"Mornin’"
one drop, a cousin
atomized by window pane
clock says five a.m.
beans spin into dust
scent steams from pressed hot water
wet dog waits at door
foundation of bread
sometimes ham, sometimes jelly
lunchbox sits by door
paved capillaries
move us towards the heart of the day
a path through the rain
“Mornin’ George.”
“Mornin’.”
dropping “good” builds less concern
tool belts dried through night
Renamed, Becomes Soul
a million cousins
atomized by gore-tex coat
white noise with music
saw spins into wood
nail steams from compressed cold air
wet dog under porch
measure, mark, cut, nail
lumber pile dissected
renamed, becomes soul
narrow wooden bones are
plumbed, pointing at the sky
skin is important
“I’m over it, man”
tool belts hanging to dry again
clock says five-thirty
5/25/08
4/27/08
She Only Visits Me in Dreams These Days
You hold my face with your hands
Your dark chocolate eyes steam in perfect temperature
But swirl slowly in a worry
I had stirred up by seeing you again
A worry
that I’d kiss you before you were ready
Your face moves closer
Your dark curls slide
past your cheeks towards mine
curtains shutting out the world
Your hands guide my lips towards yours
The moment before we kiss
your eyes shift from soft worry
to uncertainty about where your movement will lead
We’ve done this before…
I stare at the dark ceiling
Your ghost fading from my lips
and the phantom curls on my cheeks
are replaced by moisture
by memories I did not expect
My nights are saturated with our unique kiss
I love seeing you, until I awake
Do you dream of me when I am dreaming of you?
I fear both answers
Your dark chocolate eyes steam in perfect temperature
But swirl slowly in a worry
I had stirred up by seeing you again
A worry
that I’d kiss you before you were ready
Your face moves closer
Your dark curls slide
past your cheeks towards mine
curtains shutting out the world
Your hands guide my lips towards yours
The moment before we kiss
your eyes shift from soft worry
to uncertainty about where your movement will lead
We’ve done this before…
I stare at the dark ceiling
Your ghost fading from my lips
and the phantom curls on my cheeks
are replaced by moisture
by memories I did not expect
My nights are saturated with our unique kiss
I love seeing you, until I awake
Do you dream of me when I am dreaming of you?
I fear both answers
4/6/08
Post-Degree Agoraphobia
I hear a flushing sound. Louder and longer than the sound a toilet makes. A breeze kisses my face for an instant, then I’m falling, sliding, the rib-like welds of a giant tube rush past me faster and faster. I want to panic but I knew this moment was coming. I still exhale short squeal, like a little girl who just spotted a spider.
The giant tube chucks me out, into a giant field where I do three cartwheels and a couple of somersaults and land face down. “I asked for a gentle exit not a yard sale, damn it,” I grumble, knowing full well life is a free-spirit and does what it wants. I may grumble but I can relate. There is no blame, only choices.
The grass tickles my forehead and an ant occasionally crosses my narrow field of view, crawling over small clumps of dirt and under blades of grass. I take a deep breath. Soft smells of rain and topsoil and sunshine and microbes invade my nose and my brain and the bottom of my lungs. The smell feels good. I feel my body loosen in relaxation. I take another deep breath. A breeze tickles my left ear. My clothes and neck are warm from sunshine. Maybe I nap, it’s hard to tell.
Standing up, the horizon teeter-totters and my vision swarms with white spots. I take another deep breath and wait for it to clear but I can already see it is an infinite distance to the horizon. The dark blue of the sky at the horizon slowly fades to a pale blue directly overhead. My chest tightens, my quads spasm, my deep breaths become short and shallow. I spin around looking for the tube so I can crawl back in. It’s gone, withdrawn. “I’m trapped,” I hear myself gasp. Too much space. Too much open. I’m going to fall up, get sucked into all that space.
What the hell am I suppose to do? Which direction do I look, let alone travel? School was an incubator. I was protected, comfortable and regimented. Student loans took away day to day financial stress, the end of each semester was a bite sized goal and the schedule helped keep a nice rhythm to life. But now I’ve been booted, ejected, cutoff. But clutched in my sweaty hand is the most expensive piece of paper I have ever owned. I can feel its power.
