From the Ragged Edge, an article by Steven Kuusisto

Click on the above link for the complete essay. I'm opting for the title "Life without Mozart," on this one. A poetic examination of some of the more humbling aspects of carlessness:

NOW AND THEN, WALKING the shoulder of a road, moving slowly with a cane, I feel like Robert Louis Stevenson's "Blind Pew" -- I'm the blind man who talks to himself as he makes his way to the supermarket, a two-mile round trip jaunt. I wear a backpack and I think of a cartoon I once saw entitled "Life Without Mozart" -- it showed a patch of desolate landscape, a desert, where only a cactus grew, and beside it lay a flat tire and a rusted can.


I'm walking the edge of a road where everywhere in the tall grass are the tokens of "life without Mozart" -- the McDonald's trash and the shattered beer bottles. I'm walking here -- that is, in a place not fit for recreation. This is walking in earnest and I'm thinking of Nanao Sakaki, a Japanese poet who as a boy was the radar operator on the day they dropped the bomb on Nagasaki. A survivor, he has spent his life walking across North America from one nuclear installation to another, writing poems, many of which are ecstatic. He describes how to eat from the ditch along the road. He pan fries grasshoppers, which he soaks in tamari: they taste like garlic. The thoughts of the non-driver. . .