First Day
I close the door to my truck and walk towards the office. Dogs bark and yelp, some jumping up and putting their front paws on the chain link fence dividing the kennels from the walkway. In the last kennel two puppies wrestle around, biting each other mercilessly on the ears and neck.
The three of us pause for a moment and look at each other. They have identical brindle coats, except one of the puppies has white toes. We stare for a moment longer. I blink…
Pouncing, the white toed puppy rolls its sibling onto its back. Puppies squeal and
snarl and legs squirm in the air.
At home, the puppy lays on my stomach. Its white toes rest on my chest and its brown eyes reflect a distorted version of my head. What the hell do I do with this thing now? Why did I get it?
One eye winks at me before the puppy playfully bites me on the nose.
Saving a Life
What’s the point of getting out of bed? It has been another sleepless morning after another sleepless night. I roll over and see big brown eyes staring at me. One eye winks. She can’t be doing that on purpose? Despite my sadness, I smile -
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump
goes a tail on the floor.
Come on, man. I hear you tossing and turning. A paw with white toes lands on the bed. She waits a moment, then her head plops down onto the bed, a shiny nose inches from mine. The sun’s out. Let’s go do something. Get up.
“Alright, Winter,” I say as I get out of bed and look for my hiking boots.
A Moment
The mouth of the stream and the small mountain lake sparkle in the 6 o’clock sun. I kneel down to pump water into my Camelbak. Winter splashes across the shallow stream to sniff around the opposite bank. My friend lays on the ergonomic bank behind me, his hat pulled over eyes.
I look down at my water pump. Twelve hours of hiking make my thoughts…
detached…
meditative…
I look at the mouth of the stream again. A big log lays in the water, jutting into the threshold. Winter walks to the end of the log and sits, facing out over the lake. Her head turns this way and that way as she looks around.
Small breeze tickles…
Sparkles jump…
Leaves sigh…
Stream whispers…
Forest laces nostrils…
An eagle calls…
I sit, watching…
Winter sits, watching…
I wonder what she’s thinking…
Stretching Our Legs
“Hi, dog,” I say as I rattle my keys and open the door. Winter sits three feet from the door, her tail smacking the floor in an athletic heart beat.
“Did you have a boring day?” Her tail smacks harder and faster. I put my school bag on the floor and pick up her collar. Winter does a quick circle, stretches her front legs and then her back legs. Then she leans into me, looking for a scratch down. The weight of her makes me take a step backwards.
Outside, she bounces a few times on her front legs, sniffs the front tire of my bike and then looks at me, eyes twinkling in excitement. She does another circle as I mount up. We round the corner and come to the park. She trots on the grass along the street.
“Okay!” I say and we both explode into a sprint. I mash my peddles but her eight hours of sleep, of pent up energy, get the jump on me. Her body lowers and elongates as she covers ten feet in a stride. Bits of grass flick into the air as white paws blur. She is 30 yards in front of me in a wink. Squirrels and cats panic and scramble for cover.
After four blocks we are both panting and smiling.
10/18/06
9/28/06
Anniversary Present
Climbing up the stairs, one drop of sweat after another committed hara-kiri off the end of his nose. The drops seemed to splash far, far below on the stairs. Occasionally, a drop would hit the top of a knee or shoe, leaving a skid mark.
He couldn’t stop, not now. She wouldn’t let him.
This was an exceptionally heavy load this time. But it was the last part of the engine. The block of an old 347.
The sound of his breath echoing in his head felt like it was going to blow his brain apart. Pausing, he looked at the last step, and then through a railing. Only 10 feet left to walk. Not far now.
Taking a deep breath he staggered to the platform he had built in the carpeted hallway. With his last bit of strength he slid the block off his shoulder. It crashed on to the stout 2x4 platform. He heard wood crack. Saw the block shift. But nothing happened. He leaned against the wall then slid to the floor.
He looked around at his loved surroundings. A door on his left at the end of the hall framed part of his daughter's room. Hanging from a picture of his wife, him and their daughter was her dusty college graduation tassel. He wondered when his daughter and her husband were going to give him a grandchild.
He looked right, past the open bathroom door, to a door he had closed 9 months ago - he remembered the day she had first seen that car.
***
With rice dropping on their heads and surrounded by red faces smiling congratulations, they walked out of the church.
A new, midnight-blue, 1967 and 1/2 mustang convertible sat at the bottom of the church stairs.
“Allen?” she stopped. Rice and hands kept pelting them. “Whose car is that?”
“Ours.”
“Did you rent it?”
Allen smiled.
“Oh my god!” She said through her hand.
“I love you Donna.”
She squealed as Allen picked her up and carried her to the car. With one hand he opened the car door and gently put Donna in the seat. She kissed him on the cheek as he gathered up her train and shut the door.
Their new toy left dual smoking black tracks as Allen punched through the first three gears.
***
30 years later, Donna was again in the passenger seat as he punched through the gears. This time she was slumped into the seat and against the window. She was still beautiful but she had crow’s feet around her eyes and grey streaks in her long black hair. Her eyes were closed and her body moved limply with the bumps and curves of the road.
“Allen?” she slurred. Her eyes remained closed. “Allen, I’m so tired.”
“I’m here, honey.” He squeezed her leg. “I’ll have help soon.”
He squealed to a stop in front of the sliding glass doors. Allen scooped her out of the passenger seat and ran through the double doors. “I need help!” he yelled.
His vision blurring, he watched as they pushed her down the long corridor and through the double doors.
“Sir?” a voice said. Allen turned away from the painting he had been studying for the last hour and saw a solemn young face. It was too young and seemed very far away.
“Sir. I’m sorry. Your wife…”
Stumbling over to a chair, he felt a gentle, but firm, hand guide him as his whole body began to spasm.
***
“Donna!?”
It was dark and quiet. It smelt like potpourri and motor oil. A night-light gently glowed from the bathroom, its light dusting the hallway and an engine block sitting on a platform.
Allen sat up. His back hurt and his left arm was asleep. After wiping his wet and crusty eyes he looked at his watch. 5:30am. One week till their anniversary.
