Coming around a quiet bend on Skyline Boulevard near my home last week, I crashed into a car stopped dead in the lane ahead of me. I totaled my beloved ’98 lavender Camry. The driver of the other car appeared lost and confused. He said he stopped at a stop sign, although there are no stop signs nearby. I hope he is ok. The kindness of a UPS driver/witness, the police, the fire and ambulance drivers and friends has been a source of great comfort to me.
All the new cars that I can afford seem tacky to me; certainly none to stroke my artistic sense. From a dream I had over thirty years ago, I came to realize that in my own unconscious my car is ME. Is that true for anyone else? This dream, in fact, is what led me into abandoning teaching and becoming a psychotherapist.
Analytically speaking, the psychological implications of making this transition to a new car for me are myriad. For instance, new models are safer but built of much weaker “bones”; the colors are bland and boring; they hang lower to the ground, and their interiors are mostly plastic, though made to look like the real thing. The trunk compartments seem so much smaller. Their whole design seems to center around safety and better mileage. They do not invite treks to the desert, mountain climbing, rock hounding, and other adventures. Even the spare tires are a phony of the real thing. Besides that, Kodi will not recognize the motor of a new car, for he came home as a wee pup in the Camry nine years ago.
I fervently hope none of the above is my destiny. I think I’m not quite ready for the wrecking yard, though I admit physically most of me hangs low, and lacks vigor and spunk. I think I’m boring, but I try to not be phony. Perhaps I can find some passion somewhere. Keep tuned.