Lack of consistency is either my finest trait or my tragic flaw. Other than going to work everyday, there is little that I do consistently. And even going to work happens with belaboured routine. I can barely make it into work for 9:30 these days… It’s probably a good thing my job whisks me away every three months. I’m getting itchy feet again. I bad mouth the travel, but the truth is that I can’t live without it. Sometimes I think that what I need is a greater degree of routine to even out my insanity and the oscillation of my moods; however, as soon as I plunk my life into a timetable, with yoga from 6-8, morning routine from 8-8:45, work from 9-5, extra-curriculars from 7-9, and reading from 9-11, I get bored, my routine gets all messed up cause I start to feel antsy. Automatically I go searching for adventure and excitement or start dreaming about the next trip and what I will learn and see and do and who I will meet and what trouble I’ll get myself into and what tropical disease I’ll survive. Pathological? Maybe. But, love me or leave me, that’s the way I am.
It’s weird, really. My folks are, all in all, pretty normal, balanced people. It’s not like I spent my entire childhood roaming the world as a diplobrat. It’s not that I lived a repressed childhood, never having experienced excitement, travel and wonder. So this need for constant exotic excitement is a real mystery for me. And, yes, it does need to be exotic, as in of a uniquely new or experimental nature. Regular ol’ Ottawa adventure just doesn’t cut it.
I used to think I was a “stop and smell the roses” kinda gal. And maybe I was as a teenager. But now I’ve evolved into a “go and document the absurd” kinda gal. Yeah, there is no continuity to what I do. No, there is nothing that ties the different pieces of my life together. My life is a farm of silos.
I have to go to Bluesfest now. I’ll write again soon.
“If it were desired to reduce man to nothing, it would be necessary only to give his work a character of uselessness”