“Trapped?” I repeat to myself but in a question this time. The word rattles around in my brain and soul, mixing the emotions. I take a deep breath and spin in another circle but slowly this time, taking in the sky and the horizon. There are mountains way off in the distance begging to be explored and a random brick tower here and there looking very mysterious. I like mysteries. I like exploring. Over head wispy clouds slowly expand, curling and becoming more transparent, like a drop of food coloring in a glass of water.
I look at my immediate surroundings. I see my backpack, hiking poles, ball cap and sunglasses scattered around me in the grass. Picking up my ball cap and sunglasses I put them on and wait for my eyes to adjust. I unclench my sweaty degree, smooth it out on my leg and put it in my backpack. I slide on my pack. I pick up my poles.
“Trapped,” I say again but begin chuckling, understanding the irony of my first exclamation. “Trapped. That’s funny. It’s exactly the opposite. I can go in any direction I want.” I turn slowly again to pick a direction. I’m in no hurry. The hard part’s over. Getting flushed isn’t so bad. Actually, it’s kind of fun, like a cliff drop or ten story water slide. My body begins to buzz from the anticipation of the unexplored.
Taking another deep breath I begin to walk away from my yard sale skid mark in the grass. I have a degree in my pack. I have the confidence of maturity and life experience. I have a slow, rhythmic stride, spiraling out in deliberate exploration.
The giant tube chucks me out, into a giant field where I do three cartwheels and a couple of somersaults and land face down. “I asked for a gentle exit not a yard sale, damn it,” I grumble, knowing full well life is a free-spirit and does what it wants. I may grumble but I can relate. There is no blame, only choices.
The grass tickles my forehead and an ant occasionally crosses my narrow field of view, crawling over small clumps of dirt and under blades of grass. I take a deep breath. Soft smells of rain and topsoil and sunshine and microbes invade my nose and my brain and the bottom of my lungs. The smell feels good. I feel my body loosen in relaxation. I take another deep breath. A breeze tickles my left ear. My clothes and neck are warm from sunshine. Maybe I nap, it’s hard to tell.
Standing up, the horizon teeter-totters and my vision swarms with white spots. I take another deep breath and wait for it to clear but I can already see it is an infinite distance to the horizon. The dark blue of the sky at the horizon slowly fades to a pale blue directly overhead. My chest tightens, my quads spasm, my deep breaths become short and shallow. I spin around looking for the tube so I can crawl back in. It’s gone, withdrawn. “I’m trapped,” I hear myself gasp. Too much space. Too much open. I’m going to fall up, get sucked into all that space.
What the hell am I suppose to do? Which direction do I look, let alone travel? School was an incubator. I was protected, comfortable and regimented. Student loans took away day to day financial stress, the end of each semester was a bite sized goal and the schedule helped keep a nice rhythm to life. But now I’ve been booted, ejected, cutoff. But clutched in my sweaty hand is the most expensive piece of paper I have ever owned. I can feel its power.
“Trapped?” I repeat to myself but in a question this time. The word rattles around in my brain and soul, mixing the emotions. I take a deep breath and spin in another circle but slowly this time, taking in the sky and the horizon. There are mountains way off in the distance begging to be explored and a random brick tower here and there looking very mysterious. I like mysteries. I like exploring. Over head wispy clouds slowly expand, curling and becoming more transparent, like a drop of food coloring in a glass of water.
I look at my immediate surroundings. I see my backpack, hiking poles, ball cap and sunglasses scattered around me in the grass. Picking up my ball cap and sunglasses I put them on and wait for my eyes to adjust. I unclench my sweaty degree, smooth it out on my leg and put it in my backpack. I slide on my pack. I pick up my poles.
“Trapped,” I say again but begin chuckling, understanding the irony of my first exclamation. “Trapped. That’s funny. It’s exactly the opposite. I can go in any direction I want.” I turn slowly again to pick a direction. I’m in no hurry. The hard part’s over. Getting flushed isn’t so bad. Actually, it’s kind of fun, like a cliff drop or ten story water slide. My body begins to buzz from the anticipation of the unexplored.
