Tuesday, 10 July 2001 | Commute

My drive to work isn't particularly exciting. It's mostly straight, six-lane highway of braking cars, lined with sort-of bushy green. The trees don't really stand out individually, but look almost as if they were painted by Bob Ross and merge into one big clump. Sometimes the sky and the clouds arrange themselves to look like the Simpsons' intro; for some reason I only notice that about the sky on my way to work. What stands out the most to me on the drive are the patches of kudzu, how it snakes up the trees to form bizarre but purposeful shapes, as if a topiary gardener had guided it. To me, it looks like vegetation that could be found on another planet, or what it would look like if zoo animals were covered in small green leaves. I had always assumed the vine was native to North Carolina; I was disappointed when Martin told me otherwise. It's strange how something so out-of-control and destructive can look so appealing.

This morning my commute was a little more eventful than usual. Ten minutes after leaving home (which is one third of the way there, on a good day), I heard the flack-flack-flack of a broken belt whipping against the car; a second later the battery light came on; ten minutes later the temperature gauge began to rise. When I turned off the car, I heard a thumping noise coming from underneath the hood, as if some poor creature had gotten caught in there and was trying to get out. I came home from work $144 poorer than when I went. It's beginning to look like I work in order to drive to work, but maybe I am being pessimistic.