Christmas came and quietly went. I warmly welcome this departure of pelagic nativity donned by the crusaders of the New World. I've been trying to gently explain to my partner of five months that Christmas has never been my cup of tea. Rather, it can make me feel nauseous or otherwise unfit for celebratory clattering. I think she's taking it well, though i get an inkling of her disappointment. She loves the maraud of giftgiving, the tree, the ornaments and stockings, and the schizophrenic wonderings of accidental exclusion. Can't forget anyone or they'll interpret it as a lack of love, or change of heart. Isn't that terrifying? That so much resides on locating a gift and its positive betrothal with the recipient.
I gave it my all, i actually rather enjoyed this year's holiday. We spent a sum of days in California, an eight-hundred mile drive door-to-door. It began early one morning in a rainstorm. My sedan chunked along the mountain pass at six-thousand feet, a nervous struggle with the driving rain likely freezing to the roadway. Eventually we reached the flats of Idaho and Nevada, poring along the highways and interstates at record speeds. Despite our rush the trip takes a minimum of twelve hours.
Awaiting us in California: friends on my side, a full liquor cabinet admist a million-dollar home, a giant tree decked and strewn with presents at its base. The days passed well, and then it was Christmas. I grew nervous seated there, already drinking at eight in the morning. I could see my name upon a few packages... fearing the scene of many eyes and an invisible approval rating. But things turned out well and my cynicism somehow hung back long enough for the event to occur. It reminded me at times of a cartoon catfight, figures lost in a cloud of dust and paws. That was the scene beneath the tree; wrappings, ribbons, and bows in the air. The sound of tearing and the spoonfed anticipation and childsplay of giving and expectant reciprocation.
The trip home began at four in the morning. It'd been snowing all night and i'd kept turning down the blinds to see the accumulation. I have a small sentra with front-wheel drive, new all seasons, but no chains. I put the coffee on early, nervous for the trip. It began with an eight-thousand pass, luckily following three snowplows to the summit as the wind whipped by with plentiful snow. The plows left us alone on the summit and we descended toward Carson City in a veritable foot of white, downshifting into the utterly black night. Somehow surviving that, passed the "chain requirement" signs and gas gauge on empty, i sped into the bright city of Reno. The city quieted by the season, empty streets, devoid of the greasy spoon for which i searched. Pressed on, eating a surprisingly great breakfast in Fernley inside a casino. The sound of pull slots wafted in. A trucker-type was sitting with a line of Coors empties, burning cigarettes at a machine near the front door. A pair of elderly women were working the video poker screens on the other end, not speaking to one another. We cleaned our plates and left some money on the table.
The drive continued straight, so fucking literally straight as I-80 settled the high plateau of Nevada's interior. Passing time with radio stations, knuckles nearly white holding the wheel against dangerous winds hitting the car. Saw an awful wind wreck: truck jack-knifed, shredded rv, and crotchrocket turned on its side. Obvious loss of lives.
It was a nervous, deliberate drive across two states. Finally reaching eastern Idaho and readying for the final leg as night fell. That's when my fifth gear dropped out of the race. How could this happen? I had to hold it in for a hundred miles, pushing the interstate as cars passed me on the left. Then it grew worse with the last century of miles, popping out regardless. Had to be satisfied with fourth; kept petting the dashboard like Herbie reincarnate. The sun set, another snowstorm arrived and the epic journey continued. We arrived late in the evening, sore and disgruntled passed the point of caring. Laughing like okies with wires showing from the wheels and muffler lacking. Set our sights for one of the first joints in our town of Jackson. Sat down for dinner at the bar, only seated a second 'fore we pulled out the chairs and settled for standing.
When i awoke this morning i felt like an old man, but i felt good and young inside. Glad to be home, lying in bed with my lover no matter how crazy she is. Looking outside at the white landscape as the coffee steeps in the kitchen...
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Thursday, December 15, 2005
take the skinheads snowboarding!
I didn't sleep too well last night. I had a reel of fitful dreams, one in which i was Luke Skywalker and during a duel with my blue saber, i cut down Princess Leia. Then turning to the nearest wall i imagined the force drawing through me; i sensed my father on the other side. And so, i used my lightsaber like a saw and cut a doorway in the wall. I could hear Darth Vader breathing now, that mechanical rasping... i knew i was done for. Then on cue, right at the climax, i woke up.
