i hate vacations.
i'm not sure why i keep taking them. No, i do not have a job that i love so much that i can't leave it. Quite the opposite in fact. No, i don't vacation in Kirkut, Beirut or Somalia. No, that second beer while overpowering the handful of cookies in my stomach at the moment is not enough to bring more than a flush to my ears, it is in no way effecting my ability to form coherent thought, though i'm glad small children aren't darting in front of my keyboard. Impairment begins at the first drink you know. That just leaves the Sanity Clause, but you can't fool me, i'm too old to believe in Sanity Clause.
Besides which, my viewpoint of vacations might just make me the only sane person on this here rock. How? Lemme zplain it to you, Loocy.
Vacations suck for the very simple reason that they show you, for a very, very, very, very, excrutiatingly brief period of time how life should be and then... just when you are starting to settle into it, just starting to believe the fiction, just when you are starting to let that small spring at the back of your neck, the one that tightens with each person you do not kill that oh soooooo desperately needs to be beaten to death with whatever blunt object happens to be nearest to hand when they cut you off, say something totally rude or utterly ridiculous or just happen to breath the same air as decent folk, the one that winds a skootch tighter every time something ELSE breaks in the house you will never finish paying for, the little spring at the back of your neck that cranks down just another notch on your spine every time you wake up to the alarm clock and realize that that wretched audibilized version of a hernia that is yanking you from the four hours sleep you so desperately needed means you are NOT beginning another day pursuing the thrice blessed dreams that are rapidly running for cover in the cursed light of day like the cockroaches that they are but instead will be throwing your body, soul, strength, will and creative energy into the chipper/shredder that will crank out someone else's inane, self-serving dreams for another day, just when that spring starts letting out a little of the accumulated tension of a month's, year's, lifetime's worth of tightening and you are finally, FINALLY able to hear your own heart sing a Jimmy Buffettesqe tune of que sera sera without a moment's panic as to just que the hell is gonna sera, right at that moment, that moment before you throw all caution, luggage, barking rottweilers and mother's lectures to the wind and quit the path your on for the mad path conjured by that same tune and finally find out if it's possible to live like a man or woman created in the image of God...
you come back, sit back down, plug in, bow your head and retake the yolk that society has chained you to.
Now if you can come up with a cognizant defense for this madness then i'll laud you with the title of Less Crazy Than Me.
Ah, who'm i kiddin'? i'll just laugh and tell you why you're wrong. And it might begin with the popularity of alcohal. Pass the bottle will ye?
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Monday, August 13, 2007
Six hours of toil.
Twenty-four buckets of sweat.
Fourteen thousand four hundred and seventy-two shovel loads to pile up ...
One metric ton of sand.
Three hundred and five trips to bring up water.
One debate over the nature of trying your best with each of two kids.
Five dips in the ocean to cool off.
A couple of compliments.
One very long and painfully extracted apology from the little kid who touched it when his mom told him not to.
All of my creative bent,
all of my will,
all of my energy,
all of my feeble mental ingenuity.
All to produce this one, painstakingly crafted pile of sand that was washed away by the ocean before dinner time.
Think there's a lesson in there somewhere.