The more life appears out of control the greater the need for zen life lesson known as MINI GOLF (or putt-putt golf to the Europeans). This is the beauty of mini golf: You face endless obstacles, becoming more and more absurd; actual skill is often a handicap, you have no idea of whether you are doing well or what a good score might be, even if you do exceptionally well it is impossible to brag about and at the end of the day, it achieves nothing as your ball disappears forever at the 18th hole. It is the essential span and lessons of life engaged and then forgotten in under an hour.
Still being car deprived, Linda found a bike path that took us to an 18 hole spiritual center called “Mattick’s Farm Mini Golf.” We are currently in that post-move state which involves a lot of deprivation: no car, no TV, no bed, no matching furniture, not many utensils. We like to pretend that we are making some sort of conscious life choice instead of just being poor. I guess not getting massively into debt IS a life choice.
The bike trail undulated through the hills and forest of lower Vancouver island, with occasional hazards of giant mounds of horse poop from the horse riders. But it was shady, and scenic, with ocean views at times, along with the sweet smell of fir, pine and blackberries. It ended at a rural/suburban center in which cradled the flower of middle class heterosexual lifestyle. While everyone stared at the purple haired giant bike riding lesbo with her rainbow bracelets, we overheard conversations of trust funds, whether Ted and Betty would be joining the country club and how a woman facing retirement could make sure the husband wouldn’t suddenly divorce her and take the condo at Whistler. Linda and I felt decidedly out of place. Two hours earlier, in our “alternative” part of town, a shirtless guy, high on something, stumbled down the street after me screaming “Baby!!! Oh baby!!” followed a few minutes later by a 70+ year old guy who told us that he came to this part of town for the good looking girls, and we were the best he had seen today. As “traditional” nuclear families pushed passed us, keeping the children out of arm’s reach, I wondered if this was a place for me. Soon after, a 20-something cute girl, wearing a gummy bear as a necklace, told me she like my purple, I smiled and then she handed me a putter.
As for the actual game, it is hard to comment. I was the only person in the party to get a hole in one, but then, it was a hole in one at MINI GOLF. Plus, I actually missed what I was shooting for, bounced off a lot of other things and ended up in the hole. Success was a random accident when skill went totally wrong; you see how great a microcosm of life this is? It seemed that this particular mini golf course was a bit low budget since many of the obstacles were large rocks. I live on the top of a mountain range rising out of the sea, so large rocks are pretty common. I was sort of hoping to avoid monsters, or fiendish traps; to have my struggles on the course tinged with mythic, perhaps even heroic elements. The other main obstacles were cement logs. What legend drawn from the heroic myths talks of a hero bounced off her course because she keeps hitting giant boulders? Oh well, I learned many life lessons out there; just me, the purple ball matching my hair, the putter and lots of rocks and logs. I probably should have written them down because later we drank champagne while watching British mysteries on DVD and cuddled like two squirrels in a jar of peanut butter. All my zen observations from the course like “pounding the ground with your club in frustration does not make your ball go through the cement toadstools any faster” are now muddled with the memory of trying to find and kiss all of Linda’s peach fuzz. That might be a life lesson all on its own.
3 hours ago