I’m a project-oriented person. Life isn’t about philosophy, religion, politics, economy–unless those subjects are related to the current project. In fact, you’ll be enlightened to know that this blog post is simply one of my smaller, nested projects in a day of projects. At a certain point, though, life isn’t about small, nested projects. It’s about a larger, overarching project that tastes like rain on my tongue. I can’t exactly describe it to you because I don’t know what it is. Until I know, I replace it with large projects such as earning degrees or writing books that satisfy my need for projects, albeit not entirely.
As that one ultimate project eludes me, my farce at filling in the gaps fails me at times, and I become scattered, not certain where to focus my attention. Nothing matters, you see. Everything is meaningless except that elusive distant project I can’t put my finger on. This is when it’s necessary to take on what I like to call Project Whimsy. Life is absurd. Humans are absurd. Nobody makes sense. Human vision is covered by a web of irrationalities that most of us pretend to be able to penetrate. Not surprisingly, those who suppress their emotions are the least aware of how irrational they are. They don’t understand that suppressing emotions or being, as pop/pseudo science would call it, left-brained doesn’t always correlate to being rational. Men are famous for putting on this pretense, but women will also wear it and pretend their post-enlightenment dresses aren’t shaped in that draping way that Mr. Darcy finds attractive (Mr. Darcy being a prime example of an unemotional male who pretends to be rational).
Project Whimsy isn’t a project with a plan, so much as it is The Plan to Ditch All Plans. In my childhood years, my elder sister Jenny often left me out of her plans (as one would expect), but when we were young adults, we swung full force into Project Whimsy–at my insistence. Most of the time, I had to drag her into my attempts at spontaneity, which were carefully planned out. That may sound paradoxical to you, and, well, I don’t have an excuse. I had notions of what it meant to be whimsical, and I needed to fulfill them. Coffee, as a notion, was a prime whimsical beverage. In my head, I knew what a whimsical coffeehouse looked like: it was down a country back road, had windows adorned by checked curtains in red or blue, and if I peered through the gaps in the curtains, I would spy pies that were so sloppily homey their heaping pie tins would be barely covered by slipping crusts.
I had seen a cafe such as this along Highway 26 from McMinnville to Seaside, and I had determined that Jenny and I would go there together when she deigned to visit me at Linfield College. We would be whimsical. We would have to rely on whimsy because neither of us owned vehicles, and the buses didn’t run in that direction. And so, in the settled heat of a summer evening–the kind of resonant heat that resembles deep dish pie–we set about to walk several miles in hopes we would find pie and coffee and maybe other delicacies, such as sandwiches filled with thick slices of meat. I had no idea what was on the actual menu, aside from the sloppy pies I’d glimpsed one time through the window. But that was part of the fun–the finding out how terrible or lovely a cafe with checked window curtains is.
As we passed the rolling hills of Oregon’s wine country, we sang our favorite songs. We could feign a carefree spirit even if neither of us actually possessed it. My sister does to some extent–as in, she chooses to remain positive–but she also has a strong sense of responsibility that prevents her from being too adventurous. Together, I suspect we’re a sorry crew, but we did manage to entertain ourselves by skipping and dancing up the highway for mile upon mile, until we were utterly exhausted–at which point, we stumbled across the cafe with its empty parking lot. When I say empty, I mean dismally empty. I mean that a state of emptiness hung over the dark ramshackle building that, in my imagination, was bustling with a clatter of coffee cups and the fragrance of blueberries baked in crust. It wasn’t simply closed. The cafe had been closed for quite some time. The windows were dark, and a newspaper article about their closing, dated two months back, was taped so that it was visible in the gap of the checked curtains.
We mulled over our options. It was now almost completely dark. We couldn’t go forward; walking farther away from McMinnville along the highway would be devastating once we had to trudge back. There was only one answer, and that was to turn around with our stomachs empty and hope our strength held out until we arrived back at the Linfield campus, where I might have had a can of tuna in my room. Thankfully, after we navigated a third of the miles, a couple in an Oldsmobile offered us a ride. They dropped us at the Shari’s Diner in McMinnville, where we drank acrid coffee by the side of bland sandwiches and onion rings, all of which tasted like heaven when pitted against the gnawing hunger ever-present in skinny girls who have walked for miles in the shade of summer trees.
That particular Project Whimsy didn’t work out as I had planned, and that’s exactly why I hate spontaneity. Of course, my husband, who is truly spontaneous, accepts that spontaneity will never meet planned expectations. That’s kind of the point. I suspect, even after all these years, I have a lot to learn about projects, projections, and whimsy. In any case, I’m half crazy today because this nested blog post project doesn’t at all resemble the ultimate project, the one that still waits for description like the taste of rain.