manlycornhusk's blog post - SandDollars and Sense

There's only a few redeaming qualities to the third shift lifestyle. One of them is contemplative solitude. Contemplative Solitude..sounds a little lonely, a bit introspectively dark but what it really is made authors like Jack Kerouac famous. It's that time when it's just you and the road and the road doesn't feel like talking. It's that hour drive with the radio turned off and the throaty vibration of tires on tarmac sending your thoughts off in thousands of different directions. I relish those times. Hell, I come close to blasphemous worship of those times. The road let's me clean my closeted mind, kick the cobwebs out of the corner and start with an uncluttered roadway through the weighty grey matter.

Suddenly, your vision is 20/20 again, your hearing keen edged, you skin aware of the swirl of midnight air upon it. You smell the dry goodness of crops ready for harvest. Somewhere, perhaps miles away, a woodfire burns, a skunk expresses it's dismay at discovery. The cresent moon hands heavy in the sky looking like a quartered Georgia Peach and you dream. Dream with your eyes wide open. That small part of your brain needed to keep the truck straight, busy in one corner of your head while the rest trades electrical discharges that would rival the best 4th of July fireworks. It's that precious, wide awake, vigilantly aware dreaming that has always allowed mankind to create, to astound, to come close to understanding the true meaning of life. All this and the trip has only just began.

I found myself at peace. My past swirled like a Ozian tornado until some black hole of memories drew it all in. I remembered "magic". Not the inevitable rabbit in hat magic but the virginal, unquestioning magic of childhood. It's good to know that it never really left me. It just became misplaced behind the accumulated refuse of being an adult, living in a crowded, busy world, thinking that "responsible" means no flights of fancy, no dreamy-headed philosophizing.

Santa Claus was everyone's favorite Grandfather. The Tooth Fairy has some sort of non-disclosure agreement with the San Francisco Mint. The Easter Bunny had an eye for color and Parents were mysterious gods that towered above us. The sound of the ocean in a shell, crying for it's return to some distant shore. That a prized baseball mitt really was worth a pair of beat up roller skates and a handful of marbles and everyone walked away from that trade sharing pats on the shoulder and appreciative banter for being such an astute businessman. A cold bottle of Coca Cola was a cure for sunburn, boredom, a reddened scrape on the knee and whatever adolescent distress that had come your way. "Magic"

I've come to the conclusion that my worlds magic took the lethal hit in Jr. High. Literature class, to be exact. The fodder for the fall. A slightly worn copy of "Animal Farm". Derailing my belief system...my teacher. Fresh from college, bristling with innovative intentions and laughing eyes hiding the sinister beginnings of adulthood for all of us there that day. The set up for the fall. What did you think the book was about? Simple, we opined...it was about a bunch of animals of which the horses had control issues and the pigs couldn't be trusted. Talking animals, indeed. It was almost enough to make me forget the half read copy of Mad Magazine waiting under my bed. Half a dozen of us signalled our approval for the assesment and the room quietened down as the teacher sat and looked out over our heads, her fingers tapping in perfect sychronization to the huge, round clock on the wall. The tension was palpable. Were we right? Could we congratulate ourselves on a job well done and celebrate with a breathless game of dodgeball on the recess grounds? Her eyes dropped and imprisoned our eyes and attention rushed back to the matter at hand. "No", she said. "This book is about a Communist society and how different groups interact in such a stiffling environment". Confusion, nervous shifting, raised eyebrows. What...there wasn't any Commies in the book. We all knew what a Commie looked like, their heavy coats, fur hats, the inevitable mole above their lip, their evil eyes heavy with hatred, their strange accent like someone with a popcorn hull caught in their throat. No Commies here, ma'am.

The next half hour was the beginning and the end. We learned that not everything is really what it seems. That blind faith isn't always the best policy and sometimes a horse just isn't a horse. It was in that aural pubescent moment that "magic slipped off the mantle of my life and fell behind the couch. In it's place was a glowing, neon question mark and I knew nothing would ever be the same again.

Well, sometime on that drive last night, "magic" got dragged out and deposited by a childhood pet that sometimes wanders my memories and I tripped over it on the way to the office, so to say. Cradled in my mental arms, it's smooth sides with garish carnival pictures and laughing clowns felt warm and inviting. The worn crank on the side made a long forgotten "clink" as I shifted left to right to see it's colors, it's charms. My hand found the wooden ball at its end and long forgotten instinct took over. The crank rotating, the geared clicks traveling up my arm, the music that signalled it's advancement toward a surprising finale. The tune was from long ago...Purple People Eater, the words coming back and bringing a smile. The top pops open and out jumps a deck of cards followed by a string of clothespins to fall on the floor at my feet. Is this all that's left of the magic, I exclaimed. What could it mean. The box forgotten as I picked the cards and pins up to examine them. Holding them closer, I swear I heard the burring of a motorbike zipping down a country lane. My hair flung back by the dynamic speed of my journey. An maniacal smile plastered to the front of my face and the sun teasing my forehead. Suddenly I understood what this gift was. My black hightops pushing the pedals faster and faster, the motorbike brrrr ramping up to match the flying spokes on my bicycle, I knew that the magic was back. Maybe it had never really left but what I needed to do was take those cards and pins and fasten them to the vehicle that was my life. From now on, wherever I go, whatever I do, my life would be accompanied by that stuttered roar and magic would be there.

So, SAND DOLLARS and SENSE. Nothing more magical than holding a SAND DOLLAR in your hand and marveling at it's pristine whiteness. Imagining bartering for rum and coconuts with the natives on the edge of a sandy beach. SENSE..knowing that it's not really going to happen that way. That I'm going to have to earn my money the old fashioned way..work, work, work. But, now...there's always the possibility that those aquatic treasures will leave my accounts paid in full, isn't there. So maybe magic and reality can work together. Let's hope for all our sakes.

Peace and Love and Abracadabra, Alakazaam, Presto-Chango....