He needed coffee, aspirin and a big breakfast. Even though the hard part was over Allen still had a long day ahead. Standing up he reached out for the railing to steady himself for a moment. Not needing to turn on a light, Allen walked down the stairs and to the kitchen.
After washing his breakfast dishes he walked back up stairs. Pausing at the top of the stairs, Allen gazed at the closed door for a moment. He then reached up to pull on a string hanging from the ceiling in the hall. Allen guided the folding stairs out of the ceiling and started up. Hanging from a truss above the hole in the attic floor was a block and tackle the size of his head. Ducking to avoid the pulley system, he stepped into the attic.
Ghostly shapes sat in the early morning light slanting in from a window at the far end of the attic. Allen fumbled in the dark for a moment as he plugged in an extension cord. Along the peak of the attic a row of new florescent lights flickered to life. Among the boxes and trunks pushed against the walls and sheeted in dust was a wedding dress.
In the center of the room, among scattered tools and oily rags, was a faded midnight blue mustang.
God, they loved that car.
God, he missed his wife.
Assembling and installing the engine was all Allen had left. Grabbing the end of the rope hanging from the pulley system, he walked down the stairs.
He couldn’t stop, not now. She wouldn’t let him.
This was an exceptionally heavy load this time. But it was the last part of the engine. The block of an old 347.
The sound of his breath echoing in his head felt like it was going to blow his brain apart. Pausing, he looked at the last step, and then through a railing. Only 10 feet left to walk. Not far now.
Taking a deep breath he staggered to the platform he had built in the carpeted hallway. With his last bit of strength he slid the block off his shoulder. It crashed on to the stout 2x4 platform. He heard wood crack. Saw the block shift. But nothing happened. He leaned against the wall then slid to the floor.
He looked around at his loved surroundings. A door on his left at the end of the hall framed part of his daughter's room. Hanging from a picture of his wife, him and their daughter was her dusty college graduation tassel. He wondered when his daughter and her husband were going to give him a grandchild.
He looked right, past the open bathroom door, to a door he had closed 9 months ago - he remembered the day she had first seen that car.
***
With rice dropping on their heads and surrounded by red faces smiling congratulations, they walked out of the church.
A new, midnight-blue, 1967 and 1/2 mustang convertible sat at the bottom of the church stairs.
“Allen?” she stopped. Rice and hands kept pelting them. “Whose car is that?”
“Ours.”
“Did you rent it?”
Allen smiled.
“Oh my god!” She said through her hand.
“I love you Donna.”
She squealed as Allen picked her up and carried her to the car. With one hand he opened the car door and gently put Donna in the seat. She kissed him on the cheek as he gathered up her train and shut the door.
Their new toy left dual smoking black tracks as Allen punched through the first three gears.
***
30 years later, Donna was again in the passenger seat as he punched through the gears. This time she was slumped into the seat and against the window. She was still beautiful but she had crow’s feet around her eyes and grey streaks in her long black hair. Her eyes were closed and her body moved limply with the bumps and curves of the road.
“Allen?” she slurred. Her eyes remained closed. “Allen, I’m so tired.”
“I’m here, honey.” He squeezed her leg. “I’ll have help soon.”
He squealed to a stop in front of the sliding glass doors. Allen scooped her out of the passenger seat and ran through the double doors. “I need help!” he yelled.
His vision blurring, he watched as they pushed her down the long corridor and through the double doors.
“Sir?” a voice said. Allen turned away from the painting he had been studying for the last hour and saw a solemn young face. It was too young and seemed very far away.
“Sir. I’m sorry. Your wife…”
Stumbling over to a chair, he felt a gentle, but firm, hand guide him as his whole body began to spasm.
***
“Donna!?”
It was dark and quiet. It smelt like potpourri and motor oil. A night-light gently glowed from the bathroom, its light dusting the hallway and an engine block sitting on a platform.
Allen sat up. His back hurt and his left arm was asleep. After wiping his wet and crusty eyes he looked at his watch. 5:30am. One week till their anniversary.
He needed coffee, aspirin and a big breakfast. Even though the hard part was over Allen still had a long day ahead. Standing up he reached out for the railing to steady himself for a moment. Not needing to turn on a light, Allen walked down the stairs and to the kitchen.
After washing his breakfast dishes he walked back up stairs. Pausing at the top of the stairs, Allen gazed at the closed door for a moment. He then reached up to pull on a string hanging from the ceiling in the hall. Allen guided the folding stairs out of the ceiling and started up. Hanging from a truss above the hole in the attic floor was a block and tackle the size of his head. Ducking to avoid the pulley system, he stepped into the attic.
Ghostly shapes sat in the early morning light slanting in from a window at the far end of the attic. Allen fumbled in the dark for a moment as he plugged in an extension cord. Along the peak of the attic a row of new florescent lights flickered to life. Among the boxes and trunks pushed against the walls and sheeted in dust was a wedding dress.
In the center of the room, among scattered tools and oily rags, was a faded midnight blue mustang.
God, they loved that car.
God, he missed his wife.
Assembling and installing the engine was all Allen had left. Grabbing the end of the rope hanging from the pulley system, he walked down the stairs.
9/3/06
Twenty-Four into the Pasayten Wilderness
It's been a long, interesting yet perplexing summer. I haven't been very good at keeping up with my entries here but the regimen of school should change that. I hope to again post once a week from here on out. The dog and I took a much needed road trip before school started. Here's a scene from part of that trip. (note - "Souls" is spelled correctly)
(Note 2 - On 9/9 I did a little editing. Of course the editing will never be finished...)
