My Dog’s Dreams

Does a dog know the difference between awake and dream?

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

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

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

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

(Can you find the Dog in this photo?)

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

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


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

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

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

Bucket Boy Speaks!

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

Holes in Buckets and Barrels
By Aaron Schultz


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

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

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


Famous quotes that should have been overheard about buckets:

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Big Deal About Coffee

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

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

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

First Portland Road Trip - (Part 1)

Same Trip - Different Worlds (Part 1 of 3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Weeks in Portland

It seems… not quit real yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skiing Stairs

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

To see the whole shoot go here.

Walking Daydream on Table Mountain

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

Thanks for checking it out!

Economics, Society and Art

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Giving Work Away For Free

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mommy, what is creativity?

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

But, if allowed to squirts sideways…

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

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

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

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

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

Sitting Samurai

Sitting Samurai
Originally uploaded by A Schultz.

(This poem is the rough draft - please check back for edits)

(7/17/08 - here's the second edit)

“Come here and listen my son

The samurai sits,
asleep in his thoughts
but awake in his movements through the clouds
his reflections an open window to a world
where his brother is alive

The brother waits,
floating in his own world of clouds and blue sky
But the samurai guards the window
waiting to avenge his brothers absence
They both wait for you

We train every day with breath and movement
running through time, swimming in reverie
Our thoughts commenting on our lives
Our actions commenting on our thoughts

We train every night with breath and movement
running in water, swimming through air
Our dreams commenting on our actions
Our lives commenting on our dreams

Take your breath, take your movement
and shape them
into a long sharp blade
Its profile will then become a mirror
And when you look into this mirror
you will see a brother

He floats, cross-legged, sheathed in silence
but humming with determination
Waiting for you to make your move
To scratch the silver off the glass

The window never closes”

Carpenter Haiku

"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

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

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.

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.

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…

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)

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…”

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.

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…