Taking another deep breath I begin to walk away from my yard sale skid mark in the grass. I have a degree in my pack. I have the confidence of maturity and life experience. I have a slow, rhythmic stride, spiraling out in deliberate exploration.
3/4/08
How to make Lemonade
Ingredients
1 ended relationship
1 chest with sad heart
1 broken Bronco clutch
2 parts unemployment
1 pouch Bali Shaq
107 tears
9 variations of same swearword
24 pack PBR
15 restless nights
11 uncomfortable phone calls
15 gallons of debt
2 aching knees
1 country song on 8-track
59 shades of angst
1 upset stomach with a side of heart burn
101 ways of self-examination
345 college memories
2 good friends
1 snowboard
1 new town
4 dashes of soul
2 fistfuls of determination
1 pile of hopes, desires and dreams
Directions
Combine ingredients in hourglass.
Blend. A lot.
Say "giddy up."
Plug nose and gulp.
Then land on feet.
1 ended relationship
1 chest with sad heart
1 broken Bronco clutch
2 parts unemployment
1 pouch Bali Shaq
107 tears
9 variations of same swearword
24 pack PBR
15 restless nights
11 uncomfortable phone calls
15 gallons of debt
2 aching knees
1 country song on 8-track
59 shades of angst
1 upset stomach with a side of heart burn
101 ways of self-examination
345 college memories
2 good friends
1 snowboard
1 new town
4 dashes of soul
2 fistfuls of determination
1 pile of hopes, desires and dreams
Directions
Combine ingredients in hourglass.
Blend. A lot.
Say "giddy up."
Plug nose and gulp.
Then land on feet.
12/27/07
The Headsman of Graduation
(written for College and Beyond blog on 11/8/07)
One morning during the first week of the semester I woke up. We all do it. It’s morning and that’s what most productive members of society do. But, it was 5 am. I stared at my alarm clock and willed it to be 7:30. The clock flipped to 5:01. I rolled over a few times and looked again. 5:02. I began to not only count sheep but also give them names - “Joe, Bob, Ann, wolf… Wolf?! Ok, enough,” I thought as the clock changed to 5:03, “I’m getting up.”
I, of course, was stressing out about school, but it wasn’t even mid terms yet. I have six credits left to finish before I graduate in December. Graduation looms like a headsman lovingly sharpening his axe over the chopping block as I am escorted through the crowd and towards the stage. “At least,” I hope, “he’s sharpening his blade and not trying to dull it.” Either way there he is, standing in his black hood and holding his gleaming blade, taunting me with my fate.
5:04. I flip on the light and begin to make coffee. My dog lifts her head, blinks at me and goes back to sleep.
But, I am the hero of this vision. So, I itch the butt of my green tights, flash a perfect smile at the headsman and reach for a sword… um, I mean, the ‘on’ switch of my computer. The Headsman of graduation will not leave this hero wondering “what next?”
I have been working insanely hard for three and a half years getting my degree in English Literature/Creative Writing. I haven’t had time to think about life after college. When I entered school I had visions of becoming a “writer” – whatever that means. It is an abstract noun paired with names like Hemingway and Kerouac. But now, with graduation coming at the end of this semester, I am faced with the result of this vision. Somehow I had moved from pseudo-collegeboy-nerd into real life unemployed nerd. I will have the ornate certificate encased in a cheap frame to prove it. It will officially be the most expensive piece of paper I have ever owned. The loan statements will prove this to me monthly. You’re damn right I will proudly display this piece of paper and hope its brilliance hides the cheap frame. But, since I'll be unemployed will anybody blame me for frame quality?
I wish I could charge a fee for others to come and see the most expensive piece of paper on the planet, but alas, people are smart and I am a lousy con-man. So, I am forced to work for my money. But, how? What am I suppose to do with an English degree? At graduation aren’t they suppose to give us English majors a desk and a typewriter? I hope they also give us a trash can for all the false starts and a flask to sit in the drawer. My script says, "toss mortar," then scene break and “cue agent,” but no one knocks on my door. I don't know how to cast this part.