Twenty-Four into the Pasayten Wilderness
It was just summer yesterday;
Hot, heavy, diffused, dry, compressed
Sun pushed on the top of our heads and shoulders
Mountain flower bouquets dried in the
Smoke hanging everywhere and nowhere
The air dry, dirty, edgy, a little bitter
The dog and I pushed up the switchbacks
Drippy, panting, dusty, breeze not helping
Particles of ash hazed the sun and routed our breath
Particles of dirt jumped and swirled with every step
Sticking to our feet, legs and paws
The thunderheads tried to form
Tried to blowup out of the southwest
Instead one yellow, misshapen balloon after another
Dissolved, never once shading us from the sun
The little kid called summer had successfully shined off his bath
And got to roll around with his buddies smoke and sun
This morning the air is smooth and moist
We woke to rain tapping on our tarp
And thunder shaking the ground
I acknowledge both with a long look and a smile
But stay in my sleeping bag
The dog looked also, did a circle
And landed back in the same warm spot…
I finish my coffee and tighten my cinch straps;
The air...
The wind...
A new color...
Soaks the skin on my forearms
Pushing the white hair in wheat-like waves
While lacing my nostrils with a cool drowsiness
That seeps from skin and lungs into chest and thighs
Eventually filling the head and massaging the souls of my feet
After stifling summer heat and hay fever and haze
The inescapable blue from the edge of day and night
Slips in and out with each breath
Squirrels and sparrows jump from branch to branch
Their songs affirming our freedom from dirty yellow
Dog and I glide over the trail through this light blue change
An flotilla of bulbous clouds slide in from Canada
Across a sky their morning brothers have freed
Slow shadows compose a wandering breeze
Mountains and ridges that were blurry and distant and crooked
Now run clean and high defining the edge of seasons
(Note 2 - On 9/9 I did a little editing. Of course the editing will never be finished...)
Twenty-Four into the Pasayten Wilderness
It was just summer yesterday;
Hot, heavy, diffused, dry, compressed
Sun pushed on the top of our heads and shoulders
Mountain flower bouquets dried in the
Smoke hanging everywhere and nowhere
The air dry, dirty, edgy, a little bitter
The dog and I pushed up the switchbacks
Drippy, panting, dusty, breeze not helping
Particles of ash hazed the sun and routed our breath
Particles of dirt jumped and swirled with every step
Sticking to our feet, legs and paws
The thunderheads tried to form
Tried to blowup out of the southwest
Instead one yellow, misshapen balloon after another
Dissolved, never once shading us from the sun
The little kid called summer had successfully shined off his bath
And got to roll around with his buddies smoke and sun
This morning the air is smooth and moist
We woke to rain tapping on our tarp
And thunder shaking the ground
I acknowledge both with a long look and a smile
But stay in my sleeping bag
The dog looked also, did a circle
And landed back in the same warm spot…
I finish my coffee and tighten my cinch straps;
The air...
The wind...
A new color...
Soaks the skin on my forearms
Pushing the white hair in wheat-like waves
While lacing my nostrils with a cool drowsiness
That seeps from skin and lungs into chest and thighs
Eventually filling the head and massaging the souls of my feet
After stifling summer heat and hay fever and haze
The inescapable blue from the edge of day and night
Slips in and out with each breath
Squirrels and sparrows jump from branch to branch
Their songs affirming our freedom from dirty yellow
Dog and I glide over the trail through this light blue change
An flotilla of bulbous clouds slide in from Canada
Across a sky their morning brothers have freed
Slow shadows compose a wandering breeze
Mountains and ridges that were blurry and distant and crooked
Now run clean and high defining the edge of seasons
6/27/06
Hunting
I was walking down the trail after hiking Stuart Peak. Of course, I was torn between the beautiful surroundings and the grumble in my belly telling me it needed an Old Post burger and a pint of beer. Winter and I spooked a well fed whitetail - its coat was glossy and every bound was precise. The birds were trading calls over our heads. The trees at the tops of the ridges were filtering the last of that day's direct sunlight. And the wildflowers were splashed everywhere. But one looked strange. I looked closer and closer and... jumped back suddenly as I realized what was hanging out in this particular flower. "Cool!" I exclaimed as I reached for my camera.
Backstage
So much happens behind the scenes as we go about our daily life. People's lives are saved daily by St. Pat's Life-Flight. Wood and gas used to fuel our life passes through town. People back out of their alley driveways to run thier errands or visit family. The homeless are hanging out on the foot bridge drinking and bullshitting while the 30-something, sporting a courier bag and riding a mountain bike passes by on his way to work. As a person is hiking up to Lolo Peak, a deer jumps up out of the brush that was its bed and bounds away. And somebody's dog, without a collar, is running down the street...
What Does She See?
EXTREME close up of Winter's, my dog, eye. I was giving her a scratch down at the summit of Stuart peak and saw the coolest reflection in her eye. I heard once that 90% of the information about the world around them comes in through a dog's nose. This is why I freak out the neighbors dog occasionally, until she gets close enough to smell me, even though I have seen this dog just about every day since it was 3 months old So, again, I ask what does she see? Is it my bad posture or fuzzy forearms? Does it mess with her for a day or so when I buzz all my hair off? A dog's sense of smell seems so intrinsically tied to the world around them that if I were able to mask my smell somehow would Winter still be able to recognize me? I hope so, cuz she's my buddy.
6/9/06
Any destination, it's all the same
Mohawk pushes board with All Stars
chain slapping his thigh
Eyes and mind focused on the rail
in front of a burger shop
He passes a woman in a business suit and winks
She blinks… And his board is rising
Ssshhhhhrrik.
“I couldn’t do that,” she thinks
than continues, sidewalk cracks pacing
heal clicks towards diner
She smiles at a man as he passes
Apron rolled up and held in his hand
She thinks he looks failure and cute
He smiles back, but is late for work and
His mind is on an audition to sell a product
he doesn’t believe in
Dress shoes spotted with balsamic and ketchup
Step over newspapers and McDonalds cups
and past a man in a doorway asleep
The man in the door mumbles through
Yellow beard, something about chickens
Dress shoes pause… Then continue
Head attached to the yellow beard
Slips in sleep and smacks glass door
His eyes blink sleepily, partially from mental sickness
But notice little girl holding dad’s hand
She waves and he smiles back through beard
remembering his own little girl
He hasn’t talked to in… Can’t remember
Girl skips on in pink jellies, swinging dad’s arm
Looking forward to burgers and milkshakes
“Remember, don’t drink all your shake
before the burger comes.”
