ESCAPISM AND THE MOTLEY FOOL ESCAPISM AND THE MOTLEY FOOL We move even when we don’t.
You’re a track star and I’m the winded sprinter. We all run races.
Oftentimes, going at top speeds toward abstract goals, obscure loves, indefinite pursuits, we forget to breathe. For me, when the rigors of life gnaw away at my insides to the atrophying point, I stop mid-stride, find a welcoming patch of soft grass in which to rest my carcass, and chill. Time Out.
Ahh, cruising on mental overdrive, I then restore stasis inside the workings of my inner-cosmos by inhaling copious amounts of quality air, free. No lactic-acid formation for me, thanks. Blacking-out into the speckled void from lack of oxygen just isn’t my bag.
And yet still, my lungs scream.
Hello, my name is Kris, and I…I’m an Escapist.
Depending on circumstance and psychosis, I implement Escapism in sundry ways.
I transcend daily discord and reclaim inner composure via:
Reality: that short-lived interval between successive naps.
There's nothing quite so deelish as a decadent siesta in deep afternoon, when the otherwise automatic task of keeping one's leadened eyelids open becomes Herculean in its strain. During this past scholastic year, morning classes from 9-12 comprised my schedule, leaving my nap-friendly afternoons free for indulgent siestas.
Cat naps, under-the-cushy-covers naps, weepy naps, overly-stressed-and-strung-out naps, guilt-free naps, mid-lecture naps, narcoleptic naps, dream-laden naps, I-WANT-TO-DIG-A-HOLE-AND-CRAWL-INTO-IT naps, pell-mell naps, beach naps, grass naps, and/or dulcet naps, the range of unconsciousness runs an expansive gamut of micro-slumber mannerism.
At the helm of my deep blue Civic, I call the shots --- Captain Kris, the haphazard transient. Especially on those distinctively citrus-flavored days of listless summer when the azure sky and the aquamarine ocean kiss at the vanishing horizon, I love cruising along Ft. Lauderdale’s strip of A1A boulevard with tinted-windows rolled down, music turned up, Jackie-O shades on, wind-blown hair gone askew. Enveloped in comforting sunshine, I inhale emphatically the keen sea air mixed with raw scents of coconut sunscreen and beam. It’s no wonder this mode of escapism revs my engine!
Writing is my ultimate passion. Instead of bones linked by ligaments, words strung into sentences compose my physique. I am irregular verb amidst page of common nouns and prosaic adjectives. I ingest, digest, defecate literature and the like.
By penning to paper wayward musings, dissonant quips, hodgepodge poetry, I give release to the unrelenting neural impulses flailing my cranium. I’ve found if left un-defused, emotional bombs detonate spasmodically. To keep the gray matter in my cerebrum from imploding, I explode by means of creative output.
Without music with which to buoy my psyche, I’d sink beyond the depths of sanity-saving seas. When driving, I’m the expressive figure you see vocalizing to muted music in the corner of your rearview mirror. No shame, here. In fact, as a wannabe diva, heh, it’s my job to amuse otherwise bored motorists stuck in bee-line traffic on I-95. In this lyrical way, at the expense of self-consciousness, I escape.
Synergy, dancers call it: the all-consuming fluid movement of limbs, soul, rhythms.
Liberating, titillating, and down-right fun, dancing is both pleasurable and beneficial to a spent soul. Whenever racy music fills the aural cavities of my mind, an impulsive desire to rouse my head, my neck, my shoulders, my arms, my torso, my legs, my feet to the throbbing pulse of raw beat overwhelms my anima.
Whether executed in a hot club on South Beach, at your cousin Skylar's wedding, with a group of dippy friends, or in front of your bedroom mirror, the act of getting one's groove on makes for entertaining escapism.
