I worked as a poll clerk yesterday, a long 14 hours of record keeping and obsessive number balancing. High-pressure counting takes a mighty toll on your mental faculties, so today there is a finite limit to my complex reasoning. When I try to think anything big, my brain just says “nope”. In all honesty, it’s a bit of a relief. And the stress from yesterday seems a little exaggerated when I remember that I only had to count 126 ballots. Not even 50% of the eligible voters turned out, which is a pretty big problem that, for today at least, I have no real solution to.

One of the more difficult elements of being an elections employee is that I had to give up political activity for the last week of the campaign. I stayed almost entirely non-partisan, letting my political opinion sit sad and unheard in the corner. The things people do for money. But now, unfettered by my promise of neutrality, I can run around town and proclaim my ideals and opinions to anyone who stops to listen.

In regards to the now completed election, I had an interesting experience with it. I cannot say that I am a devoted fan and unqualified supporter of the man who won, Premier Dalton McGuinty. He and his administration have made decisions that I don’t agree with. They show the same poorly thought out infatuation with consultants and their phantom promise of “cost-savings” that every dumb corporation does. I don’t think a hired gun gives you the right answer. They give you the answer that you want to hear, so that they can get paid quickly and get out of your office before their advice comes to fruition and blows up in your face. Outsourcing, whether production or decisions, leads to a decrease in real value.

Having said that, the overall approach and goals of the party align with my own agenda. The big two are health care and education, and an overall respect for diversity and human rights. And, to his credit, Premier McGuinty is a decent guy and a capable leader. When you include a slate of good, hardworking local candidates, my decision on who to vote for and campaign for was easy.

And the campaign itself was fascinatingly instructive, as all three major parties tried different variations of voter alienation and divisive politics,  with a very distinctive set of results. The worst result being a terrible voter turnout of 45%. That has to change, and its a problem that is much bigger than one party or one election. I still have no answers, but I ‘ll suggest educating people on the way government works at all levels would be a good place to start.

 

I get an average number of colds a year, one every 2 months I think. I know they’re going to show up at some time, and they’re going to hang around for about 2 weeks from start to finish. There’s no point in getting upset or surprised when this happens, because it’s inevitable.

I would like to think that I am not unusually soft and delicate, that I can take my fair share of physical discomfort without resorting to whimpering and pleas for mercy, but this current visit from Herr Cold is testing me.  First, there was a day of pretty intense joint pain, much more than the playful ‘achiness’ I expect. Tucking my feet underneath me and sitting that way for more than a few minutes would buy me a very uncomfortable moment of knee extending, complete with clenched teeth and difficult to suppress muttering. That passed after a day as the cold moved on to its favourite haunt, my throat and left ear. Oh, the fiery throat pain that woke me up for two consecutive nights. The throat pain has lessened considerably, though last night I discovered that Buckley’s cough syrup and a raw throat wound combine to form a napalm attack. Now, my sinuses are slowly draining, and my brain is freeing up some processor time to think about creative pursuits, and I’m spending some of that brainpower complaining here. A good use of my potential? What a rude question, hypothetical interrogator.

The intensity of this illness has shaken up my illusion of predictability. I thought I had a pretty good benchmark for the impact and severity of the average cold I might catch, but this hearty illness is working well outside of my accepted parameters. I wonder if I’m seeing the first hallmarks of age-related symptom intensification. I know, I’m not old: I’m not even 40 yet. But my 37 years of life (and 250+ pounds of weight) have been hard on my knees, and my left knee in particular is sensitive.  Stop lurking in the window, mortality! I’m busy!

I have not, nor will I ever jump out of a plane of my own volition. Nevertheless, I imagine the sensation of getting ready to jump is very much like the feeling I have right now. (My, that really sounds like I’m about to give some kind of grand revelation. Slight spoiler: I’m not.) The wide, blue sky that I’m staring into right now is chapter one of my next book.

I’ve done as much preparation as I can manage right now. Sure, there are other things I could do to get ready, but I’m getting restless, and I think that’s a good sign that it’s time to launch myself at the story.

And dwelling on other possible preparatory steps would be giving more credence to the delusion that there is an established methodology that I have to strictly follow. Oh, I’m not arguing against readiness or doing your homework, but most of the time art is more a collection of rituals and superstitions than a science. You learn, with practice, which routines encourage your creative process, and which ones have almost no return on time and effort invested.  then you reach into your juju bag, pull out a handful of spells and charms, and throw them into the cauldron. Hopefully something good bubbles up.

But enough of this second, intruding metaphor, and back to the airplane and our nervous jumper. That brave and slightly foolish adventurer is at the yawning open door, and the only choice left is jump or quit.  So he steps forward into the air. Though he’s pretty sure that the jump will go according to plan, and he’ll end up safe on the ground, there’s still fear. That’s the same fear I have right now: that I’ll jump into chapter one and halfway down my parachute will detach and flutter away, sending me hurtling to the literary earth as a bad art dirt torpedo.

I know that I’ll learn a whole lot from the experience, even if it goes terribly. And despite the cold feet, I’m going to jump, but I really hope I don’t end up landing in a field full of cow patties