The Road to...Somewhere

I spent a night last week driving up-and-over inside the lines of New York State for a grad school interview. After a long day of work I made my way to Hertz and met the disappointment of "fine print" from my online quote. My car was going to cost twice as much as expected but it was too late to do much about it. Someone pulled up in a white compact and I got in, light-headed and cloudy-eyed. I began to work my way through the one-ways.

Eventually the George Washington Bridge was in view and I could see the long road ahead, reeling out of the city. I spent the five-hour drive singing, singing, and singing some more, wavering between lanes as I flipped through my CD case. There weren't many cars on the road and I used my bright-lights often, though everything still seemed so dark. It occured to me on my third album that I rarely, almost never, spend time in a space alone. I've adapted my life to the city and I am constantly surrounded by strangers, friends, aquaintances and students. In fact the only time I'm actually alone is in my room with the door shut, heading to bed. Even then my roommate, Mimia, is usually pecking on her sewing machine outside my door or watching Japanese cartoons.

I've also not driven a car for longer than fifteen minutes, save a Niagra Falls wedding excursion with a car full of friends last summer, for the last five years. My body remembered the motions from college years of road trips and long distance relationships. It wasn't until I finally stopped for a snack and nearly backed into a McDonalds that I noticed I was driving a bright new Mustang featuring curves of years past. The entire experience had the makings of another life— the Mustang, the McDonalds, the crumbled and greasy road map.

I'm not sure exactly what will happen with that particular quest for higher education. My interview happened. I felt exhausted and somewhat outside of my own body. But the trip certainly allowed me to some space to think. The last few weekends I've had disparate fun in my hometown. Three weekends ago I was unexpectedly transported back to 1985 by the Pyramid Club's near perfect 80's night, dancing with an old coworker until 3 a.m. Last weekend I went to the Russian and Turkish baths on 10th Street. I hunkered down in the 150 degree "Ambient Heat" room watching people being beaten with soapy oak leaves and stepping out every half hour for a dip in the 50 degree plunge pool. The bath crowd was one part Eastern European, one part hippie, and one part where the fuck am I?

Then last night I went to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs at the Bowery Ballroom. Karen O wore what I think was a rejected gold encrusted figure skating costume from the Nagano Olympics. During the second song she pulled some long feathers out of her bodice and began chewing on one. She spent the rest of the night picking feather pieces out of her teeth. During the encore Karen dedicated a song muttering into the mic—This is a love song and it's for all you motherfuckers....and It's for you too, Mom and Dad. Mom and Dad waved from upstairs.

I'm not saying that my entire life is rock'n roll and girls gone wild in Russian spas. In fact, tonight I have a date with a bottle of wine, my futon and some knitting needles. Somedays just seem entirely too foggy. I guess we all have the tendency to hatch escape routes, to imagine running far and fast away from our lives when things feel difficult, mismatched, and half-empty. I like surrounding myself with people, and seeing different scenes and hearing different sounds. We are social animals after all, not designed to live in the interior of a Ford or a parking garage or closed office. I guess in part I'm relieved that I realize I have the ability to change things from the inside out. I can thank the Mustang's smooth ride for that temporary piece of clarity.