12.05.2008,12:56 PM
The Wrong Motion
I just exited the elevator to the 13th floor where my lab and office are. Stuck in a moving box with seven other people avoiding exchanging glances, breathing residual cigarette smoke on clothing and hair, dimly lit by a fluorescent light in the ceiling. Moving up a floor or several floors at a time; entering and exiting without a word or glance.

Just a week ago I was trekking and climbing 10 miles of canyon floor, arroyos lined with cottonwoods, along mumbling streams, inhaling scents of junipers and crisp cold, tasting the damp air, watching the sun peek from behind gray clouds, and overwhelmed into silence by the vast bands of colors in the canyons walls. Every other hiker or mountain bike we passed offered a comment on the day or their trek, often stopping for brief sharing of their experiences here and similar places. It was cold, damp, energy demanding, aching and wonderful as we ascended and descended several hundred feet of mesas, buttes, and rolling red sand.

And here we use these mechanical boxes in motion, not by our own power, confined in silence and a sterile environment. How ironic, this contrast of concrete canyons and the red, green and yellow canyons of the Southern Great Plains.

I know where I belong, and it isn't here.


posted by Macrobe
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