5:10. The coffee finishes brewing. My dog blinks at me again and decides it’s still too early. I sit down in front of my computer and begin doing research into what it means to make a living as a writer. Two hours later my sleepy dog puts her head in my lap, asking me to let her out…
That was 10 weeks ago. Since that early morning episode, where I was obviously slightly delirious, I have been spending eight hours, two days a week researching a career. I know it’s a lot of time. I would rather be spacing out at my keyboard or drinking heavily (that’s what writers do, right?) but I have toys to buy and a girlfriend to impress. So, while I still have access to University resources, I figure I should prepare for my transition into the working world. I would encourage everyone to take the time to do this while still in school. The headsman waits. Fortunately, the hero or heroine in most stories is not only good looking but also proactive.
A good place to start is Career Services at your university. They were wonderfully informative and incredibly tolerant of my stupid questions – greeting each one with a blink, smile and fact-filled answer full of encouragement. With their help I built a great resume and portfolio. I also learned how and where to look for a job and picked up materials on how to prepare for an interview or a university sanctioned job fair. I also talked with everybody remotely related to my chosen career path – professors, fellow students, grad students, local writers and magazine owners, and the cute barista. Not only did this generate ideas but my Rolodex of contacts grew exponentially.
It might sound silly, but I also googled “freelance writing,” “top ten money making degrees,” and “advantages of an English degree.” I read for hours but in the end I knew what type of salary to expect from writing, who thee top trade journals are, what websites and companies were reputable for networking and jobs, how to market my degree and experience to potential employers and what degree to get if I wanted to make money or go to grad school. This leads me to my next point.
A person does not necessarily need to walk the classic corporate path. There are alternatives. Like teaching English overseas, starting a non-profit, entering grad school or being a ski-bum for a few years. After my first stint in college I chose to be a bum, um… I mean, I chose to snowboard for a few (eight) winters. During my time as snow-bum I did a lot of soul searching. I know it sounds cliché but one must know themselves to be content and I refused to have my mid life crisis in mid-life – I had mine in my late twenties. I’m glad that one’s over, even though I was too broke to buy a convertible and support a trophy wife. Oh well, I bought a couple new snowboards and I’ll take a powder day over makin’ whoopee any day. Those of you who have been snow-bums know exactly what I’m talkin’ about – high-five!
But, because of my self exploration I now know I need personal improvement goals to feel happy, that I may not not political enough to work in a corporation, I need to bark like a dog and moo like a cow occasionally without getting fired, I have to be in or near the mountains to keep my sanity and if I don’t have time to space out a little every day I short-circuit – imagine the sound of an electric shock and my eyeballs bouncing side to side.
So, now I stand on the stage, the headsman bleeding at my feet, smiling at a crowd of cheering admirers. But, far above me I hear a manic laugh and a woman scream. I think the manic laugh was accompanied by a man saying, “you haven’t graduated yet sucka,” but, I am not entirely sure. I look up to the tower just in time to see beautiful long hair and a tiara disappear from a tower window. I get the feeling that defeating the headsman was the easy part. “The hero’s work is never done,” I sigh. Flashing my smile, making a few women in the crowd swoon, I leap towards the tower stairs…
One morning during the first week of the semester I woke up. We all do it. It’s morning and that’s what most productive members of society do. But, it was 5 am. I stared at my alarm clock and willed it to be 7:30. The clock flipped to 5:01. I rolled over a few times and looked again. 5:02. I began to not only count sheep but also give them names - “Joe, Bob, Ann, wolf… Wolf?! Ok, enough,” I thought as the clock changed to 5:03, “I’m getting up.”
I, of course, was stressing out about school, but it wasn’t even mid terms yet. I have six credits left to finish before I graduate in December. Graduation looms like a headsman lovingly sharpening his axe over the chopping block as I am escorted through the crowd and towards the stage. “At least,” I hope, “he’s sharpening his blade and not trying to dull it.” Either way there he is, standing in his black hood and holding his gleaming blade, taunting me with my fate.
5:04. I flip on the light and begin to make coffee. My dog lifts her head, blinks at me and goes back to sleep.
