Head For The Hills
Last week, as I prepared to merge into yet another lane of endless traffic, I began to have a pseudo nervous breakdown. Random strings of profanity shot out of my mouth in semi-coherent sentences.
“Mother-of-goddamned-god! Is there not a square inch of land in this state where someone isn’t three inches up your rectum?”
“Aaaaah!”
“BACON lovin’ bitch-ass!”
“Snerf-Poop bastard, eating BACON off a dirty toilet seat! Yeah, you heard me, Smerf!”
It wasn’t not a pretty sight.
Enough was enough. I quickly turned off at the next off-ramp in hope of finding the nearest mental hospital. Surely they could shock me, medicate me, or, better yet, lobotomize me out of my madness. Of course, with the traffic congestion pushing me along like I was on some kind of friggin’ conveyor belt, and a very limited knowledge of the city, I had no luck finding a psychiatric ward. I was, however, moving west, deeper into town. Deeper into late afternoon, college town, congestion. And a little deeper into mad-ass-craziness. Albeit a quieter version of madness. I had kinda given myself a sore throat on Eastbound 36.
A few weeks previous a friend of mine had given me a book on Kabbalah to read. And while I wouldn’t say that I am a convert, since religion in general makes me itchy, one thought did have an impact on me.
“The Universe gives you what you need, not necessarily what you want.”
Before I knew it I was sitting in the parking lot of The Boulder Mountain Park. I quickly pulled my camera bag and tripod from the trunk and began the (tougher-than-it-looks) hike up the Amphitheater Trail. And wouldn’t ya know it, within a few yards the insanity began to dissipate. I still looked crazier’n a shit-house loon, but that was just to keep the wild predators at bay. I’d found my anti-psychotic pill in the form of pine trees, dirt and rock.
Thank you universe.
