I had a dream when I was young that still surfaces to this day--even after all these years.
Growing up in a fairly large family in a tiny house, I have always been in love with the warm feeling that comes from a little cubbyhole of comfort. To be in a little corner, isolated by couch cushions surrounding me, or enveloped in blankets or quilts on an overstuffed chair--it didn't matter.
I have fantasized about having a special place--a place where I could escape to a book, sit and doodle on a notepad, or just take a nap. It should have regular walls, but only up from the floor to about 2 or 3 feet. At that point they would be glass all the way to the ceiling. The glass would go all the way around, affording me a 360° view. I would have shaded places--maybe under towering plants--that would provide me with respite from the sun's glare during the middle of the day. It would be small and cozy, and would have a couple of chair choices--one for sitting, and one for reclining. It would be toasty warm, carpeted, and strewn with brightly-colored, over-sized pillows of interesting patterns.
It would be a place where I could gaze out at rain streaming down the outside of the glass. Where I could sit with coffee and watch the sun rise in all its glory. Where I could sit with a glass of wine and watch the sun as it faded into night with a last blaze of color.
And here's the kicker: It should be 50 feet in the air. It should be like a small tower or crows nest, with a spiral staircase leading to the top. No sound up there unless I created it. An escape. Sanctuary.
Even though I am 59 years old and can easily be with my thoughts any time I want to, the dream of that special place continues to make special appearances in my thoughts.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Sunday, February 7, 2016
The Cigarette Cool Factor
I wish smoking cigarettes wasn't so fucking sexy.
I'm a product of the vintage hot rod/motorcycle world of yesteryear. My dad was a child of the rebellious 50's, and naturally it rubbed off on me. I'll be 60 next year, and I adore primer black, stripped down, thumb-your-nose-at-the-Status-Quo things. Vintage is cool. Old black and white is cool. The 50's were cool. Face it--the coolest, sexiest, I-don't-give-a-shit guys portrayed in any pictures related to 50's primer-black hot rods or Harleys are doing that smoking sneer. You know the sneer: one eye is almost closed and the other one is looking right into the camera--challenging you to be that cool. Never mind that one eye was probably closed because the smoke that was yet to be filtered by still-working lungs was burning the hell out of it. That didn't matter. What mattered was the eye looking at the camera. It was saying, "Come on pussy... see how cool it makes me look? What are you waiting for?"
When I'm browsing the internet for ideas about things I'm still swayed by pictures of guys with "the look." I'll be browsing for something to do with my Harley, some sort of apparel--hell, even when I was browsing possible hair styles they were there. The ads persist. No wait--they weren't ads, they were just pictures. They may as well be ads though--because they were selling the aura of cool.
I remember a comic in Playboy decades ago--a young boy standing on a chair in front of the bathroom mirror with a cigarette in his mouth. Reflected in the mirror was a cool, rugged, handsome man staring back at him. It was who he saw himself as with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I did the same thing. I fell victim to the "cool" factor. I started smoking because it was cool and rebellious. When I realized it didn't add a bit of cool, I saw the light and bowed out of smoking. That was decades ago, but still the mystique of "cool" is still out there. The allure, the draw, the power of suggestion.
It pisses me off because everybody wants to look cool. I'm no different. The difference is that I know it's only an illusion. But damn, it's a strong one.
I'm a product of the vintage hot rod/motorcycle world of yesteryear. My dad was a child of the rebellious 50's, and naturally it rubbed off on me. I'll be 60 next year, and I adore primer black, stripped down, thumb-your-nose-at-the-Status-Quo things. Vintage is cool. Old black and white is cool. The 50's were cool. Face it--the coolest, sexiest, I-don't-give-a-shit guys portrayed in any pictures related to 50's primer-black hot rods or Harleys are doing that smoking sneer. You know the sneer: one eye is almost closed and the other one is looking right into the camera--challenging you to be that cool. Never mind that one eye was probably closed because the smoke that was yet to be filtered by still-working lungs was burning the hell out of it. That didn't matter. What mattered was the eye looking at the camera. It was saying, "Come on pussy... see how cool it makes me look? What are you waiting for?"
When I'm browsing the internet for ideas about things I'm still swayed by pictures of guys with "the look." I'll be browsing for something to do with my Harley, some sort of apparel--hell, even when I was browsing possible hair styles they were there. The ads persist. No wait--they weren't ads, they were just pictures. They may as well be ads though--because they were selling the aura of cool.
I remember a comic in Playboy decades ago--a young boy standing on a chair in front of the bathroom mirror with a cigarette in his mouth. Reflected in the mirror was a cool, rugged, handsome man staring back at him. It was who he saw himself as with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I did the same thing. I fell victim to the "cool" factor. I started smoking because it was cool and rebellious. When I realized it didn't add a bit of cool, I saw the light and bowed out of smoking. That was decades ago, but still the mystique of "cool" is still out there. The allure, the draw, the power of suggestion.
