There’s this stretch of road on Oxnard between DeSoto and Winnetka. Not a long stretch and even though it’s mostly empty, it feels like forever.
The first time it happened I thought it was a fluke. I drove down that way in hopes of missing a chunk of Ventura traffic. There is a point, as you move up towards the top of the hill, where there is a large break in the houses and you can see most of the valley and all it’s brilliant glory of lights a distinct contrast from the empty, dark neighborhood.
Once you pass that, there’s the very top of the hill and if you happen to not be paying attention and zip down it you can very easily hit 90 or so mph without even noticing. Especially with the music blaring, adding a certain surrealistic movie quality to the whole thing.
Clove smoke is the next step followed by the fade out.
The second time it happened, I swore I would make it happen every night.
There’s a strange release to it. Not just the contrast between the loud lights and the quiet neighborhood but also between the person I am when I AM driving down the way between the places I’ve left and the places I’m going to.
I like to maintain that I am always the same person. Inside, I am. There are parts I play, of course. I could never hold a job otherwise.
Anyhow, this little strip of road. This is my new sanctuary or at least the sanctuary I can reach on a daily basis and not the one I long and strive for.