Thursday, November 7, 2013

17 miles to Wits End (unfinished and uncaring, just like Lady in the morning)

(this was written over 5 years ago. Though not current, it still actively reflects how going on a drive makes me feel. Writing does not have expiration dates, it can be timeless, especially to the author. This is the beginning of a day trip towards the 17-mile drive along coastal California. The destination was initially unplanned. The best things in life always seem to be unplanned.)


On weekend mornings, I usually wake still dreaming. I feverishly dream of hitting the open road with no intention of ever needing to return. Ideas reveal themselves each time I slide into my car as I ready myself for what may lie ahead. What is it about a road trip that quietly allows me to succumb to the world in my imagination (much to the chagrin of other's sharing the road with me)? Is it the feeling of impending freedom, and the open-ended adventure that never requires a premeditated destination? Is it the promise of great visual artistry in the roaming landscapes, is it the neverending quest to find that moment which might take my breath away? Oh, how I love the feeling of having my breath taken away. I love knee buckling experiences.  I love it because for some reason, this feeling is a drug that I fiend for. This will always be a part of me. This is me...and many others like me.

Before I escape permanently in this narrative of my reverie, know this, there is nothing that I have found as of yet to be so freeing and inspirational as going on an open ended drive. I have not met a time, place nor hapless circumstance where a drive couldn't clear my mind. 

The day always starts earlier than I expect, rather earlier than my physical body expects. I find often that my mind and body are not in sync. They argue quite a lot. It's annoying. I wish they would both just shut up. Though my mind was quite ready for the adventure, my body was under some serious distress, having only slept an inappropriate amount the night before.  Ironically, thinking about an adventure can deprive you of the sleep that you need for that said adventure. I had spent 3 hours the night before feverishly making the perfect mix....listening to the mix, altering the mix, coming up with a completely different mix, and then throwing my hands in the air and letting the mix make me. I choose different songs for different drives depending on what makes that drive perfect at that particular time....a drive to remember....a drive to beat all drives, that is until I go on another....

I'm nuts.

Anyways, I forge a mix of my favorite classical songs. This was not my first choice. I originally had planned on some good ole classic rock tunes that stir the heart to un-imagined boundaries. But, life, or rather a social network, threw me to the proverbial wolves and demanded that I pick another genre. I had received an alert about a piano player, a remarkably talented and passionate piano player, a piano player that only a silly person like me could fall instantly in love with (keep in mind, I fall in love at least 4 times a day, I love a lot). My attention was rudely diverted. My classic rock fell helplessly out the window as I welcomed with open arms, classical. The long forgotten and understated musical form that dominated my life when I was in my high school orchestra. I feverishly looked up my favorite pieces, Dvorak, Vivaldi, and Debussy. I playfully stalked the pieces brilliantly performed by Itzhak Rabin, passionately sung by the likes of a Sarah Brightman and of course Andrea Bocelli and declared that yes, my drive would be a classical drive.

Armed with my new mix, one that makes me cry when I listen to it as it wrenches at my heart still, I set off. But wait, I'm getting a bit ahead of myself.

Forgetting the beautiful mix, my body is still caught in a violent tug of war with the alarm clock. Let me introduce you to my Alarm clock, and it's annoying step-brother the cellphone alarm clock. They are the relatives that you invite over for Christmas, but then refuse to leave. They sit there, gnawing on their cheesecake and clinging to their tepid conversations, while your eyeballs perform gymnastics in your head and your patience level is on threat level red. It's the feeling of cold water being poured on your soul, just when you start to relish the early morning snoozefest. It's the itch you can't scratch. It's the person singing very loudy yet quite off tune. It's the bane of my existance, yet the very reason why I get to enjoy the day. It's the caustic friend with its tune of truthfulness that scratches at your conscience. It sucks, yet you need to keep going back for more.

I drag myself rather slowly out of bed, savoring those last few desperate moments I have in my "comfy" pants, an old pair of gray sweats that I will bring with me to the grave. God, I love those ugly pants. Bury me in those pants. I will be that old woman with the ugly gray comfy pants. I will get them enshrined. I will....step off that useless tangent. I look at the mirror and laugh wholeheartedly at the person standing in front of me. All I have to say, is that punk rockers pay good money to have hair like this. Party in the front AND the back. Party even in the eyebrows...and on this particular day, party in my eyes. Bloodshot yet joyful eyes that stared at me incredulously as I laugh.

I finally will myself into my driving clothes, or rather my everyday and every night clothes. Jeans, hoodie and some random tank. I wash my shellshocked face as my body starts to FINALLY wake up. I apply light makeup, because I care. I care that I don't scare the rest of humankind with my shellshocked face and my party eyebrows. I apply quickly, because it doesn't matter that much. I am driving after all, I will just be a blur.   I am making myself laugh writing this. Seriously, as far as I am concerned, if you look that closely, you deserve to see what you see. So there.

I wander out to the living room. Am I crazy? Even my dogs are still asleep. Boomer, the beagle, opens one eye, looks at me with a lazy glare, and snaps it shut as he sinks back into his heavenly dream. Lady, the pitbull, doesn't even stir. Bitch. She is not even going to miss me. I don't blame her at this point. I wouldn't miss me this early in the morning either.

My irrelevant Asian nose guides my body over to the coffee pot. My right eye perks up as my left eye still stubbornly remains half cocked. I shake as I anticipate the first sip of that luscious drink. My hands convulse as I pour that magical elixer into my snowflake mug. My giant snowflake, navy blue mug, now full of the wondrous beverage that promises to get me through the day. Lady the pitbull....still asleep, still uncaring. Oh well, you lose a dog's love, you get some coffee...some equations make sense I suppose. 

And here we go...


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