vacation
Currently, I’m sitting at Alchemize Bar, in Cincinnati, a block off the street I live on.
It feels like I’ve only been here once before (it's been a minimum of 6 times).
I barely know anyone here.
I love this feeling.
Last weekend I went on vacation. Only first finishing my PBR paperwork at 5PM on Sunday, I got a late start. Headed up to Caesar Creek.
First stop: a convenience store. Obviously mom & pop owned, with a grill, park maps, some little tables and some strange trinkets…. Suddenly I feel at home. It feels like traveling to unknown places where noone knows your name yet kindness reeks through the humble hearts of strangers. And unique local little shops are filled with simplicity, family, and a sense of contentedness. It feels like cuddling with your best friend on quilt blankets on a stone hearth in front of a crackling fire.
I need to leave town more often.
Arriving at the trail head, I am greeted by the tail end of the Ohio Mountain Bike Association race. Fantastic surprise: their race trail markings ensure that I won’t get lost out here alone, so close to dusk.
I bought my new bike yesterday. I would love to love it, but I just can’t get over my recently lost love; still mourning.
After breaking her in, I find somewhere to camp. It smells like piss. I find somewhere else – it’s coated in broken glass. I find - three attempts later – a haven. Stars so scarce in the ‘Nati, sparkle above me. I bask in moonlight. My sleeping bag proves the perfect weight for the refreshingly brisk air. And as I doze to sleep – peacefully, for what feels like the first time in almost a year – the rain comes pouring down.
It’s 3:30 AM. I have to work at 10AM. Setting up a tent in the rain, then sitting in traffic does not seem worth it. I return to my apartment.
Eight hours.
Eight hours away from here, with no work, and no stress, and this “vacation” rivaled my month in Hawaii, in terms of healing power.
I needed it that bad.
That was a week and a half ago.
Since then, my phone died and my e-mail malfunctioned, causing me to get ridiculously behind on deadlines and paperwork and miss out on several intriguing offers. The starter in my car has gone caput, thus I've learned and over utilized the art of popping a clutch. And an old Flagstaff friend died on Sunday. He shot himself in the head. He was my fiancee in the last show I performed in at Theatrikos. We climbed "the toilet bowl" volcano together, and poked at a green oozing dead cow we discovered at the bottom of a chocolate milk waterfall on the Navajo Reservation.
The fact that my idyllic little mountain town has yielded more suicides than any of my hellish existences rocks my theories of reality and potential solutions down to mere myths of pointlessness.
I’m holding on by a thread. I need an escape.
I’m sitting, alone, in a bar where I know nobody. Leisurely participating in two of my favorite activities: singing (it’s karaoke) and writing. I’ve deprived myself of both for months, it feels.
This is almost a vacation.
It feels like I’ve only been here once before (it's been a minimum of 6 times).
I barely know anyone here.
I love this feeling.
Last weekend I went on vacation. Only first finishing my PBR paperwork at 5PM on Sunday, I got a late start. Headed up to Caesar Creek.
First stop: a convenience store. Obviously mom & pop owned, with a grill, park maps, some little tables and some strange trinkets…. Suddenly I feel at home. It feels like traveling to unknown places where noone knows your name yet kindness reeks through the humble hearts of strangers. And unique local little shops are filled with simplicity, family, and a sense of contentedness. It feels like cuddling with your best friend on quilt blankets on a stone hearth in front of a crackling fire.
I need to leave town more often.
Arriving at the trail head, I am greeted by the tail end of the Ohio Mountain Bike Association race. Fantastic surprise: their race trail markings ensure that I won’t get lost out here alone, so close to dusk.
I bought my new bike yesterday. I would love to love it, but I just can’t get over my recently lost love; still mourning.
After breaking her in, I find somewhere to camp. It smells like piss. I find somewhere else – it’s coated in broken glass. I find - three attempts later – a haven. Stars so scarce in the ‘Nati, sparkle above me. I bask in moonlight. My sleeping bag proves the perfect weight for the refreshingly brisk air. And as I doze to sleep – peacefully, for what feels like the first time in almost a year – the rain comes pouring down.
It’s 3:30 AM. I have to work at 10AM. Setting up a tent in the rain, then sitting in traffic does not seem worth it. I return to my apartment.
Eight hours.
Eight hours away from here, with no work, and no stress, and this “vacation” rivaled my month in Hawaii, in terms of healing power.
I needed it that bad.
That was a week and a half ago.
Since then, my phone died and my e-mail malfunctioned, causing me to get ridiculously behind on deadlines and paperwork and miss out on several intriguing offers. The starter in my car has gone caput, thus I've learned and over utilized the art of popping a clutch. And an old Flagstaff friend died on Sunday. He shot himself in the head. He was my fiancee in the last show I performed in at Theatrikos. We climbed "the toilet bowl" volcano together, and poked at a green oozing dead cow we discovered at the bottom of a chocolate milk waterfall on the Navajo Reservation.
The fact that my idyllic little mountain town has yielded more suicides than any of my hellish existences rocks my theories of reality and potential solutions down to mere myths of pointlessness.
I’m holding on by a thread. I need an escape.
I’m sitting, alone, in a bar where I know nobody. Leisurely participating in two of my favorite activities: singing (it’s karaoke) and writing. I’ve deprived myself of both for months, it feels.
This is almost a vacation.
posted by Lindsay at 12:41 AM
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