mental vacancy, part two

It all started on Thanksgiving, five days ago. The winter’s chill of giving thanks, alone. How can you (one) talk cogently about mental illness when you don’t have it? Probably. I cannot speak cogently about my life growing up in Lincoln, Nebraska, cause I didn’t. I did, though, fly on my bike down Lincoln Hill in my hometown close by old Cape Cod.

I’ve always liked this image of men in white suits (it’s always men) coming with their butterfly nets to catch the mentally ill. Think the 1966 song, “They’re coming to take me away, ha-haa.” To the funny farm – something of a warm and fuzzy glow juxtaposed to all the bricked state hospitals throughout the land. Cows and chickens laughing it up.

And what’s all this about? I couldn’t tell you. Perhaps, as John Tarrant Roshi said once – “When you take the position of host you know the guests are arriving, and you get to treat them with courtesy.” Something like that. Butterfly nets, bicycles, laughing chickens.

And last Friday I was scheduled to work and I was paid time and a half and I’m lucky I have a job that’s mostly fun in which I get to say “Welcome” over and over – saving the planet little by slow. And I’d still rather not work, I’d rather lol around and dawdle through the day. Go outside for a while and just smile.