By Stuart Green

It’s November, and I’m gone.

I’m pulling myself from the polls, loosening the bolts from the ballots. I’m singin’ the Blues over seeing Red, railing against the rallies, leaving the debates to fate.

I’ve dropped out of the Electoral College, and leaving behind the campaign pain.  

In short, I’m taking a boat from the vote.

As the country simmers, seethes and sneezes, I’ll be looking for a little island somewhere far, far away from this civilization which used to be civilized – maybe in the Atlantic or Pacific, or another former supermarket chain. There’s got to be a place where an election is decided by guessing the correct number of conk shells washed up on the beach during low tide during the fourth full moon of the maternal orangutan’s leap year.

The craziness here has slipped into another dimension – a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind, or what’s left of it. And we are not entering the Polite Zone.

Oh, what I wouldn’t do for a nice little town Library Board of Trustee race – and uncontested at that. It could just be some little old lady whose remarks would be limited to advocating for books for all. The most radical statement would be a slight revamping of the Dewey Decimal System to include the so-called unseen fractions. Heck, she wouldn’t even have to know how to read.

In the meantime – with no meanness intended – I’m off to that island nation. The debates won’t be debates at all, but just really a pleasant chat between two fellows who spend their days counting goat hairs and rolling in the sand:

“You two disagree on Climate Change. Can you talk about your viewpoints?”

“It’s too hot.”

“It’s too cold.”

“OK, next question. What about the economy?”

“We should invent money.”

“What’s money?”

“OK, very insightful.  How about health care?”

“We should invent doctors.”

“What’s a doctor?”

“Fascinating. Last question – what would you do on your first day in office?”

“Outlaw my office.”

“Ask my wife.”

And so, I’m taking a leave of the world – before I take a leave of my senses. I’m sure I’ll find someplace, somewhere, sometime, where holding office is just something to do until the mushroom harvest comes in, where candidates hold rallies as they snooze in their hammocks, where the only scrolling voters do is when they read from the ancient papyrus.

And I’m not coming back… until the recount.

Stuart Green is a freelance writer. He can be reached at [email protected].