It pisses me off because everybody wants to look cool. I'm no different. The difference is that I know it's only an illusion. But damn, it's a strong one.
Winding Down
[...I found this draft on my computer that never got posted from last June. Better late than never!]
As I neared home from my 2+ weeks of vacation road trip I had this idea to have a "vacation from my vacation" so to speak. My epic journey of driving was nearing an end, and I was in dire need of some true relaxation. The trip had not been as fun as I hoped it would be. I formulated the idea of taking this little camping trip as an afterthought... before I even got home. When I did get home I did what chores I needed to do, like laundry and lawn-mowing, and purposefully left half of my stuff in the car so I wouldn't have to repack it. This was not a well-planned camping trip. It was almost as if I were in a hurry. My food was poorly-planned, my beer ran out of ice, but you know what? I didn't care.
I love a good camping trip. It's fills me with solitude and the feeling of being completely off the grid. It's a time to reflect. It's a time to notice the little things around you--the smells, the sounds, the creatures. I'm not talking about camping in a campground with other campers (which is most people's definition of camping). You know the ones: each camper with the designated spot that they are renting for the night, and with kids and dogs running around everywhere and music blasting. That's not camping--that's just living like they normally do but with no walls. I'm talking about driving patiently and investigating each road in hopes that it leads to something promising until I finally find that spot--that special spot--that makes it all worthwhile. It's about being in a remote place in perfect weather with no clothes, no cares, and no rules. The only sounds are the wind, the occasional bird, and maybe the sound of an airplane in the distance every now and then. Taking walks wearing nothing but sandals and a smile--a smile that will not go away.
I took out my iPad at one point to do a little reading and found it to be so low on battery it was near death. Did I let that bother me? Nope, I'm camping, remember? That was just another way of driving the point home.
Last night one vehicle drove by. Today, one vehicle drove by. Somehow I ended up spraining my left thumb at one point. I think it was during a session of firewood gathering. I have numerous scrapes and scratches--again from firewood gathering. Do I care? No. I'm naked in the great outdoors. I'm camping. It's worth it.
The various bugs didn't really bother me either. Whether it was the miniature ants that were constantly exploring, the occasional biting insect that wanted to feed, or the just plain stupid winged ones that crash into me because I'm in their flight path. I don't care though. I'm naked in the great outdoors and I'm off the grid.
As I neared home from my 2+ weeks of vacation road trip I had this idea to have a "vacation from my vacation" so to speak. My epic journey of driving was nearing an end, and I was in dire need of some true relaxation. The trip had not been as fun as I hoped it would be. I formulated the idea of taking this little camping trip as an afterthought... before I even got home. When I did get home I did what chores I needed to do, like laundry and lawn-mowing, and purposefully left half of my stuff in the car so I wouldn't have to repack it. This was not a well-planned camping trip. It was almost as if I were in a hurry. My food was poorly-planned, my beer ran out of ice, but you know what? I didn't care.
I love a good camping trip. It's fills me with solitude and the feeling of being completely off the grid. It's a time to reflect. It's a time to notice the little things around you--the smells, the sounds, the creatures. I'm not talking about camping in a campground with other campers (which is most people's definition of camping). You know the ones: each camper with the designated spot that they are renting for the night, and with kids and dogs running around everywhere and music blasting. That's not camping--that's just living like they normally do but with no walls. I'm talking about driving patiently and investigating each road in hopes that it leads to something promising until I finally find that spot--that special spot--that makes it all worthwhile. It's about being in a remote place in perfect weather with no clothes, no cares, and no rules. The only sounds are the wind, the occasional bird, and maybe the sound of an airplane in the distance every now and then. Taking walks wearing nothing but sandals and a smile--a smile that will not go away.
I took out my iPad at one point to do a little reading and found it to be so low on battery it was near death. Did I let that bother me? Nope, I'm camping, remember? That was just another way of driving the point home.
Last night one vehicle drove by. Today, one vehicle drove by. Somehow I ended up spraining my left thumb at one point. I think it was during a session of firewood gathering. I have numerous scrapes and scratches--again from firewood gathering. Do I care? No. I'm naked in the great outdoors. I'm camping. It's worth it.
The various bugs didn't really bother me either. Whether it was the miniature ants that were constantly exploring, the occasional biting insect that wanted to feed, or the just plain stupid winged ones that crash into me because I'm in their flight path. I don't care though. I'm naked in the great outdoors and I'm off the grid.
Here it is--7:00--and I continue to sit without regard to putting my clothes back on. I think it is a little warmer than yesterday, plus I have a much better fire than yesterday. The wind in the trees now has the relaxing pop & snap of the fire going well competing with it.
It doesn't get much better than this.
It doesn't get much better than this.
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