I think I see mould growing on my body. I know it’s not, but then I’ll “see” a small blue fuzzy spot ringed with white webbing, as if I am a rind of forgotten cheddar.
I know I am not mouldy – that as a functioning human of healthy temperature, pH, metabolism, circulation and don’t forget cleanliness it is certifiably impossible to be mouldy, but the optical illusion is enough to send me teetering down a mental pathway where grinning mortality enters the ring with his jingling jumpsuit and executes a lariat takedown on my good spirits. For the love of Pete, I am alive and vigorous. Not dead and mouldering! God.
I see a spot of mould and then I start thinking of all the minute biological processes that go off without a hitch, tirelessly and unceasingly, keeping the bod alive and rarely ill, always strong. The tiny veins, the obliging cells and cheerful bones, amino acids dealt out like a deck of cards, all the bits working in tandem towards some goal I don’t understand. What is it about physical life that’s so important as to demand all this hard and careful mechanism? I am part of a miracle that i fear I’ll never properly grasp the subtleties of.
I wish these sort of mental perseverations would all coincide so I could feel shitty in one fell swoop. Maybe they could even do battle and kill each other off, if they were forced to jockey for attention all at once. Instead things are strung out so indefinitely. One day I’ll feel fine except for random bouts of panic, or feeling like a monster, then the next week I’ll feel nice and normal but the desire to eat and never stop will be on me like a tonne of bricks, and I’ll sit at my workstation literally cataloguing and obsessing over everything roasted, pulpy, crisp and hot that I could eat, if it was eating I was after. This week I’m eating well and running a lot but I’m mouldy. The thing that bothers the fuck out of me with these mental loops is it’s like some Bizarro world species of narcissism. I do get sick of thinking about myself…a not you again? sort of feeling every time the clamouring inside gets too panicky or nuts. But it’s like having a hole in your boat and trying to think about stellar navigation. You mean well but your vessel is going the fuck under if you don’t bail, bail, bail!
But!! Today I’m going off on a wee road trip so maybe that will take my mind off things. Occasionally D looks over at me, notices that I’m chewing my thumbnails off with existential terror, and suggests we jump in the car and not look back for a few days. Sure. I’d rather it was a tropical flower land I was off to but my passport still hasn’t arrived. I applied 3 weeks ago, about the same time I booked a week off from my Sisyphus stylings at the ole salt mine, hoping vaguely my timing would work out. Of course maybe my spot in the queue would have been prioritized better if, when they asked me my anticipated date of travel, I had said something more conclusive than “PROBABLY NEVER.” I was feeling trapped that day. But the icy vistas of the Pacific Cordillera will also do just fine. Destination: Banff. God, there’s a word you can look at 7 times and it still don’t look raight. Banff is up in the Rockies and I hope it is pristine as I imagine. ‘The Shining’ was filmed at the famous resort there, now owned by the Fairmont chain but formerly a flash railway baron getaway. You totally think they’d boast about ‘the Shining’ connection on their site, but nooo. Too classy for that sordid stuff, gov’nah. Instead the homepage has you looking at an innocuous cushion with a coverlet pulled snugly up to it – a mere wedge of a view that hints at, in a most understated and boring way, the undreamed-of opulence therein. So powerful that we can only show you this one cushion, from the side. Or else we’d break the Internet, with our indiluted glamour.
If it was my hotel I’d have “the twins” smiling at you from the homepage, or at least the Rates and Reservation section.
(Pop Note!: Shining twins Lisa and Louise Burns never appeared in showbiz again but did go on to get degrees in Literature and Microbiology, respectively.)
My fond conviction that they did this movie in Banff is nothing but a LIE. They did it in some dumb hotel in the States. But it is still a creepy building, is the Banff resort. Has anyone read ‘the Haunting of Hill House’? Well, it is evocative of that! All peering windows and pointy turrets. (Yes, I am committed to finding something, anything, spooky about the Banff resort to fill in the sad crater the truth has left behind.) Fortunately I do not have to make revisions or deletions to salvage my point, as I was not trying to make one, or more accurately, was not successful at doing so. Ah, blogging!