Ricochet Roller Coaster
My sister used to call me Ricochet Rabbit when I was a wee lad. These days I feel more like Ricochet Roller Coaster or something.
Perhaps it’s just me feeling I constantly have to play catch-up to events being rearranged, goal posts forever being moved hither and dither and the best-laid plans of mice and men as well as me myself and I, seeming at one point to be fairly robust and promising, yet when I turn back to them a fragment of time later, these potential brilliant plans, designs and contingencies appear to be nothing more than mere vapour trails.
So many handfuls of puffs of smoke – still eerily evocative of an ever so distant impression something of note might once have been connected to this particular lingering sensation.
Yesterday I felt so good. Yet today is another harrowing deep dive exploration of the Abyss with at least more than one pair of eyes staring back at me (..)
Someone mentioned the word comfort zone, and it only occurred to me much later that, in fact, I would give anything for a comfort zone. What do they look like? Where can you get one of those?
As my radius is bound to once again decrease in scope for a while, due to my driver’s licence being suspended for the nest six months, my daily bothering of ‘the nice real people with actual lives’ will have to be re-focused more towards Terrigal and that section of my street as the dazzling lights of Wamberal CBD are much harder to access for those on foot or using the bus.
(However, the silver lining is that it’s a bonus for me to think some of the lovely people working in this little hospitable precinct will be able to enjoy a much deserved Ricardian holiday.)
The closest I feel I ever may have come to being able to relax into a semblance of reassurance and tranquillity, was during some memorable long-haul flights. I simply loved that ephemeral in-between sensation of having left one place while not yet having arrived anywhere else.
In a funny way, it seemed to be my natural habitat.
One could call it a vacuum, limbo or a hiatus, I suppose. To me, it was sanctuary, here at least for a few hours, ‘they’ couldn’t grab hold of me, not even Mr. Bloody Parkinson’s himself.