This post is going to be all over the place, because lately my mind is, in fact, all over the place.
Two nights ago, I was on my way home to Orange County from work in LA, a drive I make three days a week, and frankly, I’ve hit a wall. It was fine for a while; it was just the grind. No big deal. But I’m in a different space now, and it’s possible that that space is delirium, because I was listening to Ave Maria as I drove, (this is where I would explain why the classical choice, but I just frickin’ like it) and suddenly to my ears, the song became the symphony that was leading this carefully choreographed ballet I’ve entitled Le Traffique. Cars were weaving into and out of lanes harmoniously, in time to each sustained note of the cello’s climbing scale. It felt like overhead music that every person on the freeway in that moment could hear, and we were syncing our movements in this delicate little dance. I swear the rpm of my tires began to match the rhythm of the beats and oh my God, I waited for the red underline to show up and it didn’t which means I just spelled rhythm right on the first try. The cars attempting to cut others off would swerve to the crescendos dramatically, and my brake-and-gos were simultaneous to the staccatos. Now I’m just saying music words. I don’t think Ave Maria has staccato notes. The rest I really did actively notice though. The point I’m getting to is this: My mind has numbed itself so hard to this commute that it has turned the hellfire of LA traffic into a lyrical dance sequence, and Ave Maria into a coping mechanism for this particular struggle. That’s gorgeous. I am fine. The monotony of this drive has also led me to think about some of the simple pleasures I enjoy in life, in great detail. Here we go. I used to go swim at the Chapman lap pool on certain week nights during open hours, between 6:30 and 8pm. I’d do this last spring when the warmth of the day hadn’t had time to dissipate yet and was still lingering as the sun went down. The angle of the remaining daylight on the water made it a velvet gold, and the triangular flags that hung above the end of the pool, which signal backstrokers to flip turn, looked like the album artwork to my youth against the pink and orange sunset sky. When I finished my set, I’d remove my cap and dunk my head, because it feels so good when my hair lolls about in slow motion underwater. Then I’d get out and towel off, throw on the long sleeve navy blue Crew shirt that I’d gotten at my final regatta over my suit, and step into my flip flops to bike home. I live half a mile from campus, so it was a quick jaunt, but I’d try to take my time with it. I felt like a Stranger Things kid, if for no other reason than being on a bike, as I pedaled through the quaint neighborhood surrounding Chapman, sequestered from reality for the moment. I loved cruising down these quiet streets with pink flowers covering the trees and the ground beneath them, the air finally succumbing to a chill breeze, my hair wet and endorphins still pumping amidst a gentle evening. I’ve become fairly restless with my typical library of music, as I’ve performed every song in it for the 6am 405ers nine thousand times now. And although I love them, I sometimes need a break from my godless podcasts between episodes. I’m trying to switch it up and have been acquainting myself with the discographies of The Rolling Stones and The Beatles, and clearly a period of classical. I’m sure I’m the first person to say this because no one has ever listened to The Rolling Stones before I, but young Mick Jagger is ~dreamy~. I often wonder what I would sing about if I were in a band and wrote my own music, but I guess it would be this stuff. Thank goodness I don’t know how to compose. Although, it would be kind of amazing if everyone’s slo-mo, deep-toned war cry on the road was a jam I wrote about that last second moment you realize that Siri routed you to the godforsaken 5, which is garbage every day of the week, and it’s too late now to flip a U and retreat from battle. Another distraction I thought about recently: I think one of the most riveting movie scenes is the one in The English Patient when Katharine regales the circle of men in the desert with the ancient story of Gyges’ rise to power. She tells this tale to their fascination, the symbolism purposefully blatant in that moment, and when she finishes, she sits back down and says “Shall I spin the bottle now?” What? I want to play that game. What are the rules? The neck of the bottle chooses who gets up to orate a legend of your choosing, as if you yourself were the keeper responsible for passing it down through the generations? Trivia night is frickin’ child’s play compared to this. Where do I find a circle of people who are even remotely interested in this game? My Ethics professor from two semesters ago? Bueller? Anyone? This is a serious inquiry. I just imagined playing this with my family, and now I’m chuckling because my mom and brother are notoriously tangential and often forget where they were going in their storytelling, so this would be a mess. My dad would make one up on the fly but tell it with such fervor that we’d think it was real. You’d have to strap in for mine because I’m gonna start by reciting Hercules from beginning to end, songs and voice acting included. If you’re thinking, why does this sound at all fun to her, I’ve just realized I forgot to mention, because there’s wine, you guys. So beyond rehearsals for that, I’ll keep singing in the car and thinking about my simple joys of life, which in less than a month when I move to LA, I’ll have eight more hours to devote my time to every week. I will be more composed by then, and combobulate myself again. I know it’s not a word.
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