In August, we bring a set of new full-time writers to the blog. Today, please welcome Luke Brandsen (’19), who will be writing for us on the 19th of each month. Luke graduated in 2019 and uses his business/HR degree to inform directing mission-focused programs. He currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where he squints at the players on his bootleg soccer stream, breaks guitar strings, and desperately tries to recall where the last D&D session he ran left off.
As I drive across the state, my thumb depresses the cruise control button on the steering wheel of my dusty blue 2007 Honda Accord. The world stretches around me as road, light, and vehicle elongate from a centered point on the horizon. Star Wars calls it entering hyperspace, Star Trek calls it warp, and there are several theories on what is actually occurring in this moment. Am I being propelled at an extremely high velocity? Am I bending space and time itself to expedite my journey? Is it logistically proper to measure the speed of my trip from Ann Arbor to Holland with a distance-based unit such as a parsec? The best way I can define my lightspeed experience, however, is as some form of daydream.
I hesitate to use the word daydream. After all, these aren’t some Walter Mitty–esque derailments of reality. Rather, moments like these serve as brief glimpses of connection between my day-to-day activities and the interests I’ve held dear in various seasons of my life. I think the lightspeed comparison began as a child while driving home from extended family Christmas parties, where wandering snowflakes on their descending pilgrimages can hold a remarkable resemblance to the contorted stars of hyperspace. And let’s be honest, the toys I was receiving at these parties were very actively putting Star Wars on the brain, so who can blame me?
As I age, I wonder more and more about my romanticization of my life’s activities. They certainly aren’t limited to driving, nor have they diminished as much as I would have expected. Some days, I sit in my most opulent chair—the aqua green Ikea Poäng in the corner of the living room—and correct the posture of my shimmering, translucent blue hologram before joining a Google Meet where my colleagues and I will talk strategy for the upcoming program year (once again, my boss seems more concerned about federal funding cuts than about the droid attack on the Wookiees). Other days, I flip the switch of my desk lamp that is emblazoned with the purple and gold profile of a lion who is proudly gazing westward—a reminder of my house sigil created with a friend when we reimagined all of our summer camp coworkers as characters in a Game of Thrones–inspired tale of politics, love, and loss. And yet other days, I discover the down feathers that have cleverly mounted their escape from my duvet and wonder if it is not the blanket that is leaking, but me, the silly goose, who is shedding these feathers as I supplement reality with unnecessary fantasy.
I’m no longer the child in the backseat as my dad pilots us home from those Christmas parties. Now it’s my hands embracing the worn, flaking steering wheel hidden by a leather cover in front of me. I wonder if my dad saw the fast food signs on the highway masquerading as star systems like I do, sprinting into his vision only to be left behind as he led us further into the expanse (spoiler: he didn’t).
With my turn signal lever, I engage my port thrusters to make a path for an elderly driver behind me who is expressing their need for speed at 3:42 p.m. on a Tuesday. Is the act of shifting lanes so dull to me that I crave fantastical escape? Is my brain so unable to focus on what is in front of me that it yearns to follow in the footsteps of those runaway down feathers? Or perhaps in scattered moments, my mind orchestrates a homecoming to what is familiar and comforting. And maybe I just still think about things like Star Wars way more than the average person.
My journey nears its end, and I drop out of hyperspace as I decelerate onto Exit 52. I pull into the driveway of my sister’s house, the hangar already full with her family’s cars. My nephew greets me in the yard, and without too much pause he eagerly is asking me to watch him bike around the cul-de-sac. He hasn’t seen Star Wars, and perhaps someday I will ask him if he wants to podrace around the block with me. In this moment, though, it’s more than enough to share in the fantastical nature of this very tangible cul-de-sac I’m standing in, watching a three-and-a-half-year-old demonstrate how wonderful it is to ride a bike while lifting your feet off of the pedals—no hyperspace button needed.
Luke Brandsen graduated in 2019 and uses his business/HR degree to inform directing mission-focused programs. He currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where he squints at the players on his bootleg soccer stream, breaks guitar strings, and desperately tries to recall where the last D&D session he ran left off.
