My Dog’s Dreams

Does a dog know the difference between awake and dream?

My lady and I crawl into bed, turn on reading lamps and open our reading. Once Winter, my dog, is sure we have settled in for the night, she comes up stairs. The floor creaks loudly as she walks down the hall and into our bedroom. The loud creaking makes Winter sound ten times her size, like a giant guardian coming in to protect our dreams.

The floor at the foot of our bed gives one last huge groan as she lies down. Winter releases a giant sigh, relaxing completely, stretched out on her side. During the day she only snoozes, rarely getting into a deep sleep or REM, because she might be called at any moment to accompany us to the store or on a hike. But at night she can finally keep track of us because we will be in one place for a long time.

About the time I finish my fourth page, Winter begins dreaming. She starts quietly at first, a high-pitched wine, coming from far off in the distance, over a hill. Small twitches move her legs. The movements and vocalizations build quickly. At about page six I hear a muffled, “arr-ooff-ooff, arr-ooff-ooff, arr-ooff-ooff,” and her legs rub the carpet in big, jerky movements. It seems that in her dream Winter is in full sprint, barking furiously and chasing something. I almost always chuckle, thinking of her finally catching that squirrel.

But, her REM movements and vocalizations are muted, seeming to emanate from far off, over a hill, in another world. I know it’s another world because she never barks like that in this one. At most she gives one little excited bark when I throw a stick or a ball. Or, when chasing the big grey squirrel in our back yard, her vocalization is low and quiet like a whispered threat.

(Can you find the Dog in this photo?)

Both species (human and dog) have an amazing ability to read emotions. But, a dog’s world is built around associative memories while human’s world is based mainly on interpretation. The ability to interpret means we have more ways to remember (and imagine) events by adding meaning to these events. Naturally, because humans feel our world contains more meaning and it contains more depth.

But, depth and meaning are a human construction, created by us to give our big brains something to do. We add the meaning to the events of our life. Holidays, birthdays, deaths, and disasters are coated in layers of emotional meaning given to us by culture and personal experience.


Dogs add association to the events their lives. When Winter hears her collar jingle as I pick it up she gets excited because she associates the sound with “it’s time to go somewhere.” She doesn’t care where, she just cares that we are going. But, to me, a collar means identification, decoration, ownership, means of restraint and avoidance of a ticket.

The truth is I don’t know what she dreams. If Winter has the ability to distinguish between awake and sleep I doubt she cares because she doesn’t have the need to understand and interpret everything. Dogs exist in the moment.

So why would it matter whether it’s a dream moment or a waking moment to a dog?

Bucket Boy Speaks!

(This photo and accompanying poem were published by the Bozeman Tributary in October '08)

Holes in Buckets and Barrels
By Aaron Schultz


Traditionalists say
Barrels are more important than buckets
Post industrial versions of fig leaves
Hiding nakedness
Like graffiti on a wall or train
Modern version of pictographs
Telling the story of our culture

Non-traditionalists say
A bucket or a barrel
Or a womb or a coffin
Are all the same when we walk
into the dark of the unknown
Naked like the day we squeal hello
And the day we groan good bye

Each side passes judgment
Forever dancing with each other
Forever afraid the other has the lead
But the unknown haunts each coming step
And Gepetto is in the music
Standing on a barrel
Keeping the beat on a bucket
While our footprints become graffiti
Painting the darkness as it unravels around us


Famous quotes that should have been overheard about buckets:

“Something’s wrong with the moral fabric of the world when people wear buckets on their heads instead of barrels over their bodies.” Pat Roberts

“Buckets – building sand castles and protecting heads since 1899.” – Sears catalogue 1954

“Who needs thumbs when you have a bucket on your head.” – Walt Disney

“We were too poor to afford a real dunce hat so my younger brother had to wear a bucket.” – Pisbury Dough-Boy

“Helmet technology has come a long way since I was a kid.” – Evil Kenevil

“A spatula and a bucket is all you need for a good time.” – Ron Jeremy

A Big Deal About Coffee

My coffee cup sits on a napkin on a table.
A coat of dried coffee,
Shaped like the United States,
Hangs on the side of the cup.

Earlier in the day,
I had knocked my cup,
As it rocked back and fourth,
It sloshed coffee over the rim and onto the table.

“Can I have towel, please. I spilled my coffee.”
Then I ate a cream-filled,
Chocolate-covered donut
And checked my email.

First Portland Road Trip - (Part 1)

Same Trip - Different Worlds (Part 1 of 3)

Being new to the area we enjoy exploring. Last week we drove towards the coast to hike an old inactive volcano and see the ocean. Jen usually drives because she gets car sick as a passenger (I swear it has nothing to do with my driving). I navigate and play I-pod DJ. Winter, my dog, sticks her head out the window and reads her own version of a map (I'll explain shortly). We live in southeast Portland so we have to navigate our way though a series of city streets and highway interchanges to head west out of the city.

