Just a little torture...concrete jungles

Today was a more unusual day as we ventured two hours to the Big City so little guy could get his prosthetic custom fit. My, what a jungle the city be! Sensory Overload would be a serious understatement.

For one thing, peoples don't talk or make gestures. They honk their horn if they want you to know something. They hit the horn to signal their arrival, to tell you to quickly move this way or that, or to announce their mere presence. The actual vibrational sound, of said horn, is set at a decibel level to startle and quickly illicit a response. Yes sir, I jumped and startled every single time I heard that harsh, short cronk. Horns are meant to annoy and perturb, I get that. They work. I heard more car horns in one two hour period than I heard all last year in my small town of seven thousand.

The sirens of ambulance, police and fire rip-roared every five minutes or so, causing much alarm and consternation as I craned my neck searching for the source and direction of the emergency. I always felt like I was in the way, yet I was standing still watching, observing these furious, frantic dances.

I secured a brilliant, albeit claustrophobic vantage point as we were sequestered in a small room with big window, two stories up in the down of town. Most amusing was the watching and twittering of people scampering this way or that, always rushing to something mighty important. I observed the women in high heeled shoes as every step looked as if to be painful, body contorted in an unnatural stance as their eyes scanned the littered concrete for traps, gaps, cracks and gum.

Exhilarated were the students, dressed in black scrubs being freed from their studies for a spell or two. Yakking and gabbing, they caressed the crusty and crude out-of-doors as if suddenly freed from a mighty, stark prison. They scampered and skipped, not a high heel in sight, not even aware of the pitfalls of crack and gum.

In the cars, the mundane vessels of personal transport were the chewers and eaters who drank as they talked on their cell phone and smoked. Nervous glances at stoplights checking for competition, curiosity and safety. I marveled at the colors of the cars and the peoples, all shades from light to dark and back again.

The constant sound, flashing of lights and horns, movement of people's and wheels caused me great gratitude...that I nary live there. It is no wonder I spent so many years ailing. The environment is Aspie toxic.