You Think Too Much

I have a shoe tied around my neck!!

And dolly dresses around my ankles!!!

God knows what's on my head. I'm not sure if this is a picture of'desperation' or 'creativity.'

I look happy.
My sister looks sort of embarrassed but also a little as though she's thankful that she's the only one who sees the lunacy in any of this. Likely because this type of behavior fit in seemlessly with the other dysfunctional activities that regularly took place in our house.
Shhh. . . . no body is going to notice.

Maybe 'pathetic' is funny. The again, maybe it was just simple fun being very silly. Somewhere I lost the ability to do this. If I knew where, I'd rush back to retrieve it. These days, I long for hours where I could simply tie a shoe around my neck and be blissfully happy and simultaneously proud of my creativity.

I'm sure that the reason why I appear so happy is that I didn't take the time to consider how silly my choice of entertainment actually was. I didn't consider what anyone else might think about wearing tiny pink dresses around my ankles and over my pajamas. I didn't stop to consider whether or not the shoe tied around my neck looked enough like an amulet to pass as one or that my sleeveless frock would only be wearable if placed on backward. None of this mattered to me in the slightest. What I cared about was that what I was doing worked for me. I was having a good time.

In some ways, I'm still this little girl who simply doesn't take the time to consider too thoroughly what other people might think about her ideas. I know some of them are. . .   well, they're far-fetched. I know they're not always popular. They definately do not offer a good representation of any conventional approach to problems solving. I understand that if I explained them beforehand in an attempt to make them more universally rational - I would fail and likely create even more skepticism. This is what usually happens - these days.

As an adult, I've tried to play with real props and use them only in the manner for which they were intended. I've had to. Social conventions have demanded it of me. It certainly isn't as much fun as finding my own way to solve problems. These days, looking for a new job or trying to drastically change my career path  is difficult to determine under the most practical and defined of circumstances. My approach is definitely not conventional. I know. Even if I did explain it, you wouldn't understand completely or be entirely convinced that my plan might work; nevermind be achieveable. The only thing I can tell you is; trust me. It's going to work out.
And look!
Shoes tied around your neck can work.
And they make me happy. Isn't that the real goal?

Pyro

I haven't written too much about my Dad. He was industrious - well, maybe more like ADD -, creative in his own way, (which was usually the result of a great deal of frugality) and patient with every one's children except his own. He loved to have fun even though he always felt guilty about it afterward and had a sweet tooth the size of the Matterhorn. He's still all of these things. However, the trait that defines him best, captures his reckless side, involves his benevolent faith that he is always protected by a higher power and excites his still juvenile sense of adventure is his pyromania.
Fire has always been my father's companion. His philosophy can be summed up as, "When it doubt, burn it. When it's in your way, set it ablaze. When you need a little cheer, light it up. When you're bored, burn something and watch the literal incarnation of "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Purify it with fire."

I mean seriously, who else lights his child's first birthday cake with a blow torch? Why else would someone use gasoline to light a barbecue - all the time and as a matter of practice as opposed to desperation? There was the motor oil on the snowy logs in the fireplace ("just to get them going"). Every fall, huge piles of brush and leaves begged for incineration. And part of me still believes that the only reason we moved to a new house in the late 70s was that the new house had an incinerator in the basement and a yard big enough to build a fire pit. He didn't really care if it was illegal - that was interpreted as a technicality that couldn't be meant for him.

The funniest thing about this picture is that this isn't the only one. There are more. Loads of them. He still loves fire and will disregard almost any neighborhood regulation or city ordinance if it means he gets to or wants to light things on fire.
Once, when we were on vacation in another country we stayed at a place that had tiny beach cabins, picnic tables and fire pits by the lake shore. The only thing that the campground didn't come with was ready fire wood. In his desperation, he decided that one of the picnic tables was dangerous. 'Someone might get hurt', he said. It had to be burned. Of course, he had to rip it apart before the pieces would fit in the fire pit. He happened to have brought a saw along. Apparently, this wasn't an issue either. So we cooked our dinner that evening by burning the picnic table - we ate our dinner from the other one. Thank God there was alcohol and no other guests.