Dad glances at man in the corner booth
scribbling in notebook
The writer raises eyes… Dad looks away
chain slapping his thigh
Eyes and mind focused on the rail
in front of a burger shop
He passes a woman in a business suit and winks
She blinks… And his board is rising
Ssshhhhhrrik.
“I couldn’t do that,” she thinks
than continues, sidewalk cracks pacing
heal clicks towards diner
She smiles at a man as he passes
Apron rolled up and held in his hand
She thinks he looks failure and cute
He smiles back, but is late for work and
His mind is on an audition to sell a product
he doesn’t believe in
Dress shoes spotted with balsamic and ketchup
Step over newspapers and McDonalds cups
and past a man in a doorway asleep
The man in the door mumbles through
Yellow beard, something about chickens
Dress shoes pause… Then continue
Head attached to the yellow beard
Slips in sleep and smacks glass door
His eyes blink sleepily, partially from mental sickness
But notice little girl holding dad’s hand
She waves and he smiles back through beard
remembering his own little girl
He hasn’t talked to in… Can’t remember
Girl skips on in pink jellies, swinging dad’s arm
Looking forward to burgers and milkshakes
“Remember, don’t drink all your shake
before the burger comes.”
Dad glances at man in the corner booth
scribbling in notebook
The writer raises eyes… Dad looks away
5/18/06
Moist...
As I drove up highway 270 on my way to Pittsburg, the yellow dashes snapped by the front corner of my hood only to reappear a moment later in my mirror like the blinking yield light early in the morning. The music seemed uncommonly empty no matter how loud I turned it up, so I tried the radio. NPR was talking about another murder, only a few minutes before I had turned on the radio, by the snipers that were terrorizing the DC area. The magic Ranger’s entertainment system was providing me with little escape from life that night, so I just turned it off for a while.
Pittsburg was not a city that I had ever thought of visiting. During my thoughts of places like Melbourne, Seattle, Missoula and Savanna I had never thought “Pittsburg, now that’s a city I would love to spend some time in!” I had never seen pictures of nor heard anything good or bad about it. Now I was on my way there for the first time to take part in an act that I never thought I would ever have to take part in. In a way it was a perfect city to take care of a some business that, to this day, is still not real to me. A trash can for an event that scared enough without blemishing any city I really care about. An uncommon dream like city for an uncommon dream like act.
It was late as I pulled onto the off ramp and began to follow the directions given to me by Anna earlier that day. Only my left hand was driving my truck while the rest of me twisted within a bipolar conversation…
(This is an excerpt from a book I'm working on. Feedback would be appreciated.)
Pittsburg was not a city that I had ever thought of visiting. During my thoughts of places like Melbourne, Seattle, Missoula and Savanna I had never thought “Pittsburg, now that’s a city I would love to spend some time in!” I had never seen pictures of nor heard anything good or bad about it. Now I was on my way there for the first time to take part in an act that I never thought I would ever have to take part in. In a way it was a perfect city to take care of a some business that, to this day, is still not real to me. A trash can for an event that scared enough without blemishing any city I really care about. An uncommon dream like city for an uncommon dream like act.
It was late as I pulled onto the off ramp and began to follow the directions given to me by Anna earlier that day. Only my left hand was driving my truck while the rest of me twisted within a bipolar conversation…
(This is an excerpt from a book I'm working on. Feedback would be appreciated.)
5/4/06
Bartenders Corner
“Damn bartender,” I grumbled. “All I wanted was a beer to celebrate opening weekend.”
Having been a professional ski-bum for eight years, I knew how to do two things very well – find the free beer and drive roads better suited as GS courses. I was new to Snowbowl, so I hadn’t developed the bro-bra-beer connections yet. So, my pride was a little wounded when I couldn’t get a beer.
“But,” I consoled myself, “that’s o.k. I’m trying to quit smoking anyways.”
I climbed in my truck and entered the Snowbowl road GS course. “Conditions are perfect today,” I heard an imaginary commentator say. “But, only the most focused will make it to the finish line.” The only thing missing on this course were the gates. I guess that’s what the trees are for.
I exited the first set of turns in perfect form and entered the long straight stretch
before the infamous ‘bartenders corner’.
“Not another bartender,” I groaned.
I had heard of this corner but I wasn’t scared of no stinkin’ bartender. They may control the beer but they will never control my freedom! As my nemesis approached I gently pumped the brakes…
Too late! The bartender juked right. The rear end began to pass the front end. I counter steered. Nothing. I needed edges instead of tires on this brutal course. But the sharp corner was working to my advantage. My slide closely matched the turn. Maybe this bartender would give me a little lovin’.
Nope. I felt the front end drop. Then the whole truck got sucked off the edge. Branches clawed at my windshield, snow and brush jumped over my hood and little trees smacked off my brush guard. As the forest played pickup pinball, I bounced around in the cab like a ball in a spray-paint can. I screamed and cursed about my sobriety.
The truck stopped suddenly. I thanked everything from the Great Pumpkin to Buddha. The door wouldn’t budge so I rolled down the window and crawled out Dukes of Hazard style.
I gaped at my beat up truck like a neon Texan in a terrain park. This would have been much cooler with a buzz.
“Hey! Are you ok?” somebody shouted down from the road.
“Yea,” I shouted back. “I’m fine.”
“Do you need anything besides a ride to town?”
“I need a beer.”
“Sorry man, we don’t have any beer. Do you want a cigarette?”
I cursed bartenders everywhere for wounding my pride twice in a day and decided I’d quit smoking next week.
Having been a professional ski-bum for eight years, I knew how to do two things very well – find the free beer and drive roads better suited as GS courses. I was new to Snowbowl, so I hadn’t developed the bro-bra-beer connections yet. So, my pride was a little wounded when I couldn’t get a beer.
“But,” I consoled myself, “that’s o.k. I’m trying to quit smoking anyways.”
