“You are in a Cube. Each of its four walls has a door. You want to get out. Which door do you choose?”
One of the new wwoofers asked you this question in the Newtown pub, over pints. The cube is a metaphor for life.
You said that you would stay put. That remaining in the cube would signify acceptance of your reality–your universe–your life. Trying to escape it would be a fruitless endeavor. There was nothing better beyond any of the doors.
You’re pretty sure that wasn’t what she had in mind. “You wouldn’t be curious? You know there are doors. You know there is something beyond each one. Why would you stay in the cube?”
Manon suggested that you open each door, peer out, and weigh your options.
Since you’ve seen the horror movie Cube, you know that beyond each door is yet another cube, and then yet another, in an ever-shifting matrix of permutations–possibilities. None of which are any more satisfying that the original cube.
But that’s only because you’ve seen the film. Julia didn’t know anything about this film.
She continued to push you for an answer. You said, “Fine. I would close my eyes, spin around blindly, open my eyes and bolt toward the first door. Then I would crash through all the subsequent doors with no thought to a pattern. I would make my route as chaotic as possible. At least that way, when I run out of energy, my resulting universe is one of chance and chaos, and not one of unsatisfactory design.”
You won’t say that’s what you’re doing. Not on the surface. But certainly your choice of doors seems more chaotic than the choices of others.
Door # 1) New Year’s Eve; 4 Leffes, 1/3 bottle of white wine, something fruity, vodka and diet coke, and a couple ounces of tequila; rendered rather ill on a mountain of furniture behind speakers blasting the music of a terrible live band; after living 4 weeks in the healthiest place on Earth.
Door # 2) Twisted Pepper; a small bottle of whiskey, one beer, a yip, and half a dozen fags, a couple of hot guys who ended up being interested in each other, one very long car ride, an abandoned house, blue lines, and some guy nibbling on your knuckles because he needed to touch someone.
Door # 3) Waterford; a pub; Irish car bombs; another pub; a free drink; photo shoot; the gay bar; pole dancing and outrageous head-banging; 3 pints of water–enough to make you want to cry; a frustrating middle-of-the-night ordeal in which you tried in vain to put your coat on, thinking it was your trousers.
Door # 4) Opened, but the threshold has not been crossed. In the next room, you see an ayahuasca ceremony, and yourself vomiting into a bucket as the Truth unveils itself.
Door # 5) Three days in London.
Door # 6) Aimless wandering in Greece.