North Tuesday noon is a far cry from Pi'ilani Highway. I've
been going up for two nights and three days all
summer, remodeling a friend's house in Arlington.
Part of me keeps expecting to feel the tug of
regret, which is weird, because I'm aware of waiting
for a regretful feeling that never comes--is that
regret in itself? Or just a projection of others'
expectations? Traffic-choked highways are symptoms
of a great societal sickness, but I'm happy enough
to be riding to work with a friend, for a friend, at
a fair wage and free of looming intrusive scrutiny.
So in that way this all feels like progress despite
the sadness and futility that typifies the
interstate, symbol of the USA's heedless and