The circus driver's meditation technique.

August 31, Shelby.

I tried to meditate on the way this morning.
Since I was driving and not just sitting around I decided to focus on Fridman's lights in front of me in addition to my breathing. I did that because it is the only time I can hope to have some time to myself, and also because of the voices in my head, but not because I had just been listening to a story on the radio about a schizophrenic twin sister with voices telling her she killed John F. Kennedy. Whenever I can't get a decent NPR radio station (too much static) the voices competing in my mind as I drive are loud and thunderous and all but drown the deafening diesel roar of the truck, Spanish English French tossed in as one thought pushes over the next and it is as if The Sex Pistols were back from the glory days of punk mania trying to outdo a New York Philharmonic representation of a Wagner opera with Karajan at the helm in a giant marble theater.
I needed a rest.
It almost worked and then Fridman missed a turn and I hit the brakes to veer just in time to follow the route to Shelby.