photo by Greg Vineyard
And the Special in the Everyday
I recently tore myself away from re-watching the Star Wars series (because I needed some power converters!) to join friends at the Buncombe County Fair, a venue I had not attended since I was a tourist.
The 1950s timelessness of the fair is barely breached by 21st century clues, like how everyone’s holding a cell phone. Amidst the calliope music, there’s kids clutching ride tickets, people throwing round objects at small objects in order to win large objects, farm animal judging, food on sticks, kids shrieking on rides. And there’s a certain look to a Funnel Cake stand that is akin to the glow of a Vegas casino.
Even though I associate these things with my childhood, it looked this way in my father’s time, too. All senses are engaged; one of my main visual takeaways are the rows of lights on everything. Around the words “Funnel Cake” are bulbs that look like they could direct planes landing on runways in heavy fog.
The very few rides I could watch or be convinced to go on heightened my senses, as well. If you are like me – and by this I mean you are TERRIFIED of heights – even the simple Ferris Wheel is a Spinning Disc of Angst. However, because I ever-strive to be just slightly not That Guy, I got in line. You know that moment when it crests the top and you can’t see anything but the horizon? It’s pretty awesome. And then there was… The Cyclops.
My adventurism must have been bolstered by a huge, sugary, lemonade made by a person who lived and worked inside a giant, lidded lemon (“Citrus-ella”? “Hansel & Gretal-Ade”?). The Cyclops is a giant, 25-person-snaring, hovering claw that spins, swings and hits a spot in the stratosphere where, I’m pretty sure, planes try to avoid it.
As it reached that point where I thought I was going to die (although I was admirably stoic), I suddenly entered that mental space somewhere between extreme anxiety and caring not a hoot, living a lifetime in a moment of floating weightlessness. As time froze for a second, I looked down toward the ground, and everything was crystal-clear, like an old snapshot.
That zone is kinda the same space I go into when doing things I love to do. Many artists describe a loss of a sense of time, where one even forgets to eat (Although that part is rare for me. What can I say, I like snacks.). I believe this happens in any profession, hobby or passion. It’s like creative time travel.
The fair reminded me that seeking stimuli can help us to push the edges a bit now and then, where we find these regions by being thrown (screaming) into them. Terror transforming into acceptance of one’s fate has a useful elegance: you tap into something fleeting, and special. Sometimes it takes a few gyrations of a crazy mechanical gadget to get to that point.
Is the chasing of extremes worth it? Perhaps now and then, but since the fair only comes to town once a year, it’s also key to seek out the special in the everyday. Infrequent pinnacle experiences can accentuate the chasms between manufactured highs. So, finding joy in daily, small moments is important fuel, too.
A cashiers’ friendly chatter, that weird rabbit that’s always in my driveway, seeing somebody doing a good deed… anything encountered in a day can trigger bliss and serenity that’s as thrilling a feeling as The Cyclops. They are the rides in our minds.
The timelessness of the fair tells me we can transcend fixed points in time, and enter our creative worlds by leaning into sense-memories as we gaze upon the next blank sheet of paper. But it does help to brave the Ferris Wheel once in a while. And, besides, you can see ALL the Funnel Cake stands from up there.