A Poetic Car

My car raised her engineer eyebrow when I approached with the boxes of books. But she did not fret much, in hope that they were math and physics books, and they had things in common. But when she realised that they were literature books, she stirred in protest. In their tun, the books cringed from the touch of the car. I noticed that they wanted to part company, that the books were happy enough among themselves, reciting wonderful poems to each other, or telling stories of centuries past, or of people from all walks of life. Yet, they did not have a say in it, they had to make due with the company of the car, until I got home and took them inside to their shelves.

I started the engine, which coughed a bit to show displeasure that she had to be in a company so doubtful as that of literary books. She would have infinitely preferred the company of science books, but she knew that the faster she took us home, the faster she would be rid of them. An so she started the race across town. In fact she was so eager to get home as soon as possible that even at corners, or before crossings she would hardly agree to listen to my brake commands. We did get home pretty fast, and there, she braked hard, as if in spite.

I went in leaving them alone for a minute, to get help from my family to carry the boxes inside, but they were caught in something else and required my assistance. I soon forgot about the car and the books, and it got late so I went to bed, thinking that the books can wait until tomorrow to regain their place on the shelves. I have no idea what happened over night, but in the morning, when I got out to get the books, they seemed to have made friends with my car and did not seem to want to part company any longer.

As I carried them inside, some theorems seemed to pass between them quietly. Later, an axiom just slipped my eye. Later still, when I placed them on the shelves, they apperared to calculate the resistance of the shelves, and whether they were safe or not so high up. Never before such thoughts had passed between my books. In the evening, I took the car for a stroll and, unexpectedly, she stopped in the middle of the road, to the great annoyance of the cars behind us, to tell me an ancient ode, with the hoarse voice of the engine reciting iambic pentameters. After numerous nudges, I managed to get my car out of her poetic trance, and we moved along, allowing the traffic to regain its normal flow. But, alas, not long passed until my car saw another car like herself, painted the colour she used to be, and stopped to search for the time past. It took me another agonising few minutes to persuade my car to run again.

In the weeks that passed after this event, my books started smelling of petrol more and more each day, and the voice of my car's engine got hoarser from all the poem recitation. At this rate, I think I am going to have to put them back together, they seem to complement themselves beautifully.

Saturday 26 August 2006