This morning I realized, yet again – that I have an incredibly beautiful drive to work – and I have never written about it.
Some people may not care much about their commute to-and-from-work – but when you’ve looked at the bottom of swimming pools as much as I have (an upcoming essay) – you have to enjoy a truly breathtaking spin that can pump you up, or ease you down – depending on whether you are coming or going.
My earliest work commute began in Kalamazoo — as I made my way to swimming pools to coach: the early morning practices were often too dark to discern much scenery, while afternoon practices merely displayed the greenery of the mid-West, or, mounds of dirty snow – depending on the season. There was nothing to lift the spirit.
Traveling from Scottsdale to Camelback H.S. to coach swimming saw a number of inspirational mountains like Squaw Peak and Camelback Mt. – but when you were in traffic – it was quite difficult to take them in in some holistic fashion. There were times when PINK FLOYD and orange blossoms made the trip intoxicating, however. You could stop on the way home, I guess – and soak those massive structures up – but I always had to get back to let Rummy out and practice Frisbee with him.
Journeying from Rochester, Michigan to Harper Woods, Michigan was a long serpentine journey through flat mid-Western suburbia – not too dissimilar from staring at the bottom of a swimming pool. Ozzy and THE BLIZZARD OF OZ made these journeys bearable – but only just.
Culver City, California to Northridge, California should have been a visual treat – but for my commuting years the smog really destroyed the potential vistas – and since I was going with the good traffic – I actually might have had the opportunity to take in those Santa Monica Mtns. Alas, I had no such luck. Then I commuted from Westchester to downtown L.A. and Crescenta Valley for a total of 6 years: the same thing – I was stuck in a concrete jungle with no notion of the Switzerland that lay around me. On those rare days that the air was clear, I felt that I had died and gone to heaven.
When the smog finally lifted for good – I was commuting from Lancaster, California to Glendale, California — but on an Antelope Valley freeway that does very little to “wow” the eyesight: it’s an ancient river valley (or earthquake fault) that doesn’t afford much scenery – plus one is usually traversing it at such a high rate of speed that the attempted looks at the San Gabriels are quite fleeting. There were certain moments heading North – and coming into Acton that were magical, certainly when the poppies were blooming – but the final destination was always Lancaster – and this desert, toilet bowl – can dull the most creative of sensibilities.
Commuting in Lancaster for 4 years was, well, it was yecky.
Then I did a Santa Clarita jaunt to-and-from Sylmar – which are literally right next to each other – but because they are the necktie of L.A. exit and entrée – traffic is always choked. And the landscape is nightmarish – like a post-atomic blast (not unlike the Santa Susana reactor accident fallout.)
Then a brutish journey from Santa Clarita to Malibu – where I often traversed the same miles I do today (but on the hind end of 20 miles across the San Fernando Valley in rush hour traffic – I was of no mind to see what was around me as I tried to get-there-and-back).
But now I hop onto Mulholland Drive, a skant one-third mile above me – and after passing through a-bit-of-Calabassas – I enter into heaven, God’s country – with mountains and mist and deer and coyote and hawks and trees and trees. I feel very alive wending my way West on Mulholland.