When I was home at my mom’s over the holiday, I had one of those days when I regressed to my depressed teenage self. The only thing I could think to do was go for a drive. I chewed on the places inside myself where things felt missing and listened to the New Leonard Cohen, which spoke directly to all of my problems.
I got back home with way more potatoes and sweet potatoes and rutabagas than the six members of my family ever had any hope of eating. I shredded ‘em and started forming them into latkes, squeezing the water out first with a dish towel, then with my hands. As soon as I started doing something physical, my self pity dissolved.
This lead to me wondering how my angsty teenage regression would have played out if instead of getting in the car, I had gotten on my bike. Driving is kind of like depression, making tiny movements in an airtight box, seeing things without actually feeling them, buffered from the world. On your bike the wind is biting your face and your legs are propelling your sad sack. You chew the road, not yourself.
At the same point, listening to Leonard Cohen is less viable, which should not be discounted.