It was still dark out; the temperature gauge read negative five. While the coffee brewed i walked across the icy street to the elderly home and snagged one of their papers, lying cold untouched on the lobby doorstep. Morning paper, coffee, followed by breakfast. I was feeling alright, though i could've gone for one of Limbaugh's horse tranquilizers. The poor bastard! Good way to start a day i guess.
I donned my gear and clipped my snowboard to my pack. Climbed aboard my bicycle and pedaled over to the in-town ski resort. It's a joke, but it's fun. A clear blue day except for a snow halo around the mountain, snow machines growling on the slopes and makers spitting up a cloud of white. No one was there except for the lift operator. We exchanged a good morning and i sat the crawl up the mount. By my second run a few loners had showed up to practice on the sharp groomed slopes. Most were like me, amateurs in the snow seeking out space and solitude to learn the sport. Halfway up the hill i became engulfed in the human snow excretement, cutting visibility to a sum of yards. I dropped my goggles down and peered around feeling like a Polish ski assasin hunting Nazis. And through the light lift drum, and the otherwise quietude, i heard a kid yell "Oh shit!" as he imperceptibly bit into the snow. Another poor bastard in the newfangled morn.
I was riding chair 64 with one foot kicked upon the seat, the other dangling to my snowboard. Another fantasy, this time of Sylvester cliffhanging with a gaping crevasse beneath him. Then appropriate catastrophe while mudslinging some cable and he let loose that sorry fellow. Hey, meatheads feel pain too man! If only my biceps functioned beyond trophies, his character thought.
The snow felt good beneath my board. I eased into turns thinking the word effortless, again and again. A repetetive meditation, stolen from an overheard conversation on snowboarding. "It's not easy, dude! It's effortless," said some bum in clothes worth a thousand to an up-and-coming bum at the bar. Sounded like a good thing, though at the time i nearly snorted my beer. Thoughtful, like a motherfucker.
It was still dark out; the temperature gauge read negative five. While the coffee brewed i walked across the icy street to the elderly home and snagged one of their papers, lying cold untouched on the lobby doorstep. Morning paper, coffee, followed by breakfast. I was feeling alright, though i could've gone for one of Limbaugh's horse tranquilizers. The poor bastard! Good way to start a day i guess.
I donned my gear and clipped my snowboard to my pack. Climbed aboard my bicycle and pedaled over to the in-town ski resort. It's a joke, but it's fun. A clear blue day except for a snow halo around the mountain, snow machines growling on the slopes and makers spitting up a cloud of white. No one was there except for the lift operator. We exchanged a good morning and i sat the crawl up the mount. By my second run a few loners had showed up to practice on the sharp groomed slopes. Most were like me, amateurs in the snow seeking out space and solitude to learn the sport. Halfway up the hill i became engulfed in the human snow excretement, cutting visibility to a sum of yards. I dropped my goggles down and peered around feeling like a Polish ski assasin hunting Nazis. And through the light lift drum, and the otherwise quietude, i heard a kid yell "Oh shit!" as he imperceptibly bit into the snow. Another poor bastard in the newfangled morn.
I was riding chair 64 with one foot kicked upon the seat, the other dangling to my snowboard. Another fantasy, this time of Sylvester cliffhanging with a gaping crevasse beneath him. Then appropriate catastrophe while mudslinging some cable and he let loose that sorry fellow. Hey, meatheads feel pain too man! If only my biceps functioned beyond trophies, his character thought.
The snow felt good beneath my board. I eased into turns thinking the word effortless, again and again. A repetetive meditation, stolen from an overheard conversation on snowboarding. "It's not easy, dude! It's effortless," said some bum in clothes worth a thousand to an up-and-coming bum at the bar. Sounded like a good thing, though at the time i nearly snorted my beer. Thoughtful, like a motherfucker.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
unrivaled assiduity
I have stumbled upon a diaphanous mire, one which i had no intention of discovering. It has been difficult to gesture nonchalantly or feign calm, to reach quiescence. The unparalleled supposition that all is not clearly defined, as i'd previously thought, has startled me. I've never been faced with such an aphorismic calling to debase all that i've created.
To put it more plainly, i'm up against the world that i've deigned solid and worth a damn. It seems that this frankenstein invention has somehow turned against me, and all that i've worked so hard to create, in hand, has transposed yet more effort and diligence. Is this perhaps the infinite recreation of pi that proves millenia of more of the same? You can't argue with mathematics man! Is there any end or retribution to these now aimless travails?
