Out of Fun

  The sign at the Amusement Park’s locked gate was a ragged section of cardboard. The message, scribbled in grease pencil by most likely a workman, read Closed for Repares; tucked haphazardly at an angle in the chain linked fence, clearly placed there as an afterthought. Yeah, I got the closed part by the presence of the five pound master lock dangling on the thirty pounds of  linked steel chain; can’t put too much security on an amusement parks don’t you know; wouldn’t want any of that fun leaking out into the real world.

  They could have announced it in the local papers; or their website; perhaps they did, if I had bothered to go check after I made my purchase.  But that’d be living with anticipation for failure and I knew from experience, once you adopt a life of that way of thinking, you’re forever scanning the horizon for missiles.  My psychology professors would say that was ‘pronounced neurotics’ and adopting such a disposition could lead eventually into general anxiety disorder; in the profession they shy away from certainties such as ‘would’ or ‘always.’ They’re wise in that way; keeping from assuring any behavior is anything beyond unpredictable; psychologist are famous for concluding their research on dispositions with ‘it depends’. 

  I never even imagined as a kid that fun would be something I had to work at.  That’s all I was looking for; and frankly, I suspected reaching into my childhood memory for amusement parks being the home of fun was in fact, a desperate move; but sometimes we can find ourselves desperate. So as I said, the cardboard sign informed me of my error in expectation and I was going to have to keep on searching…elsewhere.

  Never mind the refund, I want my excitement back; and that’s not the same as the rush-to-combat instinct when feeling wronged.  I want to feel that thrill of excitement inculcated into the unexpected; yeah, that’s what we call,

Fun.

  I was draped in fun as a boy; I wore it every day I can remember. It was part of the dust on my cheeks; the dirt under my nails; the loam in my hair.  My turn signals were the collected scabs on my knees and toes.  I was never out of breath for fun; I was never at a loss for vigor to chase after it.  My friend Billy Brown and I tucked our shits down into our cut offs then shoveled playground sand down our collars; it made our midsections looked thick as fifty year old men.  I saw him the other day, looks like the sand came to stay this time.  In the wake of that chuckle was another time we were almost arrested for trespass when we kicked up so much dust in a farmer’s field he came out with his shovel to put out what he thought was a wild fire.  He threatened to tell our parents, but couldn’t remain too stern seeing we were totally covered head to bare feet in red dirt.  I guess he figured we’d catch heck enough for showing up home looking like run away dogs; which each of us did. 

But all of that doesn’t matter now, finding an amusement takes more effort than it did back then.  I need more than a box to get my creative juices perking.  There are too many concerns in the way for abandonment to capture me into the fun zone today. And as anyone familiar with fun can tell you.  Letting go of concerns is requisite for fun to blossom.