On the better nights, traffic is light, I am tired and my mind is clear. Or else, my mind is so fogged I can’t sort one thought from another and there’s some sort of numbing that keeps any one thing from drumming out whatever is needed for sleep. On these nights, I rest well.
On the others, there is this frustrating lift and swell of the sounds of truck tires and engines and the occasional irritation of a high-revving motorcycle screaming its twelve-thousand rpm’s through my much too rare REM’s and making it less than difficult for me to imagine becoming a character in a B-grade movie that involves dark streaks of face paint and ridiculous amounts of remote-detonated explosives.
The more acceptable, and at least currently, more likely solution is to finish remodeling the master bedroom. They, Randa and I can move our sleeping quarters back from the highway side of the house to the other side, which is far better insulated from the noises of the road and the rages of externally induced insomnia. I suppose too, that soft earplugs and some sort of suitable white noise generator might be options worth considering.
On the other hand, being a privileged person in a privileged society, I believe there are other options. I could contact my elected officials and propose that this section of the highway should be re-routed in such a way as to eliminate any irritation to me and inflict it upon my neighbors. They, of course, should also bear the entire financial burden of my relief. I don’t think it would be too difficult to generate any number of reports demonstrating tremendous social and economic benefit to the area, even though that is utterly beside the point.
I can’t help wondering, though, just how well that sort of thinking is going to hold up when I have to stand before my Maker and give an account of how I expected those less blessed than me to furnish the comforts of my life. Hmmm… maybe I should quit yammering and start hammering. He was a carpenter, too, you know.