I am constantly searching for what psychologist's deem one's "place." A special place such as Peter Pan had to descry, otherwise he couldn't remember how to fly. This culpable neglect has managed to clip my wings and leave me utterly torn upon which route to take. In the manner of the common discontened husband, i've found a splendid peace in my work routine. My occupations have become harbors of asylum, where no one can touch me. The first, with customers that couldn't vilify themselves due to a lack of intelligence; and the second, kids, who no matter what, cannot profess criticisms to be taken personally. Only a knitwit could be burned by such shoal adversaries.
Otherwise in search of a place, like Steinbeck's Ethan Hawley in a nook upon New Baytown's waterfront, i find a number of possibilities. An existentialist would locate the "place" within the self and nowhere else. I could only relate on a certain level. Certainly, no matter where you are, there you are. But, what about the substantive power to the human psyche of holding a physical, actual place? A place located through much haphazard and random searching. Or a site that has brought one to tears or been habitated during a great event. This concept holds more weight for me. I think of the quotidian returns to places i've found, to eat my lunch or scribble in a notebook. I cannot accept that revisitation is merely a reflex to the boring nature of human beings. There must be some proven root in the body's benefit to that site; it could not be otherwise, for our bodies are much smarter than our brains. Hell, the Egyptians would scoop out the brain in ritual burials of the elite. They figured it had no worth in the afterlife, hence not a significant bounty in this world.
I haven't had ample time to collect myself between bouts of domestic hammering. Is this what it means to be married? The way sour lovers refer to the notion of commitment? Does it truly have to be such a battle? And why can't a man (or woman) find peace when they most need it? Perhaps, true to my constant contestment, the universe works in such ways because only a full journey to one end of the sprectrum can bring spectoral development. Only extremes can rivet one to make a decision, to change, to evolve. If this is true, i can accept such matters with humble assiduity. But, if an inkling of doubt remains, all i can say is "fuck G-O-D, pick on somebody else."
To put it more plainly, i'm up against the world that i've deigned solid and worth a damn. It seems that this frankenstein invention has somehow turned against me, and all that i've worked so hard to create, in hand, has transposed yet more effort and diligence. Is this perhaps the infinite recreation of pi that proves millenia of more of the same? You can't argue with mathematics man! Is there any end or retribution to these now aimless travails?
I am constantly searching for what psychologist's deem one's "place." A special place such as Peter Pan had to descry, otherwise he couldn't remember how to fly. This culpable neglect has managed to clip my wings and leave me utterly torn upon which route to take. In the manner of the common discontened husband, i've found a splendid peace in my work routine. My occupations have become harbors of asylum, where no one can touch me. The first, with customers that couldn't vilify themselves due to a lack of intelligence; and the second, kids, who no matter what, cannot profess criticisms to be taken personally. Only a knitwit could be burned by such shoal adversaries.
Otherwise in search of a place, like Steinbeck's Ethan Hawley in a nook upon New Baytown's waterfront, i find a number of possibilities. An existentialist would locate the "place" within the self and nowhere else. I could only relate on a certain level. Certainly, no matter where you are, there you are. But, what about the substantive power to the human psyche of holding a physical, actual place? A place located through much haphazard and random searching. Or a site that has brought one to tears or been habitated during a great event. This concept holds more weight for me. I think of the quotidian returns to places i've found, to eat my lunch or scribble in a notebook. I cannot accept that revisitation is merely a reflex to the boring nature of human beings. There must be some proven root in the body's benefit to that site; it could not be otherwise, for our bodies are much smarter than our brains. Hell, the Egyptians would scoop out the brain in ritual burials of the elite. They figured it had no worth in the afterlife, hence not a significant bounty in this world.
I haven't had ample time to collect myself between bouts of domestic hammering. Is this what it means to be married? The way sour lovers refer to the notion of commitment? Does it truly have to be such a battle? And why can't a man (or woman) find peace when they most need it? Perhaps, true to my constant contestment, the universe works in such ways because only a full journey to one end of the sprectrum can bring spectoral development. Only extremes can rivet one to make a decision, to change, to evolve. If this is true, i can accept such matters with humble assiduity. But, if an inkling of doubt remains, all i can say is "fuck G-O-D, pick on somebody else."
Friday, December 09, 2005
winter doldrums
I was born a few years after Mt. St. Helens erupted on the exhausted holiday commemorating Christopher Columbus. For this reason, and perhaps also due in part by my Libran nature, i've been forced to solve the riddle of decision-making. Columbus was not so savvy in discovering much of anything and his accounts show stretches of the truth and, at other times, flat-out lies of reaching the New World. Instead, Columbus' alleged route took him directy into the tropical doldrums where he and his crew awaited near death by dehydration, while they scrawled pretty delusions such as, "What i thought was the land was but a cloud."
