KIMBERLY'S CUPCAKES: THE REAL MEANING OF LIFE

Today is drizzmal. 

  

Since there is no practical sense for the packing of a wet pencil to an agrarian market, even though the moisture makes the veggies glisten, the soggy sketches are not worth the trip.   

There will be no busking today, neither sketching nor strumming, and for an abecedarian such as myself, today definitely shouts Plan W – a simple plan of woolgathering. 

Woolgathering gives excuse for me writing more bildungsroman blog entries, such as the one you are right now reading.  Capricious as this may seem, I do spend considerable time contemplating the perfect snappy title for each of my blog entries.

KIMBERLY’S CUPCAKES:  THE REAL MEANING OF LIFE jumped at me on Friday, whilst we (Darren, from Phantom Tide, and self) were grilling pork kabobs for our colleagues, one of my favorite, favorite colleagues, Kimberly, brought some home-baked cupcakes for the occasion.  And I speaketh for everyone when I proclaim that I love Kimberly and I love her cupcakes! EVERYONE LOVES KIMBERLY and EVERYONE LOVES HER CUPCAKES!

Woolgathering, I’ve decided I need to be more than just a dilettante in the art of Buskology.  I need to be more than a faux busker.  I need to put myself, a vulnerable creature, in a dangerous situation.  I need to sell everything; my soul and Acura ILX included, and hit the street as a bona fide busker.

Hmmm … how could this happen? How could I survive such a cheeseparing and cockamamy circumstance?  What would I do for money?  Where would I do for shelter?

Hmmm … I will tell you how this could happen.  I would do well on the busk.  My consumers tend to be munificent, especially on windless and sun-shiny days.  Easily, in a six hour sketch or strum day, I could take in a hundred or more dollars.

Hmmm … I will tell you how this could happen.  I do not fancy myself as being a troglodyte cowering in a cave or sleeping under a bridge, but rather one who could reside in a broom closet.  I only need a place to shower and make a cup of tea, with storage suffice only for a guitar and a pencil.  (Really, how much space does a pencil take up?)

Hmmm … I will tell you how this could happen.  Simply I would evanesce alone into the sunset, slinging only my guitar and harp, my pencil and sketchpad, and a duffel of clothes and toiletries.  I would travel light and in solitude.

Hmmm … I will tell you how this could happen.  It must happen.  I’ve been a professional and certified BUSKOLOGIST for a long time, always writing and philosophizing, never doing.   

DAMN!  IT IS TIME!

I have the credentials!  I have a cache of original songs to strum and sing;  I’ve a stash of pencil portraits from real life characters.  I am a recognized guitar slinger and, as of late, a recognized pencil pusher of life-like portraitures.  

I am more than a strikingly handsome goldbrick.  I have a history of busking success! 

Hmmm … I will tell you how this could happen.  I shall leave my three viewbicles, my regular full-time counselling and my regular part-time university teaching and my private practice.  I shall leave my hausfrau, and I shall leave my amigos.  I shall leave, leave, leave and later reckon with, I’m sure, my zero-sum experience.

Hmmm … I will tell you how this could happen.  The very notion of busking on the streets of Canada and America and Western Europe, and breaking only for the sipping of  American decafs (with just a dram of cream) on the curbs of Canada and America and Western Europe, eating daily lunches fresh from the farmers’ markets of Canada and America and Europe, never again wearing that Windsor-knot tie that symbolizes my used-to-be workaday world from 8 until 5, never again having to keep up with the Joneses, never again having to plan and budget for vacations (because the rest of my life would be a vacation, a buskation, a laissez-faire end-of-life adventure, that would fructify things meaningful for me).

Hmmm … I will tell you how this could happen.  I would relish the cornucopia of people encounters, the coffee shops, the curbs lunches, and the girls, the enchantresses, the femme fatales, the houris.

Hmmm … this is a lifestyle decision to leave my money for the real meaning in life.

Hmmm … such a go takes mettle.

Hmmm … though I know in my heart that my competence as a busker will prevail, and that my life as busker will never be narrow like my macedoine middle class misadventures to date, I’m having second thoughts!

Hmmm … I am ever so slowly learning the game of life, the meaning of life.

Hmmm … really, all I want to be in life is a trustworthy person who plays nice with others.

(And speaking of playing nice, here some of the characters (actual colleagues) in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE this week:)

JENN

RENEE

RONA

Hmmm … as I wake from my woolgathering all my boustrophedon notions are, in realty, just braggadocio bluster.  I’ll not be leaving my lady.  I’ll not be leaving my lecturn.  I’ll not be leaving my profession.  I’ll not be leaving my penthouse.

Hmmm … life is really about building relationships.

Hmmm … life is never better than when I am eating KIMBERLY’S CUPCAPES! 

Hmmm … the meaning of life is simple!

Hmmm … Ah ... Kimberly’s cupcakes – the real meaning of life.

Kimberly’s cupcakes are morsels delicious, delicious, delicious … and Kimberly herself in the flesh ... 
is even moreso delicious, delicious, delicious.

KIMBERLY IN THE FLESH!