Apparently all it takes to shift one's mood from apocalyptic despair to grinning mirth and optimism is a week deep in the happy confines of the Oregon Country Fair.
If you hail from the Midwest as I do, "Country Fair" conjures up images of massive produce and livestock displays, and butter sculptures, sure. Cotton candy, carnival rides (manned by suspiciously maimed personnel missing digits or hands or entire lower arms, one presumes from working with machinery with many moving parts designed solely to hurl humans about in ways only the young or mad can enjoy without puking)...squealing pigs, corn on the cob steamed and dipped in vats of melted butter, quilting demonstrations--your basic agricultural fair.
The Oregon Country Fair, is, um, nothing like that.
Like Burning Man, trying to explain it poses many problems, not the least of which is the fact that the "Real Fair" is an invitation-only private party for the 4000 or so volunteers who remain in the camps through the night. Burning Man is huge, fiery, public, MadMax. The OCF is sedate, private, hippie-hobbits in the Shire with plenty of Pipeweed and the odd mushroom bon-bon.
Point is, it pulled me back from the brink, and I remember why I love humanity, even as I plumb the depths of misanthropy.
1 comment:
Glad to hear that you found your way to the Shire and were able to reconnect with nature, with the heart, and with what's true.
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