I've recently discovered that doldrums are not only confined to 0-30 degrees latitude, but seem to wreak the same havoc at... let's say 45 degrees, in the domain of the prevailing westerlies. I feel akin to each, since i'm certainly prevailing here in the west, though at times i feel like a recyclable plastic bag blowing in the breeze, or at other times just lying in the road waiting to be swept up by artificial vehicular wind.
In recent days i've been cast about on a sea of snow and ice wondering to whence i came and to where i go. And to more neoteric times, i've returned to a splendid summer mantra that kept my engine upon the rails for the warm months: "Lower the bar. Be Philistine." Which upon utterance, quelled feelings of alarm and anticipation, anxiety mind you. With the return of these passing nuances, adjustments have been made and this calming sutra has been reinstated.
It seems that we are all at the mercy of our own scrutiny and introversion. I, for one, would greatly appreciate the absence of deep thoughts for a spell and more profoundy contemplate the complexities of NFL football in its final weeks. Wouldn't that be a more worthwhile ponderance than continuing to wrack my brain upon a future that will never come, for the present is ever-residing?
I've been intently considering the metamorphosis to a Himalayan blue sheep, or Bharal, which is hypothetically an evolutional divergence between goat and sheep. Bharal especially enjoy crashing their heads and horns together in a way of solving dispute (rather than sitting astute and solving nothing by way of thought).
"For most creatures, such an encounter would be fatal, but bharal are equipped with some two inches of parietal bone between the horns, together with a cushion of air space in the sinuses, thick woolly head hair, and strong necks to absorb the shock, and the horns themselves, on the impact side, are very thick and heavy. Why nature should devote so many centuries- thousands, probably- to the natural selection of these characters that favor head-on collisions over brains is a good question, although speaking for myself in these searching days, less brains and a good head-on collision might be just the answer." ~Peter Mathieson, The Snow Leopard
I've recently discovered that doldrums are not only confined to 0-30 degrees latitude, but seem to wreak the same havoc at... let's say 45 degrees, in the domain of the prevailing westerlies. I feel akin to each, since i'm certainly prevailing here in the west, though at times i feel like a recyclable plastic bag blowing in the breeze, or at other times just lying in the road waiting to be swept up by artificial vehicular wind.
In recent days i've been cast about on a sea of snow and ice wondering to whence i came and to where i go. And to more neoteric times, i've returned to a splendid summer mantra that kept my engine upon the rails for the warm months: "Lower the bar. Be Philistine." Which upon utterance, quelled feelings of alarm and anticipation, anxiety mind you. With the return of these passing nuances, adjustments have been made and this calming sutra has been reinstated.
It seems that we are all at the mercy of our own scrutiny and introversion. I, for one, would greatly appreciate the absence of deep thoughts for a spell and more profoundy contemplate the complexities of NFL football in its final weeks. Wouldn't that be a more worthwhile ponderance than continuing to wrack my brain upon a future that will never come, for the present is ever-residing?
I've been intently considering the metamorphosis to a Himalayan blue sheep, or Bharal, which is hypothetically an evolutional divergence between goat and sheep. Bharal especially enjoy crashing their heads and horns together in a way of solving dispute (rather than sitting astute and solving nothing by way of thought).
"For most creatures, such an encounter would be fatal, but bharal are equipped with some two inches of parietal bone between the horns, together with a cushion of air space in the sinuses, thick woolly head hair, and strong necks to absorb the shock, and the horns themselves, on the impact side, are very thick and heavy. Why nature should devote so many centuries- thousands, probably- to the natural selection of these characters that favor head-on collisions over brains is a good question, although speaking for myself in these searching days, less brains and a good head-on collision might be just the answer." ~Peter Mathieson, The Snow Leopard
Saturday, December 03, 2005
not an alarmist
Only an alarmist would provoke such thoughts that enclosure may lead to claustrophobia. And as the roads turn icy and travel abroad the city perimeter becomes limited, i look inside these walls and wonder of the worry. What has caused these feelings to flee this den, when finally winter has come? There is truly nothing that determinedly pulls me, though the world itself is still enticing, and always will be. I fear more the road away; wayfaring has become too often a tactic for dealing with difficulty. But, to determine with certainty whether difficulty and hardship will beget the desired aim, or just be a waste of energy and time... that is truly a tough dilemna. Some may say, including myself at many points, that there is no waste of time with true effort. For the road itself is the lesson... and so once again my introspection proves voluminous confusion.
