Commuting
I work in Los Feliz and live in Hollywood. This is the tiniest of commutes. However, I’m considering moving to West Hollywood; I’m willing to pay more rent for less space if it means living next to a tree instead of a highway. This means, of course, lengthening my commute.
Commute is a dirty word here, and I understand why. In the afternoon, it takes 20 minutes to go three miles. If I hightail it to the land of Chateau Marmont and House of Blues, I can expect it to be 55 minutes for
I often leave work brooding about something: a student whose health I’m worried about, or whose attitude is enraging me, or a new tedious administrative requirement whose arbitrariness is exceeded only by its futility. And my feet usually hurt. I get in the car with my face set in grim lines.
I pull out of the parking lot and turn on my stereo. Now, I’m one of those horrid people who get obsessed with one song, and listen to it over and over for hours on end, month after month. People have been known to try to get out of my car while it’s still moving, and it will come as no surprise that I’m single. But here’s the thing. After sinking into the trance that loud, dramatic, gorgeous, throbbing music can reduce one to, particularly in the enclosed and air conditioned space of a car… my troubles are gone. My memory is wiped clean. My mood is tranquilized. I’m barely aware of where I am (which may explain all the honking horns. They’re probably honking at me as I drive muzzily through my orchestral fog, dozing through left-turn opportunities and gliding calmly through red lights.)
But when I arrive home, my mood has lifted. And that after only a 20 minute exposure to my current favorite song (Eric Bachmann’s Little Bird) Imagine what a zombie I’ll be if I have a longer commute. I’m looking forward to it!
