I honestly don’t feel very nice when I don’t get my own way. It can, at times, make me feel downright hateful: as though the lumpish dark coal that is my heart-center is squeezing the bile out of my liver which flows around the far corners of the world.
As I am getting older, I’m finding myself more drawn to these odd character-acting charades and reenactments. Biking out of Halifax, you pass one that recreates a 1940’s town and another a town in 1850. Throw in a recreated gold mining district and a trip into an actual coal mine, and who needs reality TV?