I climbed in my truck and entered the Snowbowl road GS course. “Conditions are perfect today,” I heard an imaginary commentator say. “But, only the most focused will make it to the finish line.” The only thing missing on this course were the gates. I guess that’s what the trees are for.
I exited the first set of turns in perfect form and entered the long straight stretch
before the infamous ‘bartenders corner’.
“Not another bartender,” I groaned.
I had heard of this corner but I wasn’t scared of no stinkin’ bartender. They may control the beer but they will never control my freedom! As my nemesis approached I gently pumped the brakes…
Too late! The bartender juked right. The rear end began to pass the front end. I counter steered. Nothing. I needed edges instead of tires on this brutal course. But the sharp corner was working to my advantage. My slide closely matched the turn. Maybe this bartender would give me a little lovin’.
Nope. I felt the front end drop. Then the whole truck got sucked off the edge. Branches clawed at my windshield, snow and brush jumped over my hood and little trees smacked off my brush guard. As the forest played pickup pinball, I bounced around in the cab like a ball in a spray-paint can. I screamed and cursed about my sobriety.
The truck stopped suddenly. I thanked everything from the Great Pumpkin to Buddha. The door wouldn’t budge so I rolled down the window and crawled out Dukes of Hazard style.
I gaped at my beat up truck like a neon Texan in a terrain park. This would have been much cooler with a buzz.
“Hey! Are you ok?” somebody shouted down from the road.
“Yea,” I shouted back. “I’m fine.”
“Do you need anything besides a ride to town?”
“I need a beer.”
“Sorry man, we don’t have any beer. Do you want a cigarette?”
I cursed bartenders everywhere for wounding my pride twice in a day and decided I’d quit smoking next week.
4/20/06
Spring Semester
Well, I've been crazy busy. No deep thoughts unless you want to read my latest exciting paper on "Christabel's Lack". It is a Lacanian analysis of Coleridges "Christabel". Very interesting if you have a phd in english lit or you are any kind of a english geek like me. I can post it if someone really wants to read it but...
Why don't you check out my flickr site instead -
flickr
xoxo
btw - It was my Mf'in' B-day yesterday, so wish me happy birthday.
namaste
Why don't you check out my flickr site instead -
flickr
xoxo
btw - It was my Mf'in' B-day yesterday, so wish me happy birthday.
namaste
4/3/06
Spring Break
I flew down to Santa Fe New Mexico last week to visit my mom. On my last day there we visited Bandelier National Monument. It was great to get out of Missoula for a little while. I was hoping for a little of that southwest sunshine but as you can see from the pics it was overcast.
3/1/06
Victorians Don’t Pierce Their Septums, Except for love
This is Sestina 1 of 2 that I wrote about a punk rock chick falling in love with a victorian man. My friend wrote a matching sestina about the victorian man falling in love with this punk rock chick. Hopefully, I'll be able to post her's soon so ya'll can see them together.
When I first saw you in those light
plaid pants, tight fitting to your form,
my friends wanted to kick your ass. “Where
did this Bozo come from? Let’s waste
him,” they said. But that smell… Your smell…
Strangely attractive, yet beyond my conception.
I called my boys off their conception
and walked towards you, my combat boots suddenly light.
I slammed my PBR, and grabbed your smelly
butt. I couldn’t resist. You didn’t conform,
in style or attitude, with the rest of these waist-
oid punk rockers. You were so punk in your odd wear.
Oh, my pasty, rebel lover… Where
the hell did I put my con(tra)ception?
I misplaced it that night while wasted
and thrashing to punk. I broke the light
with my head, bouncing on the bed. “Bad Form!”
you yelled, as I rubbed my smell
on you while grabbing your mutton chops. “Smell
me!” I screamed. You lost the where-
withal to speak as you tried to imagine my dark form.
“Don’t burn your time with this rebel.” I said. “Misconceptions
of society…” You interrupted me. “Your tender light
has defiled me in a most delicious waste.”
As you grabbed my waist
again, I could smell
your sweat – sweet, salty and light.
That morning I was naked, so I wore
your frock to the bathroom. It’s a preconception,
I know, but this love form
is a mohawk in a frock. Your form
of dirty talk makes me waste
all my fuckin’ conceptions
of guys with tattoos and smelly
cigarette breath. But I’ll always wear
leather and avoid the light.
You make me high, like a light huff off chloroform.
I don’t know where, or how, this love could ever waste
away, but someday, I want our smells to end in a conception.
When I first saw you in those light
plaid pants, tight fitting to your form,
my friends wanted to kick your ass. “Where
did this Bozo come from? Let’s waste
him,” they said. But that smell… Your smell…
Strangely attractive, yet beyond my conception.
I called my boys off their conception
and walked towards you, my combat boots suddenly light.
I slammed my PBR, and grabbed your smelly
butt. I couldn’t resist. You didn’t conform,
in style or attitude, with the rest of these waist-
oid punk rockers. You were so punk in your odd wear.
Oh, my pasty, rebel lover… Where
the hell did I put my con(tra)ception?
I misplaced it that night while wasted
and thrashing to punk. I broke the light
with my head, bouncing on the bed. “Bad Form!”
you yelled, as I rubbed my smell
on you while grabbing your mutton chops. “Smell
me!” I screamed. You lost the where-
withal to speak as you tried to imagine my dark form.
“Don’t burn your time with this rebel.” I said. “Misconceptions
of society…” You interrupted me. “Your tender light
has defiled me in a most delicious waste.”
As you grabbed my waist
again, I could smell
your sweat – sweet, salty and light.
That morning I was naked, so I wore
your frock to the bathroom. It’s a preconception,
I know, but this love form
is a mohawk in a frock. Your form
of dirty talk makes me waste
all my fuckin’ conceptions
of guys with tattoos and smelly
cigarette breath. But I’ll always wear
leather and avoid the light.
You make me high, like a light huff off chloroform.
I don’t know where, or how, this love could ever waste
away, but someday, I want our smells to end in a conception.
