It's easy to get into a rut and not realize that the life we live is maybe, just maybe, not the best of all possible worlds. While the automobile is seen around the world, we Americans have let it rule us. One of the things that I sometimes try to do is look at alternate universes. They are all around us. Yolanda Flanagan sent me this one. The entries aren't permalinked so you may have to scroll down to the December 15th entry...

The Clusterfuck Nation Chronicle
Commentary on the Flux of Events

December 15, 2004 Paris was normal, which is to say the streets were thronged with live human beings (hardly any of them overweight), the cafes and restaurants were bustling, even the parks were well-populated on a brisk December day and we were reminded emphatically of the stark contrast with the impoverished public life of America. In fact, one morning as we puttered in the hotel room with CNN-Europe playing in the background, a story came on about retail sales back in the States, and there was a shot of our supersized fellow countrymen waddling around in a WalMart dressed in the usual slob apparel by which they fail to make a distinction between being at home and being out in public. Amsterdam, Holland, was pretty much the same story as Paris, though it is physically quite different from Paris -- the scale is smaller, the intimate streets are deployed along a network of beautiful canals, and the car is barely tolerated (or even much in evidence). There, we would duck into a "brown bar" (so-called because of the dark wooden wainscotting) at five p.m. and it would be full of well-dressed, gainfully employed adults in animated conversation. Public life in Europe is only minimally about shopping and maximally about spending time with your fellow human beings. American public life by comparison is pathetic-to-nonexistent. Americans venture out only to roam the warehouse depots, and only by car. In most American places bars are strictly for lowlifes, and the public realm for the employed classes is pretty much restricted to television, with its predictable cast of manufactured characters and situations. The alienation and isolation of American life is so pervasive and pathological, compared to life lived elsewhere in this world, that all the Prozac ever made will never avail to make things better for us.

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I've been reading a book of letters by the early 20th century illustrator N.C. Wyeth. One of the aspects of the book that I enjoy is the point of view of someone in another world. This is a lettler to his mother written in 1909. It's the beginning of the auto age.

Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania May I7, 1909. Saturday night Dear Mama, I have something to say—it is ten o'clock but I must say it! I am forcibly struck by an impression, in some way I must give it expression—my pen is handy, the window is open and it is cool, so here is my method. I'll send it to you—I must send it somewhere—I don't want to keep it. Look it over and throw it away! It is a still hot night. As we sat on the porch earlier in the evening, listening to the thousand mysterious voices in the grass, in the trees and hedgerows, we were startled by the long white flash of an automobile searchlight darting along the meadow road below us. It pierced the night with a merciless glare, painting the roadway, the fences, grass and trees with cold, glaring and unnatural colors. We watched the huge machine as it slid toward us swiftly and silently, its searing light boring its way through the darkness, until to our surprise and consternation the shaft of light swung its great arm into our driveway and slowly moved up the steep path. As it followed the curve toward the house, the blinding light was turned full upon us—we felt positively abashed, to be suddenly placed in that brazen glare which seemed to search out our very souls with microscopic minuteness. The sudden change from silent, soulful reverie in the dark into that harsh, garish flame seemed almost to the point of being revolting. Common courtesy demanded that we meet our friends, whoever they may be, and to treat them as cordially as possible. The conversation that followed proved to be entirely in keeping with the great trembling car that throbbed with suppressed power, and the rank nauseating odor of gasoline which it emitted. We talked automobiles and prices, speed and endurance, roads and distances. Not once did our minds turn to the wonders of the great mysterious night that enveloped us, the deep vault of the heaven with its thousand twinkling eyes, or the arching trees that hung above us exuding the lush fragrance of spring. These were forgotten utterly. Finally, and without once leaving their luxuriant seats, they said good-night and left us. The car shuddered violently and with much coughing and wheezing it turned about. Once on the road it settled down into a humming purr and soon disappeared over the hills. The occupants have reached their homes by this time, some fifteen miles distant, within thirty minutes as they had planned. They shot through the night like an arrow, veils fluttering, coats and hair blowing. The night's pleasure with them has passed—they have ridden miles but they have no remembrances of their outing other than fleeting recollections of fantastic blurred objects, a vague sense of the vibrating machine. Their faces tingle with the rush of air that had beat upon them, they think only of their next ride and how much farther and faster they will go. Now for reflection! Here we are—the three of us. The baby is sleeping peacefully in the cool hammock under the trees, Carolyn is resting likewise in another hammock slung on the porch. I am at my desk by an open window. Without, the sounds of the night insects gently reverberate through the still air; from the distant meadow floats the soft trilling chorus of a thousand frogs; from under the wall by the cellar window comes the louder chirp, chirp of the cricket. Above us the stars hang in the trees like tiny lanterns, and between the larger openings of the branches the infinite depths of the heavens suggest those great intangible secrets of the universe. I have taken a belated walk into the garden. The low rows of peas lay long and shadowy as though asleep; the gaunt bean poles stand like sentinels across the head of the patch; and beyond, in great protecting mounds, rise the vague towering forms of the apple trees. How grand it all is! How I reverence it! How it makes me revolt against that unwholesome, empty and selfish life lived by just those people with whom we parted company two hours ago. I deplore the great mistake they are making; I am sorry that they are missing so much—1 can't help pitying them! I hope this is understandable—it is quite late and my mind may be dull. However, I'll fold this up and slip it into an envelope and seal it—I won't look at it again. With all said and done, this impression is so strong that I can almost cry—for what, I don't know, perhaps it is because I'm so glad and so sorry. Mama, you're a staunch backstop for all the vagaries of the impulsive minds of us boys, otherwise I wouldn't send this. However, I feel relieved having let off superfluous steam; I hope you can relieve yourself of this outburst as easily.

Something to think about.