of wealth.

Our momentum does not give way to the slightest hiccup as we ascend a hill. The houses and cars shrink to Monopoly size. I was always the iron. And I’ve never finished a game either. Once someone else landed on “Boardwalk,” and consequently purchased the property, I lost all interest. The game was already won in my opinion, and I was always known of being some-what of a sore-loser.

“Erica, I can hear you singing through my head phones.” My travel mate exclaims.
“Oh. I thought you couldn’t hear me.” I blushed.

I’ve always maintained the notion that I possessed the voice of a pre-pubescent boy. Hearing my voice replaying back to me on old movies or missed voice mails, always made me cringe. Do I really sound like that? Closest experience to an out-of-body experience. Fortunately, I’ve never had my life flash before my eyes, but coming into acceptance with one’s own impact on the world can be just as devastating. When you realize the voice that sounds more like a stranger than a familiar female, is none other than your own. “That can’t be me.” Denial.

The music barking out of my headphones consumed me to the point, just long enough, for me to let down my guard enabling a melody to escape my overly-conscious lips. I blush from being caught doing one of my most private of acts; singing. When alone my biggest indulgence is blasting the car stereo, lowering the windows to my oversized SUV and singing to the point of breathlessness. The height of my automobile fuels my secret pleasure, by providing the perfect distance from any unfortunate souls in the world below. In my car, on the streets, I am an anonymous girl with an unfortunate voice box.

I vow to keep my singing to a low “hum” and return my gaze to the tree covered mountains. It is a imaginary war between two adversaries. The leaf-less, unresponsive, dead brown pine trees versus the vigorous, exuberant, adolescent, army green pine trees. I root for the underdog. Brown and green salt and pepper the looming mountain scape.

Without warning we enter a tunnel. The world outside as we know it. Someone has detonated a bomb, abandoning all those in the world save those in the train. We are safe. Left to only be victims of our inevitable own devices. We are cockroaches untouched in a basement. Sunlight pierces the window I have been so focused upon. We have been lucky.

I impatiently begin to drum my finger on the arm rest. They say you can burn a few hundred more calories a day by continuously tapping you fingers or shaking your foot. I always thought that incessantly doing anything was a nervous incognizant behavior individuals struggled to discontinue. While the whole time they were just losing weight.

I think I would have made an excellent drummer. My understanding of rhythm is quite good in my opinion and my musical timing is impeccable. Only downside is that drummers are always put in the back, only to be overlooked, taken advantage of and unsurprisingly pitied. They never stay long in any band because someone else always get the fame, money and bleeding recognition.

I catch myself singing. I close my mouth and catch the last word mid-syllable. It hangs in the air and falls into my lap, like a balloon, finally depleted of its last molecule of helium. My favorite song by the band begins to harmonize. I allow the lead singer the privilege of crooning me sans my accompaniment on back up vocals. Rather I show my silent appreciation through keeping the beat in my head.

Empty ski lifts climb a mountain. In perfect unison, they follow a path cleared through the pines, like ants carrying eggs up an ant hill. I swear that if I were to look at them long enough one will fall out of route of his committed destination. He will be the way to rebel, stepping out of time, disobeying orders. Only to be summoned back by another into perfect unison.
My favorite song ends and I press a button so that it will play again. Only the lead singer is not as lucky to have me sit quietly as a complacent observer. I chime in the chorus, stifled as to not let my friend onto the fact that I thoroughly enjoy this song.

I miss my place in the song from my wandering mind and quickly begin it again at the beginning. A wandering mind is a common symptom of mine, with the only prescription being that of many replayed songs and re-read pages.

A stout man comes in our cabin asking for our tickets. He reminds me of a young Santa Claus. I again start my favorite song from the beginning.