Daredevil


Practical is my middle name. (Actually it’s Leigh, rhymes with ‘see’, but you know what I mean.)

I am not the person that you would mistake for the impulsive daredevil. Don’t get me wrong I crave adventure like the rest of us crazy Americans. Ok, maybe crave is a strong word.

Adventure is over-rated. We need more stability and predictability in our lives. Stop it with the drop-of-a-hat body piercings and half-body tattoos. Enough is enough.

The cure to all these excessively showy displays is writing. In particular creative writing. Kids today (that includes you 40-something kid/person reading these posts) can find inner satisfaction by writing about aforementioned dastardly deeds.

Don’t experiment with smoking weed; create a character who’s a pot head. Don’t get a (regrettable) picture of a lotus flower inked across your ample breasts; write about the grandmother who leaves her job at the Wal-Mart to start a band called Lotus Mama.

The possibilities are endless. Why do it when you can write about it?

Ok. I’m kidding of course. Well, sort of.

I do wonder though if there is some truth to my conjecture. Could it be that some of our Western fixation  with edgy outward extremes is a symptom of our  dissatisfaction with what we consider boring fulfilling lives? Lives that long to do something beautiful and unforgettable. Lives crying out to make a mark.

I make my mark in the predictable world an an engineer. But I also venture out (on impulse even) into the worlds of paint and prose. Both worlds feed the daredevil in me. Even a daredevil needs gravity.

How about you? What fine line are you walking along?

 


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