Through the Looking Glass: 39. Why I Need a Holiday

Saturday, December 15, 2012

39. Why I Need a Holiday

As my life becomes increasingly chaotic, less and less personal time is available to me. Doing anything for the simple pleasure of simply doing it seems a remote memory. Work, family, taxes, traffic and simply breathing in and out, assault every available minute. Nowadays road rage, strange voices in my head and copious Prozac consumption are accepted parts of my life.

Thoughts that a 'time out' might help remedy the situation have occurred to me more than once. Recently I began to converse with myself about the value of taking a 'holiday.' Unfortunately there was a disagreement that ended in a screaming match. At that point I refused to talk to myself for the rest of the week and nothing was settled. In the end it was decided that an honest look at my physical, mental and emotional balance would be the best indicators of whether or not I need a 'Holiday.'

Physical examination was first. I admit that the intravenous shunt I use to mainline espresso, as well as the family doctor's concern about Turns and Rolaids as my main source of nutrition might indicate the need for a break. The 'runners high' I get by simply sitting up each morning is well earned in spite of these minor physical concerns. I know that my vision is still as acute as it ever was...I am still able to see the air particles vibrate individually. My hearing is better than ever. I can still hear mimes, though I admit that there are episodes where the sun is too loud for comfort.

My mental capacity is increasing rather than diminishing. There is little I can do about the frustration of those who are unable to decipher the binary code I now use to communicate. My employer is simply unaware that I know his 'Just Calm Down' speech is code for 'There's one more job I want you to do.' As I continue to develop my cerebral skills I am concentrating on teleporting myself to work. Although reality and I have filed for a no fault divorce, the resulting grief is being replaced by a growing, daily increase in the aesthetic appeal of lint.

It is my emotional state that leads me to the conclusion that perhaps a vacation is in order. More than once I have found myself screaming "DON'T TOUCH ME!!" while in a room alone. I have noticed that I repeat the same thing over and over again without realising that I've said it before. The voices in my head have become a little more insistent lately. The dying screams from the houseflies I swatted are coming back to haunt my dreams. I have noticed that I repeat the same thing over and over again without realising that I've said it before.

My multiple personalities and I recently considered investing in a Home Electro-Shock Therapy Kit. But since we have become aware of your 'Travel Contest', we are considering delaying that purchase until we can pull together and win a spot in your contest for each of us.

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Introduction

Having moved at least twenty-five times in fifteen years has opened a world of learning to me. In six decades, an education ranging from the coldness of large cities to the isolation of remote rural locations to the busybody gossip of small towns and the wonder of the prairie and it's ocean of grass have all left their impressions on me.

Recently I relocated to a small city in British Columbia. It touted itself as a historical, cultural, educational and, over-all wonderful, place to live. Once I was past the trees and the rocks, the heights and the hills, the water and the wind, I calmed down and was ready to look at the people I was sharing that space with.

Every location I have ever squatted has had it's share of characters. Players in the cities along with the wide range of tinfoil hat wearers and baggy pants skaters were a given. Pop up strangers at odd hours surprised me with their appearance in the middle of nowhere. Rumours of my serial killer past from neighbours I had never met never swayed me. The wonder of gazing on the effects of wind on the grass ocean interrupted by a landowner enquiring why I was leaning on his fence was oft forgiven.

In this new locale a variety of characters as I had experienced elsewhere was a given. The density and variety of them however gave me more surprise than I would have expected.

I had heard comments about this place being a time warp to the sixties. However I only saw few that , by their appearance, I could say lived through the sixties. What apparitions appeared were younger and more colourful than I remember from that vague decade.

Purple haired strong armed accordionists, heavy head shaved violinists clutching tiny instruments, winter coated scarf wrapped individuals in shorts and oddly calm people with large coffees wandered the streets.

They wandered in and out of new age crystal shops, expressed opinions on local radio, bought nothing but organic food. They played jazz on squeeze boxes, made strings and wood sing in ways not intended, talked to themselves as they tightened their scarves and became more serene with each sip of coffee.

Characters here are more concentrated than in any other locale I have ever lived. It is a point of interest as well as point of concern.

It remains to be seen whether I will be mugged with organic carrots, side swiped by hooligan mountain bikers, be harangued with advice on dressing warmly or kept awake nights by jazzy sounds from an errant squeeze box. Whatever the outcome I am certain I could find it in no other place on earth to explore these particular uncertainties.

Until I am transplanted again, I extend every new-ager and boarder, every subculture economist and spiritualist, every would-be and wanna-be my deep thanks for extending me the opportunity of educating myself one measure more.