I cant remember if she was talking to me in a living room, or walking out a door into the cold night. The memory that hits me is fragmented, and possibly combining the words with the wrong place. Rolling up of memory, fragments forming bastard children of a weekend drunk and a weekday lunch. I shake my head and continue packing.
This isn't right. I'm packing my ruck, the hard used Lowe-Alpine pack dreams are made of. The one that's seen 10,000 feet, and subterranean depths. Filling it with the stuff of adventures, emergency tools, a medical kit, a pistol and magazines, and a flask of smooth Canadian whiskey. The change of clothes is spare, leaving room for an extra jacket and dry wool socks. This is a loadout for adventuring, or even escape, yet I am doing neither.
I'll toss the ruck, when I'm done with it, atop a plastic tub filled with laundry I need to wash. My mom will roll her eyes when I unload it, and I'll insist I may be bringing it home, but I can do my own. And in the morning it will be washed and in the dryer waiting for me to fold it.
The way I travel is a cry for help. A railing against attitudes of sloth and depression, against the routine of non-achievement. It begs for the excitement I lack day to day. Like a condom in the wallet, my rucksack poses as "being prepared", and is in actuality a cry into the darkness for the light of adrenaline, power, danger, and lust. I will take it with me, all packed and little used, just in case. In case, somewhere in the darkness of my own making, I find salvation.
The confusion of memory, and routine of packing to go home for Christmas, have me listening to the road outside. Anyone going westbound on Sixty is pointed toward Arizona, mountains and meadows, and the faraway smell of high pine wet with snow. My thumb throbs with each heart beat, just to hang it out there in the cold air and see where it takes me. But I wont. I will go home, like I should, where my mother is waiting, and continue on as I have been. I cannot tell if I am utilizing common sense, or if I no longer trust in my own navigation. I have no north star, other than the immediate, or temporal. Like a man fallen and rolling down hill, I am guided by gravity.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Shiver
The gray of late winter evening had settled,
slipping slowly into darkness
as soft white flakes gently fell, spare in the too warm night,
still cold
They stood in his driveway, breath fogging in the false light
talking of the old hotel where they had evened
and its many ghosts
creaking across wooden floors to dance
before its roaring fires
They stood too long, in their conversation
ignorant to the rising cold
Delaying the parting of semesters end
with talk of LP's and the deserved break
She smiled in the cold
and he remembered love
wanting to run his hand through her hair
loose about her head
like her laughter hung on fogged breath
Her lips bare and wet with talking
promising warmth if only he'd lean into them
They hugged, his head passing above hers in his full height
her cheek on his shoulder, hair brushing his face
Then parting, her smell lingering
in absence of her small strong touch
She smiled at him, waving through the car window
as she pulled out and left
Soft flakes fell, fighting their way to the ground
in the night grown colder
He stood alone in the gravel, and shivered
An older poem, about an even older moment in time, that I rediscovered earlier tonight.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Free(BASE) Climbing the Eiger
It seems that some madman, and I say that with reverence as the world truly lacks a good dose of madness on a good day, has free climbed (I.E. ropeless) the Eiger.
He did it with a twist, however. He wore a parachute designed for BASE jumping. Traversing onto a north face route called "Deep Blue Sea" at a height sufficient for BASE jumping, he managed a successful send without needing the 'chute.
FreeBASEing the Eiger - Dean Potter Interviewed
I am not a good climber, nor a particularly accomplished one, but I frickin' love it and am always in awe of amazing performances. This is without a doubt one of the more amazing I've heard of.
He did it with a twist, however. He wore a parachute designed for BASE jumping. Traversing onto a north face route called "Deep Blue Sea" at a height sufficient for BASE jumping, he managed a successful send without needing the 'chute.
FreeBASEing the Eiger - Dean Potter Interviewed
I am not a good climber, nor a particularly accomplished one, but I frickin' love it and am always in awe of amazing performances. This is without a doubt one of the more amazing I've heard of.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Exurban Disconnect
The rich smells of coffee and cedar smoke in cold rooms as yet uninvaded by the spreading heat. Cold save that one spot, bundled beneath layers, that no one in their right mind would leave. Somewhere outside a dog barks, his long and attentive cry of alarm, and right mindedness changes. Dressing quickly, grabbing a pistol off the bookcase and wishing it was a rifle, and quietly trotting out the kitchen door.
Eyes, squinted and suddenly watering against the flat and bright morning light, darting to the west. Scanning for shadows that move and grass that leans into the breeze. The pistol is cold, and not warming quickly, and no grass moves, and all the shadows sleep.
I stand for a long time, gun held low in front of me, playing my vision over the draw above the homeplace. Eyes waking, shaking free of sleep and given to reexamination of previously trusted brush and shade. Cedar smoke drifts lazily on the wind, calling me back to the house, to warmth. I turn partially, and go no where.
I cut my eyes back, looking out the sides of them. I feel like I am staring into the eyes of all the coyotes who have seen me, when I've never seen them. They are hidden in shadow and tall grass, laughing. If only I cut my eyes sideways just enough, as I am quartering away, I'll fool them I feel. Somewhere my vision will slip between worlds, and I'll see hidden things unsuspecting. Maybe even get a shot off. But my eyes find more still shadows, and grass that bends with the wind.