But, I am the hero of this vision. So, I itch the butt of my green tights, flash a perfect smile at the headsman and reach for a sword… um, I mean, the ‘on’ switch of my computer. The Headsman of graduation will not leave this hero wondering “what next?”
I have been working insanely hard for three and a half years getting my degree in English Literature/Creative Writing. I haven’t had time to think about life after college. When I entered school I had visions of becoming a “writer” – whatever that means. It is an abstract noun paired with names like Hemingway and Kerouac. But now, with graduation coming at the end of this semester, I am faced with the result of this vision. Somehow I had moved from pseudo-collegeboy-nerd into real life unemployed nerd. I will have the ornate certificate encased in a cheap frame to prove it. It will officially be the most expensive piece of paper I have ever owned. The loan statements will prove this to me monthly. You’re damn right I will proudly display this piece of paper and hope its brilliance hides the cheap frame. But, since I'll be unemployed will anybody blame me for frame quality?
I wish I could charge a fee for others to come and see the most expensive piece of paper on the planet, but alas, people are smart and I am a lousy con-man. So, I am forced to work for my money. But, how? What am I suppose to do with an English degree? At graduation aren’t they suppose to give us English majors a desk and a typewriter? I hope they also give us a trash can for all the false starts and a flask to sit in the drawer. My script says, "toss mortar," then scene break and “cue agent,” but no one knocks on my door. I don't know how to cast this part.
5:10. The coffee finishes brewing. My dog blinks at me again and decides it’s still too early. I sit down in front of my computer and begin doing research into what it means to make a living as a writer. Two hours later my sleepy dog puts her head in my lap, asking me to let her out…
That was 10 weeks ago. Since that early morning episode, where I was obviously slightly delirious, I have been spending eight hours, two days a week researching a career. I know it’s a lot of time. I would rather be spacing out at my keyboard or drinking heavily (that’s what writers do, right?) but I have toys to buy and a girlfriend to impress. So, while I still have access to University resources, I figure I should prepare for my transition into the working world. I would encourage everyone to take the time to do this while still in school. The headsman waits. Fortunately, the hero or heroine in most stories is not only good looking but also proactive.
A good place to start is Career Services at your university. They were wonderfully informative and incredibly tolerant of my stupid questions – greeting each one with a blink, smile and fact-filled answer full of encouragement. With their help I built a great resume and portfolio. I also learned how and where to look for a job and picked up materials on how to prepare for an interview or a university sanctioned job fair. I also talked with everybody remotely related to my chosen career path – professors, fellow students, grad students, local writers and magazine owners, and the cute barista. Not only did this generate ideas but my Rolodex of contacts grew exponentially.
It might sound silly, but I also googled “freelance writing,” “top ten money making degrees,” and “advantages of an English degree.” I read for hours but in the end I knew what type of salary to expect from writing, who thee top trade journals are, what websites and companies were reputable for networking and jobs, how to market my degree and experience to potential employers and what degree to get if I wanted to make money or go to grad school. This leads me to my next point.
A person does not necessarily need to walk the classic corporate path. There are alternatives. Like teaching English overseas, starting a non-profit, entering grad school or being a ski-bum for a few years. After my first stint in college I chose to be a bum, um… I mean, I chose to snowboard for a few (eight) winters. During my time as snow-bum I did a lot of soul searching. I know it sounds cliché but one must know themselves to be content and I refused to have my mid life crisis in mid-life – I had mine in my late twenties. I’m glad that one’s over, even though I was too broke to buy a convertible and support a trophy wife. Oh well, I bought a couple new snowboards and I’ll take a powder day over makin’ whoopee any day. Those of you who have been snow-bums know exactly what I’m talkin’ about – high-five!
But, because of my self exploration I now know I need personal improvement goals to feel happy, that I may not not political enough to work in a corporation, I need to bark like a dog and moo like a cow occasionally without getting fired, I have to be in or near the mountains to keep my sanity and if I don’t have time to space out a little every day I short-circuit – imagine the sound of an electric shock and my eyeballs bouncing side to side.
