Sophie's World - Chapter Two - The Top Hat

Journal Entry 2 - Sophie's World - Chapter Two - The Top Hat
1/26/13

I have always felt somewhat separate from my contemporaries - as though I experience life in a way distinct from how those around me. Once, when I was nine, I was riding my bike with my brother to the park when I encountered the most intoxicating scent. Instead of just continuing on to my destination, I stopped and spent nearly 20 minutes trying to locate the source of the fragrance. My brother left me there in his impatience to play. I ventured into yard after yard of strangers, inhaling the air deeply, following my senses until I came to a single deep green bush heavy with crisp, white blossoms. The sweet, enchanting perfume danced in my head and set my heart aflutter. It was the first time I had ever experienced a gardenia and now, whenever I get the chance (time to spare or not), I will stop and bury my nose into the embrace of that heady memory.

I have always been fascinated by the world. I cannot imagine existing in another way. To me, a life without wonder is a life without color, without breath. The first time my fiance' and I made the trip from Arizona (where I had recently moved) to California (to visit his parents), he lamented the drive as boring, sightless, uninteresting, desolate. His disparaging remarks did little to sate my excitement for the journey. As we left the mountains, venturing into the desert, I was struck by how differently we see the world - he and I. Far as the eye could see was earth dotted with outcroppings of life failing desperately in their attempts to touch the sky. It was so unlike the land of emerald forests where I grew up. In the desert, nothing stretched higher than a foot or so from the dust. The lack of water crusted the land, scarring the surface like the peeling of sun burnt skin. It was anything but desolate though. Every so often, there was the burst of color from a spiked, sun scorched bush bearing a single spear soaring from the center, set ablaze by a mass of dark orange flowers at the tip. I looked for those with anticipation to take in as much detail as I could because we passed far too quickly for me to commit their shape and color to memory in a single glance.

About two and a half hours out of the mountains of Prescott, on the left hand side of the road if you're traveling west is the remnants of an old Volkswagen. It has been eaten away by the elements - its rust ravaged shell baking in the sun. I imagine you would incur a significant burn should you risk tetanus and touch the corpse. Its' driver side door is missing and the tires have long since been scavenged - as with any other removable or remotely usable part. Its' not right next to the road - rather several dozens of feet into the desert. Other than the ruin of time, there does not seem to be any visible damage to the skeleton of this dead bug. Perhaps it died of old age?

I think about that car often. How did it get there? It's miles from anything of note just basting in the heat. Why has it been left there for so long that if you were to move it, it would likely collapse under its' own weight? How did whoever was operating it manage to escape the wilderness? That car will remain a mystery to me until it is nothing more than iron-tinged dust on the wind. I can only hope that it will be the same to someone else.

It has been thirty years that I've lived this way, high on the experiences, sights, sounds, and smells around me. At this rate, I don't think I'm ever coming down. May the wonder never cease. As a teenager, I wrote a poem that included a line that reflects this sentiment most succinctly: I wonder if our naivety keeps us from divinity; we see mundane in everything and fail to see the beauty.