2/14/06
Missoula and a VD Sonnet
It's been a while since I've been able to update this site. 17 credits has been making me a little crazy. I took these pics from MT Sentinel a few weeks back. Hopefully I'll have some more essays and poetry coming up in the next couple weeks. BTW - thanks a ton JMD for the props and the brief link on your blog. When I get a little more time I'll cruse your blog some more. I've barely had time for my blog.
But here's a Single's Appreciation (Valentine's) Day sonnet, DeTrav style, just for shits and giggles. I'm still revising but.. Well, you'll get the idea. Maybe. (p.s. You know, if you abbreviate Valentine's Day you get VD. Just thought you should know.)
Promise of a Heart
(Shaking Hands with Shakespeare)
A lifting veil concluded with a kiss
The palms are spooning near sunset and sand
Pinky swear the promise of eternal bliss
Put the condom wrapper on the nightstand
The cream-colored sheets look white in the dark
And lips taste like salty sugar
An operatic voice sings in wild barks
The curtains lift to broken wine stemware
The film jumps it’s teeth and melts away
Sucking chest wound grazes on the void
Teasing rap on the tin man’s body
He doesn’t mind, he’s frozen and bored
The O’s in Hollywood ooze green lies
For what is love after you have died
1/30/06
Daily Routine
Dear face
I always recognize but never know
stares back once again
I bump my head, but which side am I on?
Are his thoughts my thoughts
only backwards?
I sure wish it was cloudy
I hope she hates me cuz I think she’s ugly
Grow nose hair! Grooooww…
I wish
he knew the answer to my question
Stupid face! Show your true self.
Where’s that damn toothpaste,
and floss?
I hope I don’t have a cavity
Man, look at the veins in my forearms
I love it when you can see the tops of girls g-strings
It’s better than cleavage, which is still good but tired
Fuckin’ Bush, NPR should just marry the fucker…
I know
that face with the blue eyes flecked with yellow
and crows feet that grow more every year
I have my dad’s crows feet and hands
Hey man?
Are you listening?
You sure are easier to talk to now
I need a haircut
Maybe I’ll shave my beard
A zit! I haven’t had one of those in awhile…
Hey face
What are you really thinking?
Are eyes really windows to the soul?
Can I see my own soul in a mirror?
My eyes look a little dull today
Time to change the razor and buy more soap
Was the Buddha able to meditate his way out of shaving?
I don’t feel very transcendent today…
I need a cup of coffee…
I always recognize but never know
stares back once again
I bump my head, but which side am I on?
Are his thoughts my thoughts
only backwards?
I sure wish it was cloudy
I hope she hates me cuz I think she’s ugly
Grow nose hair! Grooooww…
I wish
he knew the answer to my question
Stupid face! Show your true self.
Where’s that damn toothpaste,
and floss?
I hope I don’t have a cavity
Man, look at the veins in my forearms
I love it when you can see the tops of girls g-strings
It’s better than cleavage, which is still good but tired
Fuckin’ Bush, NPR should just marry the fucker…
I know
that face with the blue eyes flecked with yellow
and crows feet that grow more every year
I have my dad’s crows feet and hands
Hey man?
Are you listening?
You sure are easier to talk to now
I need a haircut
Maybe I’ll shave my beard
A zit! I haven’t had one of those in awhile…
Hey face
What are you really thinking?
Are eyes really windows to the soul?
Can I see my own soul in a mirror?
My eyes look a little dull today
Time to change the razor and buy more soap
Was the Buddha able to meditate his way out of shaving?
I don’t feel very transcendent today…
I need a cup of coffee…
1/19/06
Change
“The only thing constant is change” quotes on of my favorite music groups. I’m sure that many a Buddhist holy men have said this as well. Change has been the source of every significant event, every memorable moment of my life. If my life feels too stagnant I crave change. I’ll often take a road trip, shave my head or clean the bathroom. Change has been responsible for the most memorable experiences in my life – whether a crushing set back or a beautiful random encounter.
Awareness of change has allowed me to be flexible and open with life. This awareness has also allowed me to cultivate and respect my free will. Some say free will is an illusion. But I believe that through awareness of change a person has free will. By choosing how to react to change a person exercises free will. Also by making conscious choices a person can influence how some changes will impact them. It doesn’t seem like much but when living in the chaotic world of constant change any little influence we can have around a change can make a huge difference – even if it just influences our peace of mind.
I don’t bounce out of bed every day exclaiming with a smile “what wonderful change will I encounter today?” I wish I could be so ebullient and enlightened. Unfortunately, life is filled with the day-to-day tedium that makes it life. So instead, I wake up every day with the realization that although I have certain things (like Spanish assignments and paying the bills) I need to accomplish or appointments (like going to class or feeding the dog) I have to keep, I need to maintain flexibility for the unexpected. This has allowed me to not be in a hurry and forgiving of myself if I don’t finish something on time. It also allows me to be more open to life and to the random experiences life tends to throw my way whether it’s drinking a beer with a long lost buddy or dealing with a traffic accident. I have found that these random experiences are not only the source for many a story but are also the meat of life and existence.
Don’t get me wrong. Some days I absolutely resent change - I just want to get up and know what to expect. But I guess that’s where routine comes in. I get up every day and make a cup of chai, listen to NPR while I make my breakfast, toss the ball for the dog, pack my bag and head out the door. But knowing that ‘the only constant is change’ helps me be comfortable with, and even look forward to, what’s on the other side of that door.
Awareness of change has allowed me to be flexible and open with life. This awareness has also allowed me to cultivate and respect my free will. Some say free will is an illusion. But I believe that through awareness of change a person has free will. By choosing how to react to change a person exercises free will. Also by making conscious choices a person can influence how some changes will impact them. It doesn’t seem like much but when living in the chaotic world of constant change any little influence we can have around a change can make a huge difference – even if it just influences our peace of mind.