And so, i try to sit still and let positive attract positive~ in hopes that something will draw me. Meanwhile the snow falls incessantly and the debased roads struggle to hold my tires. Perhaps with the weight of all my things, my pressurized all season tires will convert to winter tires. Or perhaps if i filled my tires to 75 pounds of pressure such as Hunter Thompson did to his Las Vegas rental car, i could make a safer escape.
Have you ever looked at someone you love before and felt that it was yourself you were beholding? Or looked with such an aguish eye that you were certain to scare them? I catch myself studying my partner so intently as if a revelation could be met. Maybe i wish to say something that no words could convey. Though being a stout believer in communication, i often try and merely prove that misunderstanding is much simpler a task. I find myself waving about with my hands, feverishly gesturing such as politicians do. I prance and pantomime using poor prepositions such as Dean Moriarty in a fit of methamphetamines. "But, you don't understand man! It's like this...!"
Perhaps i should just stick to watching birds and identifying plants. It's so much simpler to foster a relationship with those perfectly evolved for the weather. I listen for nature's lesson: adapt or migrate.
And so, i try to sit still and let positive attract positive~ in hopes that something will draw me. Meanwhile the snow falls incessantly and the debased roads struggle to hold my tires. Perhaps with the weight of all my things, my pressurized all season tires will convert to winter tires. Or perhaps if i filled my tires to 75 pounds of pressure such as Hunter Thompson did to his Las Vegas rental car, i could make a safer escape.
Have you ever looked at someone you love before and felt that it was yourself you were beholding? Or looked with such an aguish eye that you were certain to scare them? I catch myself studying my partner so intently as if a revelation could be met. Maybe i wish to say something that no words could convey. Though being a stout believer in communication, i often try and merely prove that misunderstanding is much simpler a task. I find myself waving about with my hands, feverishly gesturing such as politicians do. I prance and pantomime using poor prepositions such as Dean Moriarty in a fit of methamphetamines. "But, you don't understand man! It's like this...!"
Perhaps i should just stick to watching birds and identifying plants. It's so much simpler to foster a relationship with those perfectly evolved for the weather. I listen for nature's lesson: adapt or migrate.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
non-adherent resolution
December has come and with it flurries of snow and the loss of color upon the landscape. Work has continued, time has turned upon dial in a slow quiet way that can be counted on. And as Christmas nears and a new year comes, soon i expect to hear the bouts and series of resolutions break forth from the mouths of many. I for one, have reached no solid resolution, though at times such furious conclusions have been met. The one strong and standing: i need to leave this place. This thought is not fancy pessimism, or the notion that things may resolve themselves elsewhere, though that may be true. For wherever you are, there you are. And this i know to be true; and, i am not running from myself.
I believe that as one becomes more fluid and influenced by their surroundings, they subsequently struggle to make unflexing decisions. It has been a time of non-adherent resolution for me. Schizophrenic debating from day-to-day has once again left me in a state of anxiety~ as if my mug of coffee was too tall. This conundrum has been brought on by the universe's famous slinging of simultaneous possibilities. Perhaps humans must choose amongst many to feel firm in their resolve. In this respect, the mass of selective commodity one finds at the grocery store may be invisibly beneficial. Having to choose between four brands of the same product. And maybe once that selection is made, some instinctual calm and confidence sets in and we know irrefutably that our choice was prime.
The preponderance of decision faced has proven overwhelming and i begin to wonder how to even begin mulling. Is it true that a path is already laid for us and one only must follow the vaporous signs? Should one be weary of misstep or could that experience father the wise?
I believe that as one becomes more fluid and influenced by their surroundings, they subsequently struggle to make unflexing decisions. It has been a time of non-adherent resolution for me. Schizophrenic debating from day-to-day has once again left me in a state of anxiety~ as if my mug of coffee was too tall. This conundrum has been brought on by the universe's famous slinging of simultaneous possibilities. Perhaps humans must choose amongst many to feel firm in their resolve. In this respect, the mass of selective commodity one finds at the grocery store may be invisibly beneficial. Having to choose between four brands of the same product. And maybe once that selection is made, some instinctual calm and confidence sets in and we know irrefutably that our choice was prime.
The preponderance of decision faced has proven overwhelming and i begin to wonder how to even begin mulling. Is it true that a path is already laid for us and one only must follow the vaporous signs? Should one be weary of misstep or could that experience father the wise?
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