I’ve just narrowly survived the manic decent into the month of madness that is, and will be my December. I keep on returning from these missions and wild forays of lunacy with fewer and fewer marbles….always a little more restless with the mundane clutter and opaque shades of bullshit that sometimes colour my days.
I all too often forget the genius in simplicity, things that used to excite us as kids are still essentially the things that should prove just as important to us today. Walking barefoot, finding magic in secret places or rolling around with your favourite person under the warm guidance of the sun. Kids totally have it all figured out…until they start growing up and getting lost, often finding themselves on the back of milk cartons. Don’t get me wrong, I maintain the same exact phobia for kids as I do snakes; and in turn follow the same behavioural conduct….
1. In no event make eye contact.
2. No sudden movements.
3. Avoid interaction at all costs.
To be honest, I actively promote the growth of these two phobias…and live in hope that one day they will sprout into debilitating fears; thus protecting me from child bearing and reptiles alike. Every once in a while I have to scare myself shitless. Just the other day I actually asked a friend to hold her baby…cute kid and all but I spent the rest of the afternoon slinging back every variation of mojito I could find and then watched an entire 30 second clip on how a poffadder unhinges it’s jaws to ingest large prey- with both eyes open mind you! Self-inflicted emotional trauma has been keeping me in line for years.
(For the sake of clarity when I say “large prey” I’m not implying baby ... in this particular instance, atleast.)
There’s no reason required for me to be psycho-analytical about a three- year old’s life philosophy- but I sure as hell have adopted for this month. So in keeping, I’ve adopted a new fascination with the alphabet….so “F” is not just for “FUCK”……
“F” is for “Fuck Moderation”. And that’s exactly the credo I’ve followed over the past few days.
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| He say's cookies, but I encourage you to substitute with any of your heart's desires...... |
Fucking Moderation comes at a price mind you. Starting off with me braving a Deadmau5 concert in heels for 7 hours….okay, so I wasn’t in the heels per se for the duration of those 7 hours but let’s just say my feet and those shoes aren’t talking any more.
Genocide….it can happen…. to feet, namely my own!
The Mau5 that is Dead was independently phenomenal… I have great respect for people who are admittedly blatant about including pop culture references and threading personal ciphers into their performance or art. It’s a pleasant escape from all the petty functionaries who usually push out product instead of art. Before we even had enough time to sufficiently assault our bed with sleep, me and Moth were up and getting ready for Vortex.
We travelled with friends through the golden patchwork of harvested wheat and canola fields all the way to a River Without an End, to set up camp in the Circle of Dreams. Vortex is home to one of the best venues, this side of trance town and is definitely a firm favourite of my mine. The Pixie in our crew got initiated into the tribe by a wise old Mother Earth type, the Reverend led us to his secret hiding place behind the stage to put magic in our lungs… and where the speakers were the best seats in the house. Moth outlived all the dj’s sets and was bouncing along merrily until he finally passed out on the dance floor the Sunday morning and proceeded to take a nap in the exact same spot up until we went home later that afternoon. I, on the other hand managed to put my beef to rest with the hairy worms, (yes….even they showed up for the party) had a conversation with a dragonfly and kept a lonely bubble as my pet for a few hours.
We lost our minds, a few people and definitely some marbles along the way, but it was well worth it! So even though I’m still catching up on the days of sleep I’ve lost, haven’t even unpacked our bags from the weekend and conveniently painted my nails to cover up the residual crud that has imbedded itself to my digits, what does remain is a Sense of Calm I carry with myself….or maybe my body is just self-regulating its pH levels. Because we all know that acid makes for a good base, but who can tell me when is appropriate to take a Rennie ant-acid? Exactomundo!!!!
And so my old adage of “Who needs a roof to party?” remains unchanged. Just in the same way as “All we need is a cardboard box to have a good time”….which my bestie has so eloquently portrayed…….
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| She will never fully realise my sheer hatred of her eleventy-seven pairs of jazz shoes. |
And so now, I’m hurtling towards the opposite end of the spectrum which involves me looking like something that can pass as socially presentable at no less than…My Best Friend’s Wedding! So next week around about this time I’ll be swapping hairy worms for hair curlers and turning my feet once again into indentured labourers (for the very last time-BIBLE)! Instead of a Sense of Calm which I suspect will have evaporated by then; I’ll bring a Little Book of Calm…."add a dab of lavender to milk, leave town with an orange and pretend you're laughing at it".......and smoke that shit up when faced with the inevitable questions of childbearing and snakes….
Sigh, the life and times of Charlie Sunshine, I'm off to babysit my mom's trans-gendered yorkie.... #truestory!
