An Hour in the Mindspa

The slow mental massage that is William Gibson's Pattern Recognition continues during my commute as I cruise through the digital audio book. The book is exactly my sort of read; I love it when the writing is so detailed, so intimate, that I find my brain entering an altered state of literary consciousness. Suddenly I find my thinking deep thoughts, contemplating the mental textures of that sign for Exit 20 on I-78, wondering about the branding behind the Acura that just passed on the left, and generally savoring the flow of words as the audio book washes over me.

All this while at the same time being very much aware of the road around me, the intricacies of traffic, the needs to be conscious of assholes who's driving skills are only barely up to the challenges of the slushy New Jersey roads.

It's like spending an hour or two in a spa for my mind, relaxing in an imagined world between the reality of the job, and the reality of the home. Of course, that does make for a certain amount of dissonance when I do finally walk through the front door, as my brain is still spinning out Gibsonian descriptions of my living room, and my 22-month-old is clamoring for a kiss.

The solution, I think, is to downshift from high thought by listening to Cheap Trick or Smashmouth on my way through Phillipsburg, so that by the time I reach my front door my mind will be thinking in more normal terms.

At least until the next morning's commute.