I don’t bounce out of bed every day exclaiming with a smile “what wonderful change will I encounter today?” I wish I could be so ebullient and enlightened. Unfortunately, life is filled with the day-to-day tedium that makes it life. So instead, I wake up every day with the realization that although I have certain things (like Spanish assignments and paying the bills) I need to accomplish or appointments (like going to class or feeding the dog) I have to keep, I need to maintain flexibility for the unexpected. This has allowed me to not be in a hurry and forgiving of myself if I don’t finish something on time. It also allows me to be more open to life and to the random experiences life tends to throw my way whether it’s drinking a beer with a long lost buddy or dealing with a traffic accident. I have found that these random experiences are not only the source for many a story but are also the meat of life and existence.
Don’t get me wrong. Some days I absolutely resent change - I just want to get up and know what to expect. But I guess that’s where routine comes in. I get up every day and make a cup of chai, listen to NPR while I make my breakfast, toss the ball for the dog, pack my bag and head out the door. But knowing that ‘the only constant is change’ helps me be comfortable with, and even look forward to, what’s on the other side of that door.
1/11/06
Song for the Coffee Shop Window
Oh wise, wide window looking into oblivion,
How long until you grant the holy inspiration?
Long enough for the French bread to fly
From bowl to oven to nose to belly
Long enough for nicotine to eat a lung
In self-righteous instant gratification
Long enough for me to find my muse
Then loose it again in a swirl of bad idea ooze
Long enough for a future ex-girlfriend to walk in
And out of my silk daydream skin
Long enough for the hills to turn gold to green
As a frame on time’s movie screen
At least convince me I have talent
At least convince me I have talent
Oh wise, wide window looking into oblivion,
How long until you grant the holy inspiration?
Long enough for a cup of coffee to go pee
From nervous stalling insecurity
Long enough for my pod to switch up the rhythm
In the sound track of my life’s silent mayhem
Long enough for paint to fade into chips
I eat to poison ideas with under rotated flips
Long enough for a nap to take the dog
Twitching after squirrels in synapse fog
Long enough for a cloud to dance with the sun
Rolling light and shadow on the hills for fun
At least convince me I have talent
At least convince me I have talent
How long until you grant the holy inspiration?
Long enough for the French bread to fly
From bowl to oven to nose to belly
Long enough for nicotine to eat a lung
In self-righteous instant gratification
Long enough for me to find my muse
Then loose it again in a swirl of bad idea ooze
Long enough for a future ex-girlfriend to walk in
And out of my silk daydream skin
Long enough for the hills to turn gold to green
As a frame on time’s movie screen
At least convince me I have talent
At least convince me I have talent
Oh wise, wide window looking into oblivion,
How long until you grant the holy inspiration?
Long enough for a cup of coffee to go pee
From nervous stalling insecurity
Long enough for my pod to switch up the rhythm
In the sound track of my life’s silent mayhem
Long enough for paint to fade into chips
I eat to poison ideas with under rotated flips
Long enough for a nap to take the dog
Twitching after squirrels in synapse fog
Long enough for a cloud to dance with the sun
Rolling light and shadow on the hills for fun
At least convince me I have talent
At least convince me I have talent
12/27/05
Freedom Part 2 "Our Public Lands"
Public lands – i.e. BLM land, national forests, national parks and wilderness areas or lands owned by the public. public lands definition
What do public lands mean to me, and to us, as a country? Our public lands are one of the things that guarantees our freedom. Without publicly owned lands and the right to use then whenever we choose, we become just a bunch of peasants because only the richest people are able to use and benefit from the land.
Think back to the times of feudal systems when only rich lords owned the lands. The peasants owned no land and had to pay rent (usually in the form of crops or a skilled trade) to the lords for use of the land. The peasants could take nothing from the land, like lumber or game, without permission from, or paying a tax to, the lord. Kept perpetually poor and working for the lord, the peasants were never able to enjoy the land they worked so hard on. While, the lords and aristocrats could roam the land freely, taking what they wanted and traveling where they wanted.
With the quickly rising cost and development of precious open space and the increasing fees on our public land that is happening in the west these days, land is quickly becoming the play ground for the rich again. How are poor college students, middle class families on a budget or poor urban families going to afford to visit and use their public land? The answer is they can’t.
Public land is land held in trust by the federal government for American citizens. Therefore, everyone who is a citizen owns public land. During most of our lives as citizens we pay taxes and vote. Through our taxes we own and fund the government. So if the government, that we elect and pay for, then tells use we need to pay an additional fee to use our lands, a fee that many Americans cannot afford, this government begins to look like the feudal systems of the past. It’s like paying your mortgage and the government then slapping a charge on you every time you want to enter your own house. Or, worse yet, the government telling you when you get to come and go from your own property.
When these families or college kids are denied access to land, they paid for, because of financial reasons, they are no longer owners of this land. They become peasants. Their rights and their freedoms have become compromised. Without access to our publicly owned lands we lose our freedom.
And all Americans are buying and paying for the natural resources extracted from our publicly owned lands. Buying because we put gas in our cars and build houses with wood. Paying because our tax money goes into building and maintaining the forest roads used to extract these resources. It doesn’t seem right that we pay twice for the same resource but this is a topic for another essay.
Since we are already paying twice for the right to own and travel our land how can the government justify making us pay a third time?
Without the option of being able to drop everything for a day or more and get away – whether it’s hunting, fishing, hiking, biking, or just a sight seeing rumble down a forest service road – we are forever caught up in the whirlwind of daily life which, unfortunately, revolves around the centripetal capitalist machine.
I don’t have too many beefs with capitalism, just with the way it’s used by some companies and individuals. Capitalism affords me a pretty decent lifestyle. I’m always working to pay bills, buy toys or take trips. But without an opportunity to break out of our everyday consumer based lives for a moment we loose a huge opportunity to gain perspective on our motivations. Without perspective we loose the ability make good choices. Not having land to exercise a lifestyle of freedom and reflection keeps us from being true Americans because with out access to our publicly owned lands we loose the freedom we Americans are so proud of. Without freedom the whole capitalist system is a mute point.
When we cannot use OUR public lands the capitalist system has then become just another form of slavery because all we are doing is working to pay taxes or pay for goods and services. If we are not allowed to travel our publicly owned lands then we no longer own them; we are no longer free. This sounds just like the feudal systems our ancestors died to overthrow.
