driving through LA at 3pm on the Friday before Memorial Day
you were made for the stolen moments
A character from my all-time favorite movie, the criminally underrated Cloud Atlas (2012), defines freedom as “[t]he fatuous jingle of our civilization,” then correctly notes that “only those deprived of it have the barest inkling of what it actually is.” He is referring specifically to being involuntarily detained or imprisoned, but I understand his meaning to a lesser degree.
That first summer of working full-time highlights the real meaning of school breaks—rest, a little boredom, and the excitement of uncertainty.
Begging various friends to watch your dog (however adorable and lovable), highlights how easy last-minute vacations would be if you didn’t have one.
Owning your own home highlights what it used to be like to not have an immovable, non-fungible asset on your hands 24/7/365.
I’ll tell you what freedom is—or, more accurately, what it feels like.
The day before a national holiday, my corporate job ‘lets us out’ at 3pm. Now, this lands any day of the week (thank you very much), but it’s especially impactful on the Friday before a holiday Monday, because you get what feels like a free 4-day weekend. And that is a nearly religious experience.
The elevator doors opened and I walked into a shiny lobby, bathed in bright, midday sunlight. As I stepped outside, the wind was fresh and cool. The sky was that 1990s blue, without even a hint of evening in it, and the clouds were white. There was a haze of infinity to the world as I hopped in my unwashed car and immediately rolled down my windows, sticking my left hand (tsk tsk) out as I sped along Sepulveda, parallel to the 405 fwy. Past the bustle of Westwood Village. Past the sprawling, jewel-green Los Angeles Cemetery. Past the watchful Getty. Normally, I would be sitting at my desk, revving up for the final sprint. Today, I had the sun on my skin.
And Google maps seemed determined to make it one of the most glorious, winding, explorative journeys to Agoura Hills ever. Right around the Skirball Cultural Center, the route broke away from the 405 freeway, and pulled off into one of those neighborhoods that I’ve never heard of or seen, and will likely never see again—a true bulwark against the monstrous, cookie cutter, concrete constructions that have taken over the nouveau Arts District, and are steadily creeping into Silverlake and Echo Park. Every garden and every color seemed to tell the story of whoever lived inside. Sprinklers were sprinkling. Dogs were dogging. People were out walking on the steep sidewalks.
All I could think was, “Yes. This.” It felt like a stolen moment.
Somehow, that quiet, meandering drive at a time of day when I should be under fluorescents, reminded me that I am not just a brain hooked up to busy fingers on a keyboard. It reminded me of what freedom is and what the job is actually for. More of this, please, and less of that.
And that is the point, right? Work not as an end, but as a means. Yes, there can be purpose in it and I do think work is natural, but the modern iteration—isolated from the beginning and end, devoid of clear communal impact, almost entirely abstract—is disembodying, taking only what it needs from each of us.
It therefore becomes our more important job to celebrate the holistic reality of the human experience, and affirm that you are, indeed, a whole within the whole of humanity. That you were made for the stolen moments.
Like driving through an un-corporatized LA neighborhood at 3pm on the Friday before Memorial Day, appreciating the simple fact that you can feel the sun on your skin. You know. That kind of moment.
With love,
AIAL