We zig, zag, u-turn and backtrack our way through the city. If there are any govenmant agents following us I’m sure we’ve lost them. Finally, we are heading west out of Portland I begin to gloat internally about ditching Johnny Law. But, my elation is short lived when I remember that these days they track people using satellites. I don’t share our brief life on the lamb with Jen and Winter because they seem wrapped in worlds of their own.

The four-lane road narrows to two as we climb into the Coast Range. Tightly packed underbrush and tall trees line the road and obscure the sight of surrounding terrain. This makes it feel like we are an X-wing flying the trench. Occasionally a clear-cut slashes open the view exposing stumps, sickly bushes and naked ridges. Often a lone tree stands on a ridge. The backlighting of the sky obscures the tree's details leaving a human-like silhouette twisted with radiation sickness. I think it was left standing in the middle of the blast zone so it can warn future generations of vile brethren about the evil of congregating in public places. For some reason I don’t think they’ll listen, repeat offenders never do.

None of this matters to Winter as she hangs her head out the window. She’s reading her version of a map and catching a buzz. Her sense of smell approximately 1000 times better than ours so her cues about place come mainly from her nose not her eyes. I can only imagine the individual smells she picks up as we drive along – squirrels making babies, oil dripping from a parked car or, maybe, eggs and fried potatoes wafting from a passing house. Also, these smells are bombarding her at 60 mph, creating sensory hyperactivity and causing her to catch a buzz. I read this in Merle’s Door, which is it great read and has an extensive bibliography for all such claims.

During her olfactory adventures, in a doggy version of a farmer's hanky, Winter occasionally blasts snot out of her nose. Sometimes she gets the back of our neck and shoulders. “Eeeewwwwww. Winter!” is the usual response but we are use to it by now, so our statement is weakened by giddy laughter. I’m not sure if her wagging tail is because she thinks it’s funny she just blew snot on us, we said her name or she can now inhale and smell freely. Probably some combination of the three.

Winter clears her sinuses so incoming smells have an unobstructed path to her olfactory receptors. Because she has never been west of the Rockies she is in new terrain and since the ocean is about 30 miles away I’m sure she smells it. It’s a neuron party in her brain as they absorb new information and spark with new connections. Her eyes look like fireflies when she brings her head in the window and puts it on my shoulder. I am happy she wants to share her world with me.

Three Weeks in Portland

It seems… not quit real yet.

Everyday we consciously navigate our way through unfamiliar terrain. The effort needed to move effectively burns extra calories. For a place to feel like home I guess it takes routine and comfort generated by familiarity. It takes an ability to move through ones surroundings half aware of them.

There also needs to be some type of connection with an area’s theme or feeling. Like the weather, street names, neighbors or friends, the familiar smile of the checkout girl at the supermarket, avoidance of the same pothole everyday as one makes a right hand turn onto a main artery of the city.

Weather is the best way to develop a connection. This connection can be a conversation between two strangers standing in a coffee line or being in tune with the seasonal weather patterns of a place. As an immigrant to a new city I am building, through daily experience, a time-lapse of local weather patterns. It will take at least four seasons. My body’s seasonal clock is used to a colder and dryer mountain climate. All week it’s been 65 degrees and rainy so, despite what the calendar tells me, I can’t quit feel out what season it should be.

Also, the texture of the air is different here. I can’t quit put my finger on why yet. It seems thick, bulky and persistent. Could be the humidity. Could also be the millions of people thinking, breathing and moving as each one navigates their individual mythos.

The texture of life is different here. In any direction we drive constantly through city. For most of my life I’ve lived in places where I could drive ten minutes and be in the country. Fields and fences line the two-lane road as it contours the mountains’ toes, dipping in and out of draws, cricks and drainages. Here, in the city, we drive on a grid made from overlapping rulers, hemmed in by giant vinyl and felt erasers, zipping along at whatever speed the traffic wants.

Last Wednesday we hiked a nature preserve located within Portland. It is an extinct volcano, one of many in this area. At the top we could see for miles and it was great to see beyond the next stoplight. But everywhere there were houses and power lines and streets crawling through the trees and up the sides of other extinct volcanoes.

I think that’s when it really began its seepage; the idea and the understanding that we are in a new area, in the city. It’ll be a slow and steady seepage, but one day, without me even knowing it, I’ll comprehend that this is my home.

Skiing Stairs

Here's a few shots from a recent photo shoot I did with Kate Howe for her sponsors.

To see the whole shoot go here.

Walking Daydream on Table Mountain

Here's a link to an essay I wrote for Outside Bozeman's Blog.

Thanks for checking it out!

Economics, Society and Art

(This post is a reply to a Facebook comment by my friend Marc - about my previous post, "Giving Work Away for Free" (see comments on previous post). Marc is an exceptional artist who is always pushing all of art's boundaries - creation, exhibition, distribution and philosophy.

He also understands that there is a paradigm shift happening in the art world and that discussion is invaluable if we are to understand and adapt to this shift.)


