Driving Away From the Breakdown.
At 11pm last night, I was curled up on my bed, weeping helplessly in the fetal position, dialoguing with my seasonal, red-phone God about how the hell to get myself out of this mess.
It was a despair that I had only sensed before in introductory form. I've only really held my hand out to shake with some creepy emotions that take my breath away for a moment and make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. That's usually it. Last night, I was completely seduced by it. I was fucked by it, savagely and wholly uninvited, and left alone to pick up the pieces of my unrecognizable self.
So there I was. Curled up. Staring at the wall. Talking to myself. Sobbing. Snivelling. Snorting. Wincing. Agonizing. Praying.
And I got an idea: Hit the open road.
Hit the open fucking road!
I threw on some sandals, threw my hair under a ball cap, grabbed a jacket, and got behind the wheel. I didn't know where I was going or how long I was going to be gone; none of that mattered. What mattered was the simple idea that I was in control and I was behind the wheel. I'm not saying that in a symbolic self-help analyze-it-how-you-will way. Its a pure, uninterpretable act. I was driving.
I immediately hit the coast and moved north. Any thoughts I might have had to make a phone call, to invite a companion, to make any attempt at contact with anyone, was quickly diffused and dissolved. This was a trip that I needed to make alone. I needed to understand how being alone can be frightening and empowering at the same time, or alternate without warning or will.
I rolled the windows down and let the cold coastal wind whip at my face. I never touched the radio dial, and thanks to a new CD of Radiohead tracks from a friend of mine, I never knew what song was on its way. I never looked at the clock; I didn't have to be anywhere, anytime. My only measurement of anything was my tank of gas. I drove as far as half of its contents would allow, and knew that I had just enough to get home.
So I drove. Didn't force myself to think about anything. Didn't come up with a single epiphany. Watched the road marks and telephone wires blend into dancing vertical lines across the screen of my windshield. Slowed down when the lines disappeared and carefully found my way around tight, dark, nebulous corners. Drove until the signs stopped reading Malibu and the cars dropped off, one by one. Finally looked in the rear view mirror and saw nothing. Black. No cars, no lines chasing after me, no roadside pubs, no signs of life.
The idea of the coast at my side was a comfort during lonely times. Save for short periods of time when street lights danced on the black reflection, I could hardly prove it was there. Just knowing it was there was comfort enough-- and when land separated us, I felt like I was missing a friend.
I made it to Oxnard and the Channel Islands before the romance faded away. The roads became grid-like, the cars returned to the streets, and my friend was nowhere to be found. So I turned around, anxious to take the drive back and enjoy everything a second time.
I drove a little faster on the way back, this time even closer to the coast, armed this time with brief, almost instinctual knowledge of the tighter turns I had just driven up. Met back with the coast, pulled off the road to hear the surf, as if I suddenly needed proof for myself that it was there, and it was real.
The signs started to read Malibu again, and my heart sank. I didn't factor in that faster driving meant faster road home, and I was sad at the thought that home was coming faster than I wanted. I entertained driving further south, but I realized that I was tired, and had done what I had set out to do. So I returned home, refreshed, ready for rest.
As I drifted off to sleep, my thoughts turned to the ocean. On the drive, I wished at many moments that I was a man, so I could stop anywhere on the coast, fearless of harm, walk out to the water, wade in, and emerge reborn.
It was a despair that I had only sensed before in introductory form. I've only really held my hand out to shake with some creepy emotions that take my breath away for a moment and make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. That's usually it. Last night, I was completely seduced by it. I was fucked by it, savagely and wholly uninvited, and left alone to pick up the pieces of my unrecognizable self.
So there I was. Curled up. Staring at the wall. Talking to myself. Sobbing. Snivelling. Snorting. Wincing. Agonizing. Praying.
And I got an idea: Hit the open road.
Hit the open fucking road!
I threw on some sandals, threw my hair under a ball cap, grabbed a jacket, and got behind the wheel. I didn't know where I was going or how long I was going to be gone; none of that mattered. What mattered was the simple idea that I was in control and I was behind the wheel. I'm not saying that in a symbolic self-help analyze-it-how-you-will way. Its a pure, uninterpretable act. I was driving.
I immediately hit the coast and moved north. Any thoughts I might have had to make a phone call, to invite a companion, to make any attempt at contact with anyone, was quickly diffused and dissolved. This was a trip that I needed to make alone. I needed to understand how being alone can be frightening and empowering at the same time, or alternate without warning or will.
I rolled the windows down and let the cold coastal wind whip at my face. I never touched the radio dial, and thanks to a new CD of Radiohead tracks from a friend of mine, I never knew what song was on its way. I never looked at the clock; I didn't have to be anywhere, anytime. My only measurement of anything was my tank of gas. I drove as far as half of its contents would allow, and knew that I had just enough to get home.
So I drove. Didn't force myself to think about anything. Didn't come up with a single epiphany. Watched the road marks and telephone wires blend into dancing vertical lines across the screen of my windshield. Slowed down when the lines disappeared and carefully found my way around tight, dark, nebulous corners. Drove until the signs stopped reading Malibu and the cars dropped off, one by one. Finally looked in the rear view mirror and saw nothing. Black. No cars, no lines chasing after me, no roadside pubs, no signs of life.
The idea of the coast at my side was a comfort during lonely times. Save for short periods of time when street lights danced on the black reflection, I could hardly prove it was there. Just knowing it was there was comfort enough-- and when land separated us, I felt like I was missing a friend.
I made it to Oxnard and the Channel Islands before the romance faded away. The roads became grid-like, the cars returned to the streets, and my friend was nowhere to be found. So I turned around, anxious to take the drive back and enjoy everything a second time.
I drove a little faster on the way back, this time even closer to the coast, armed this time with brief, almost instinctual knowledge of the tighter turns I had just driven up. Met back with the coast, pulled off the road to hear the surf, as if I suddenly needed proof for myself that it was there, and it was real.
The signs started to read Malibu again, and my heart sank. I didn't factor in that faster driving meant faster road home, and I was sad at the thought that home was coming faster than I wanted. I entertained driving further south, but I realized that I was tired, and had done what I had set out to do. So I returned home, refreshed, ready for rest.
As I drifted off to sleep, my thoughts turned to the ocean. On the drive, I wished at many moments that I was a man, so I could stop anywhere on the coast, fearless of harm, walk out to the water, wade in, and emerge reborn.