November 9th, 2006

Montecristo Captain Quixote

Sometimes, my internal DJ gets hooked on something.

It’s another beautiful fall day here in Alameda. The sky is clear and the air is warm. It is the kind of morning where one can catch a fleeting glimpse of the San Francisco skyline as one crests the overpass heading west on interstate 880 near the 29th street exit. These fantastic vistas, even, or perhaps especially, the sneaky flash-and-gone ones like this one, are yet one more reason I love California.

I saw a lady trucker this morning. Generally, despite the efforts and contrivances of feminists to place women into all jobs in equal proportion to men, women do not drive trucks for a living. The exceptional proportions are a little higher for small service industries, like catering, maid services, child care, etc, but even then, it is usually not women driving the trucks. They just aren’t attracted to those jobs, for whatever reasons. At any rate, I like observing people on the commute to work, and have noticed the rarity of women behind the wheels of commercial vehicles. They are so rare, in fact, that were I superstitious, I would be tempted to regard it as an omen of a good day to spot one. This morning I saw a woman behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheel rig. That’s an exceptionally rare occurrence, and I almost missed it. She was in the lane to the right of me, so I couldn’t see squarely into the window of the truck, but I did catch sight of a pink sweater sleeve out of which projected a mature feminine hand, sporting a feminine watch, engagement and wedding bands, and tasteful pink nail polish. The hand was dangling out of the tractor cab’s window, playing with the breeze or keeping time with music on the driver’s radio.

…and I can still hear him laugh, and I can still hear his song…

I awoke this morning with Dire Straits’ “The Man’s Too Big” playing in my skull. I could clearly hear the band’s axes twanging and Mark Knopfler’s distinctive voice in my ears. It’s been the music of choice for my subconscious for the last two days now. Many other people call this phenomenon “having an ear worm.” I have always been leery of applying such a derogatory term to something I not only do not mind, but also actually appreciate. Music has always been the art that has spoken most clearly and movingly to me. Even if the tune is silly or monotonous, I figure this phenomenon is only my subconscious holding a conversation with me. My inner realm is not a country with which I am usually at war, nor is it a valley where I fear to tread, since evicting the Holy Hobgoblin and all of his superstitions and demons out of my inner temple. It’s cleaner in there, now and my inner DJ is a lot less claustrophobic since she has more room to dance and play her tunes.

I have always regarded my inner DJ as female. I’m not exactly sure why, but I think it may have something to do with what many thinkers have regarded as “our dual nature,” or as Rush (the band, not the blowhard) called it, “the angel in my armor, the actress in my role.” At any rate, according to my thinking, she often represents perhaps, the voice of many inner roles: introspection, inspiration, self-entertainment, emotion, conscience, pride, satisfaction – the gentle destiny “that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will,” although many times I do not grasp any greater significance to what she plays beyond just a cool soundtrack, playing in the background. Often times I do wonder though, especially when one tune has been particularly persistent, if she is trying to say something in particular to me.
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