Recycle this. It’s Karma Yoga.

I wore prison orange.

Yup, sure did. Wore the shirt, did the time.

According to the VOR1ZO owner, it was all good, all God. Karma yoga, she said.
Karma Yoga if you aren’t getting paid. (Sorry Yadge, better luck next time?)

I went headlong and heartstrong into service. Not that I had a choice. I had the cloppers.
We sell those things, you know. Those things picker uppers that I joked about being fool-fodder for the: “elder population.”
I never thought I’d be using them on my vacation, though. They ARE good for grabbing shit. I mention this as an aside to any elder folk in my blogging midst.

(I call ’em “cloppers,” because they make a clopping sound when I squeeze them.)

To be continued…I hafta go do my OTHER job this week…

…Continuing now.

So yeah, I went back to my rootishness. Is rootishness a word? Nope. Hell nope. Too bad. I made it up, y’all.

I wasn’t actually squeezed out in Vancouver or its sisters, but I DID grow most of my limbs and character and rebellion there.

I met my (this life and a zillion past) woman there in ’84. Well, she met me, to be truthful. I had no idea I would skid to a screeching halt (the Kramer, to any Seinfeld fans) in the presence of an amazingly drool inducing beauty on that summery day. But it WAS she who made the first move…all over a bug, too. A centipede. She was wearing a dress but had leather gloves on. God! I shoulda known…Hindsight isn’t given enough sreet cred. And I’m a dumass for fallin’…

There’s obviously lotsa history that I could go on and out and ’round about. But I’ll leave that for a more ambitious day.

I wore prison orange joyfully. I even bought the t-shirt. How 20th century cliche is that? It wasn’t free, despite picking it up in an adjacent building to the, “free store, a la Hornby.”

You who know me, know my lot in this here; “career-world.” You know my daily strife and bitchings and successes and “Hell-yeahs.” You’ve heard or read or suffered or have been subjected to firsthand my agonies and heartaches and attempts at all things leader.
But it was oh so comforting to be there, just then. No subordinates, no questions or assignments, no fires to extinguish, no gadget of the month to push. No p/l’s to study, no managers to analyze. Nobody to shine for, no wrinkle to iron. No people to direct, no money to earn. No million zillion calls, on this media or that device.

Nope. Just Yadge. Just me. Just my cloppers and my wits and my good nature and my spirit and my senses and my keen eye for cig butts and puke in a coffee can. (She hadta take that one for me, y’all. Gross-o-rama.)

Ever smelled/seen/felt/embraced the Pacific Ocean? If you answer no, I would recommend it. Strongly.
You just haven’t lived until you have traversed awkwardly, a woody, rocky, kelp-ish beach. Until you’ve seen a man row his future wife in a pristine skiff up to the shore and escort her and their dogs to the altar.

It smells like Heaven, if’n Heaven has a scent.
It’s raw and strong and poeticly charming. It appeals to my nostalgic mind and senses, so totally unfucked with…you’ll be amazed. As am I. Every time I’m close.

A pod of orcas swam by during the wedded bliss. I’ve never seen them in the wild. Neither had many Hornby residents, as it turns out. God’s version of the Blue Angels, I muttered…

But on to the chores of the unwed and unrich…

I clopped for her. Because she needed, wanted me to. But really, I gotta say, I clopped for me. I felt sooooo filled up, so fulfilled, those 10 days with her. Those days and hours and precious moments that I spent lingering over dogs and ducks and slugs and frogs and flowers and showers. And yes, Her.

I know I’m going back. Sooner this time. Not so much later. I hope she’ll have me. But hear me y’all…I WAS on my very best behaviour (Canadian spelling for Canadian readers). We’ll see how it is the next time…

I wore prison orange, the color that, here in Americaland, defines our limitations to move about the cabin of freedom with a semblance of ease.

But I was closer to freedom than ever. I touched it, even.

And that, my friends, makes it all so very much worthwhile for me.

This entry was posted on Saturday, September 8th, 2007 at 9:56 am and is filed under Yadge. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.