I read somewhere (sorry, I can't remember where, I read a lot!) that many of the people developing opensource software do it to improve other software they are developing for themselves or their company. While not directly, they are getting paid either by their company or by driving people to the products that pay. So, even though they probably enjoy developing software, there is a financial incentive to create opensource.

Artists also enjoy creating (I bet some would say creating software is an art also). Most artists don't do it for the money. We look at the money as a bonus because the gap between time spent on art verses the economic benifit from said art is huge. So, we have second and third jobs to finance our creations.

But, it's called art "work" for a reason - it's work so, according to our economic system, should be paid for.

Society needs art to question and create, to give birth to new ideas through the evolution of old ones. But, society doesn't value art, sees it as frivolous and self indulgent. So is making money within a capitalist system. Why do you make money? To buy a nice car, go out to eat or live in a nice place. Some would argue making money is about survival.

Well, making art is about survival as well. Survival of the soul and the voice for the individual and society. We learn about past societies mostly through their art.

I (along with other writers and photographers) am trying to change the value (none) society has currently placed on art to something that reflects the contribution of art to society. It's easier with photography and writing than other art because these things are used by a capitalist system to communicate within and promote the system. Look around you - writing and photography are everywhere! Adds, newspapers, blogs, menus.... You get the idea. Without writing and photography there is no society, or at least one we cannot imagine.

But, since the digital revolution the business model for writing and photography is in upheaval. We are are trying to develop a new business model within this economic system. I spend too much money on my writing and photography training and equipment to give the products away for free. I have bills to pay, equipment and software to upgrade, more skills to learn and improve and a business to run. (I guess making money is about economic survival)

So until our society changes into a new type of economic system I need to get paid for my work.

Giving Work Away For Free

We’ve all heard the snotty guy comment about art saying, “that’s art!? I could do that.” Same goes for writing. A lot of people think it’s easy to crank out a novel, article, short story or even a haiku.

So, why don’t you? Why don’t you spend the time and creative energy in the evenings after your full time job? No, got something better to do? How about Saturdays or Sundays then?

Why doesn't average Joe write? Because, it’s not easy to write. To be successful a writer has to think about their target audience and the voice of the writing. They draw on the years spent studying their craft in classrooms, reading trade journals, networking, observing trends and geeking-out over a thesaurus.

An article or advertisement for 12-year-old girls from suburbia will be different then one for 45 yr old men in New York telecommunications. When crafting a poem or piece of fiction a writer weaves plot, description and character development.

Neither type of writing is a static affair. If a writer has done a good job the writing rolls and pulses and the reader follows along.

What everybody from pro-athlete to accountant has in common is an innate talent cultivated by hours and hour of practice and study. We are all trying to make a living using our specific skill set. With writing and photography (As a freelance photographer as well I also face the same expectations of giving away my work for free) so prolific in our modern society it’s easy to take the things we see and read for granted, thereby placing a lower value on them.

To all the readers and admirers of art - the next time you read something, whether in a magazine, on the web or on the side of a bus think about the how that message was crafted and how much student debt it took to learn that skill. Think about how much money in equipment and software it took to create that image.

And to my fellow writers and photographers - please, don't give your work away for dirt-cheap. It devalues the education, effort and finances that goes into all work and hurts the rest of us.

It’s the essence of capitalism. You don’t give your skills away for free so neither should the rest of us. Kind of funny how the capitalists want the rest of us to be socialists.

Mommy, what is creativity?

"It starts as an itch where the spine meets the skull, seeping into Freudian slips and throwing a stick into the spinning spokes of the endless internal monologue. This itch can be overrun by fear of survival, by armies of breeders forever marching forward, afraid of the battles ahead and too dumb to question the Caesar looking over their backs from the clock tower.

But, if allowed to squirts sideways…

Something’ll get coughed up, a slimy hairball, slightly putrid with black bile and gastric juices, waiting for a shot of lightening so it’s amino acids can be recombined into the spark of life, wiggling and squirming its way across the cold linoleum floor to crawl into it’s new hole where it can grow in safety while making raids on table scraps and long forgotten chunks swept under the fridge.

Will it grow into a pavlovian friend or slink away into the mountains, creeping along the tops of cliff bands hardly seen but still causing the hair to raise on the back of the neck from thought of its teeth and claws?

Either way it can be collared but never chained, yanking the leash out of the hand or dying, chain stretched taunt across the yard, ass pointed towards freedom.

It loves coffee and eye-candy and long semi-stoned runs deep into the mountains, it’s presence always felt, sometime sitting on a shoulder and whispering in the ear, sometimes flying so only its shadow can be glimpsed as it crosses the sun. It needs to be free to explore, to play across the world, deviating down random paths, collecting bruises and tickling neurons that have become dusty and shrunken.

But it also needs a partner, a companion, a rostrum so it can manifest into the world to be deconstructed, a signifier to be reborn a million times, it’s mother forgotten but forever sharing in it’s origin. It needs courage to overcome fear and live."