12/14/05
Letter to Mountain Gazette
Here's a letter to one of my favorite journals, Mountain Gazette, illustrating part of the roll conflict facing both men and women these days. What she has to say could just as easily come from a man:
Dear Editor:
Influenced by Nicole Gordon’s “Twixter” piece (MG #116) and Stephen W. Studebaker’s letter to the editor requesting more female representation in the MG (same issue), I submit some insomnia-influenced thoughts. (The clock currently reads 4:20 am, no joking.) Call me a twixter, Gen-X-er, thirty something-er or whatever have me (a narcissist?), but I’ve yet to sense the proverbial tick-tock of my biological clock. My “sound” wisdom tells me that the so-called biological clock is only part of the reason why humans jump on the baby bandwagon. In my opinion, I believe a larger part of this drive comes from external influences — like the “tender” coaxing from one’s family and close friends, more tax deductions and credits, boredom in the relationship and the “mini-me” aspect stemming from romantic pillow talks of perfect little offspring with perfect little features full of perfect potential. Never mind the not-so-perfect state of affairs on our planet upon which they’ll live. But, I digress.
In thinking about all this — this nagging search for deeper meaning so typical of my “type” — and knowing it will not be fulfilled by the creation of offspring, I’m forced to focus on what is. Not the what can be, could be or hopefully will be of my 20-something mind. What is. What is is the aforementioned planet we’ve all sucked nearly dry for our own short-term benefit. The old cliché “live for the day” seems to have been taken literally by most of the earth’s inhabitants. Build more, consume more, acquire more, improve more, more, bigger, better … We are living the tomorrow created by this way of thinking and continue to perpetuate it. I suppose one could argue with my earlier point — that we need offspring to mastermind the next wave of scientific, genetically modified, homogenized and pasteurized discoveries to “band-aid” the messes created by earlier generations. (The pharmaceutical industry comes to mind). No, the impact I’ve had on this earth ends with me. Call it my contribution. It’s the least I can do.
Lauri B
Aspen, CO
Dear Editor:
Influenced by Nicole Gordon’s “Twixter” piece (MG #116) and Stephen W. Studebaker’s letter to the editor requesting more female representation in the MG (same issue), I submit some insomnia-influenced thoughts. (The clock currently reads 4:20 am, no joking.) Call me a twixter, Gen-X-er, thirty something-er or whatever have me (a narcissist?), but I’ve yet to sense the proverbial tick-tock of my biological clock. My “sound” wisdom tells me that the so-called biological clock is only part of the reason why humans jump on the baby bandwagon. In my opinion, I believe a larger part of this drive comes from external influences — like the “tender” coaxing from one’s family and close friends, more tax deductions and credits, boredom in the relationship and the “mini-me” aspect stemming from romantic pillow talks of perfect little offspring with perfect little features full of perfect potential. Never mind the not-so-perfect state of affairs on our planet upon which they’ll live. But, I digress.
In thinking about all this — this nagging search for deeper meaning so typical of my “type” — and knowing it will not be fulfilled by the creation of offspring, I’m forced to focus on what is. Not the what can be, could be or hopefully will be of my 20-something mind. What is. What is is the aforementioned planet we’ve all sucked nearly dry for our own short-term benefit. The old cliché “live for the day” seems to have been taken literally by most of the earth’s inhabitants. Build more, consume more, acquire more, improve more, more, bigger, better … We are living the tomorrow created by this way of thinking and continue to perpetuate it. I suppose one could argue with my earlier point — that we need offspring to mastermind the next wave of scientific, genetically modified, homogenized and pasteurized discoveries to “band-aid” the messes created by earlier generations. (The pharmaceutical industry comes to mind). No, the impact I’ve had on this earth ends with me. Call it my contribution. It’s the least I can do.
Lauri B
Aspen, CO
11/27/05
Haiku Crazy
panting brindle sprawls
on shaded brick patio
sun and squirrels won
coffee and bagel
taste better when together
like pen and paper
smell rich emptiness
of lightly abandoned landscape
ridge runs to flake fog
The machine awakes
faces scowl nervousness
class begins today
jeweled blue reservoir
white peaks and soft green forest
chased by horsefly horde
Blueprint for Sunday -
hippy speedball draws the lines
of music for the sun
soft rhythm of sleep
curve of side gently breaths
I kiss naked hip
on shaded brick patio
sun and squirrels won
coffee and bagel
taste better when together
like pen and paper
smell rich emptiness
of lightly abandoned landscape
ridge runs to flake fog
The machine awakes
faces scowl nervousness
class begins today
jeweled blue reservoir
white peaks and soft green forest
chased by horsefly horde
Blueprint for Sunday -
hippy speedball draws the lines
of music for the sun
soft rhythm of sleep
curve of side gently breaths
I kiss naked hip
11/15/05
Freedom
I realize my last entry was a little sarcastic, but don't mistake sarcasm for anger. Sure there's a little anger there but most anger comes from fear. And I'm afraid for my freedom. The freedom to be socially upwardly mobile. I come from a poor rural family. I see the middle class that I'm trying to break into slowly shrinking right before my eyes from rising education and health care costs, just to mention a couple things. All I want is to have a middle class life and some leisure time. This is American freedom. All the other stuff, like the right to vote and freedom of speech, are satellite freedoms there to protect our basic American freedom - the right to be socially mobile and enjoy god's greatest gift which is life.
The true meaning of freedom is a topic that I've been thinking about for a long time. I don't want to scare people off by screaming. I just want people to start thinking about what freedom means to them and how it needs to be protected. Freedom is truth and it cannot be protected by lies and fear.
It's time for bed. I'll have more to say on this later...
The true meaning of freedom is a topic that I've been thinking about for a long time. I don't want to scare people off by screaming. I just want people to start thinking about what freedom means to them and how it needs to be protected. Freedom is truth and it cannot be protected by lies and fear.
It's time for bed. I'll have more to say on this later...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)