The truck is humming along at two thousand RPM, and the wind comes in gusts against the windshield as I head north out of Tucson for the summer. I don't have ear buds, Bluetooth, or Spotify. In fact, I don't even have a radio that works. The CD player died years ago. I sit and listen to the sound of the motor, the tires on the pavement, the creaks and rattles of the twenty-two year old truck. I smell the faint trace of gas after the last fill-up. I swivel into the seat to find a comfortable position and start watching the wildflowers along the highway. In another hour or two, I may even sing to myself or jot down a phrase in my notebook. The stimuli are abundant in this here-and-now of moving away from the city and into the wide vistas of the desert highlands.
You may think this is a primitive way to take a road trip. I mean -- no music, no audio book, no Surround Sound. But, the truth for me is that I like it. I prefer the emptiness to the digital, streaming distraction from this moment that otherwise fills my awareness. I like to hear what the quiet has to tell me, what the tedium of the long hours offers up as a nugget of truth as my mind spins out along with the wheels and the machinery at work all around me. I find I make something out of space rather than merely consume what the producers want me to see and hear.
I find it soothing, like sinking my feet down through mud to the bottom of a stream bed. I find joy here in these moments emptied of digital stimulation. I rarely get to hear what I think beneath all the noise of input, the battle for eyeballs, and competition for attention. I like to give my all to right here, right now, sore butt included.