So, now I stand on the stage, the headsman bleeding at my feet, smiling at a crowd of cheering admirers. But, far above me I hear a manic laugh and a woman scream. I think the manic laugh was accompanied by a man saying, “you haven’t graduated yet sucka,” but, I am not entirely sure. I look up to the tower just in time to see beautiful long hair and a tiara disappear from a tower window. I get the feeling that defeating the headsman was the easy part. “The hero’s work is never done,” I sigh. Flashing my smile, making a few women in the crowd swoon, I leap towards the tower stairs…
3/10/07
Keep Your Southside
Keep Your Southside
Originally uploaded by A Schultz.
I've seen fights, drug deals, drinking parties, Native American chants, little kids on training wheels, bums enjoying the sights, business men and women on bikes, dogs walking themselves, sunsets, storms... all on or from this bridge. (Copyright 2006 Aaron Schultz)
2/27/07
The Artist’s Luxury
Thoughts and impressions sit
on my lips;
a white painful blister that’ll never pop,
giving satisfaction like a zit,
but only turn into a gothic sore.
A disappointment.
I roll my tongue over the
extravagant epiphany
that has manifested as a scabby, deformed
version of the golden eternal inspiration.
This isn't the garden of Eden I walked
barefoot through in my imagination…
Instead, I duck my head and wear sunglasses.
I’m afraid they’ll cringe, or laugh, or worse -
Cover their children’s eyes while they tisk, tisk.
“if you could only see what I saw…”
on my lips;
a white painful blister that’ll never pop,
giving satisfaction like a zit,
but only turn into a gothic sore.
A disappointment.
I roll my tongue over the
extravagant epiphany
that has manifested as a scabby, deformed
version of the golden eternal inspiration.
This isn't the garden of Eden I walked
barefoot through in my imagination…
Instead, I duck my head and wear sunglasses.
I’m afraid they’ll cringe, or laugh, or worse -
Cover their children’s eyes while they tisk, tisk.
“if you could only see what I saw…”
2/10/07
A Foreshadow?
A Foreshadow?
Originally uploaded by A Schultz.
A friend and I got to Snowbowl at 9:30 last Monday. The sun was out and there wasn't any wind. Blue bird, warm - it smelled like march 25th. By the time we left at noon my waxless base resisted every turn and something flaked a chunk off my top sheet b/c of the odd coverage.
I have never noticed the Maclay project from Snowbowl until I looked at this photo. These lines are noticeable from everywhere around Missoula - Snowbowl, Waterworks, Sentinel, S, hills, Scott st. bridge... They loom. My eyes always resist these lines because they look like giant worms eating the into the mountain. Now, because I noticed them looming in this photo, they will loom above Snowbowl and it's future.
12/20/06
Ghost Train
Ghost Train
Originally uploaded by A Schultz.
slides out of Glacier and onto the Front,
stopping occasionally, dropping college kids
with new styles in old towns
mom smiles and hugs, saving a comment for later
while little brother drops a spot in the pecking order…
12/19/06
One Season Stretches Into Another
One Season Stretches Into Another
(Originally uploaded by A Schultz.)
as one year blends into the next. Every year I ask, “If I could freeze my aging what age would it be?” And, I always answer, “well... maybe this age. It was so full of enlightenment.”
My dog is 4 and her hips are already bothering her. I'm 31 - my joints ache with passing low pressure and the crows feet and bald spot imperceptibly grow each day. But we can both still climb a mountain or go for a long run. And we grow wiser every year. She no longer sprints in circles for the first 2 miles of a long hike and I stay away from those girls dad always warned me about.
The only thing I miss is the pure athleticism and naive invincibility I had until I was 25. Aging is a trade off - I guess I am learning to adjust to the un-negotiable aspects of that tradeoff - (imagined) invincibility for wisdom. I’m not sure yet which I like better, even though I know wisdom prevail.
If I had wisdom in my early twenties my joints wouldn’t ache and I wouldn't have my memories of dropping cliffs on my snowboard during the ego-snow days. I resist the changes I feel coming but I’m happy I don’t have to change anything.
10/18/06
Lyrical Essay
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.
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.
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)