I turn a circle and look into the morning, for miles in every direction nothing but wildness of grass and cedar. Laughter of birds begins to fill the air, quick trilling song. Danger, if it was ever more than a pool of backbent breeze, is passed. I sigh, and start making the mental lists of the mornings tasks. Everything that must be made ready to return to town. Where, if tomorrow morning I answer the morning with a pistol and a hunter's smile, I'll surely be locked up. A roving mad man, hunting for quietude in the city.
Eyes, squinted and suddenly watering against the flat and bright morning light, darting to the west. Scanning for shadows that move and grass that leans into the breeze. The pistol is cold, and not warming quickly, and no grass moves, and all the shadows sleep.
I stand for a long time, gun held low in front of me, playing my vision over the draw above the homeplace. Eyes waking, shaking free of sleep and given to reexamination of previously trusted brush and shade. Cedar smoke drifts lazily on the wind, calling me back to the house, to warmth. I turn partially, and go no where.
I cut my eyes back, looking out the sides of them. I feel like I am staring into the eyes of all the coyotes who have seen me, when I've never seen them. They are hidden in shadow and tall grass, laughing. If only I cut my eyes sideways just enough, as I am quartering away, I'll fool them I feel. Somewhere my vision will slip between worlds, and I'll see hidden things unsuspecting. Maybe even get a shot off. But my eyes find more still shadows, and grass that bends with the wind.
I turn a circle and look into the morning, for miles in every direction nothing but wildness of grass and cedar. Laughter of birds begins to fill the air, quick trilling song. Danger, if it was ever more than a pool of backbent breeze, is passed. I sigh, and start making the mental lists of the mornings tasks. Everything that must be made ready to return to town. Where, if tomorrow morning I answer the morning with a pistol and a hunter's smile, I'll surely be locked up. A roving mad man, hunting for quietude in the city.
Next Time
I learned to roll cigarettes from my father, and a Romanian girl I taught to shoot. Delia, the International Super-Spy, who rolls the tightest cigarettes I’ve ever seen. I’m not so good at it. I lack practice, I smoke cigarettes so rarely. But tonight, I am a whole host of bad habits.
I drag hard on the cold butt, trying to liven its dead ash, so I can “monkey fuck” the one I just rolled. With no such luck, I hunt for a lighter.
I draw heavily, thick smoke rising from above the lighters flame. I drop the tool, letting it slip from the stiff fingers of my right hand. The hand aches, and fights at being opened. I force it closed again, sore tendons arguing, swelling. I need to climb easier, next time. Next time, I need to not roll cigarettes sloppily and smoke them too fast. I need to not mix whiskey in my coffee, stealing sips straight from the flask mouth. Next time. But for tonight, I am willing host to all of my bad habits. I relish in the nicotine, the alcohol, and playing my aching right hand across the keyboard. It cannot close, or hold weight, but it can lift cigarettes and write. And that’s good enough for now. I’ll worry about the rest in the morning.
I drag hard on the cold butt, trying to liven its dead ash, so I can “monkey fuck” the one I just rolled. With no such luck, I hunt for a lighter.
I draw heavily, thick smoke rising from above the lighters flame. I drop the tool, letting it slip from the stiff fingers of my right hand. The hand aches, and fights at being opened. I force it closed again, sore tendons arguing, swelling. I need to climb easier, next time. Next time, I need to not roll cigarettes sloppily and smoke them too fast. I need to not mix whiskey in my coffee, stealing sips straight from the flask mouth. Next time. But for tonight, I am willing host to all of my bad habits. I relish in the nicotine, the alcohol, and playing my aching right hand across the keyboard. It cannot close, or hold weight, but it can lift cigarettes and write. And that’s good enough for now. I’ll worry about the rest in the morning.
Monday, November 24, 2008
War, Cormac McCarthy and Speculative Fiction
Broke, running out of coffee and whiskey (not to mention food), and not feeling like going in to work leaves me in a random mood today. I feel rushed and pressed to do a lot of things, all on my mind at once. Yet I sit at my desk, in my broken backed chair and pursue utter randomness, looking for Black Swans.
Really, I was trying to find a Cormac McCarthy quote to use in a discussion, and it somehow led into an expanding gyre of the random. So, I'm running with it.
Blood Meridian is, without a doubt, my least favorite McCarthy novel. At least of those I have read (I have yet to read The Crossing, The Sunset Limited, Outer Dark, Cities of the Plain or The Orchard Keeper). I am not turned off by the violence, or the despairing philosophies, or any of the rest that so many others find repugnant about the book. I simply think McCarthy has done better. Blood Meridian is revisionist, a nice way of saying its historical accuracy is precisely dick, and compared to McCarthy's masterpieces such as Suttree and The Road, poorly written. It lacks the subtlety in extremes of those two novels. While they deal with extreme, and violent, situations and the wreck and ruin of human lives, Suttree and The Road do so with understatement, and the literary equivalent of negative space. The unsaid. offers little subtlety in its extremes, reveling in the violence, and base vulgarities of nearly every character. I understand the idea, the portrayal of human natures desired, but I simply find Blood Meridian to be inelegant all around. Even in Child of God, which lacks some of the subtlety of later McCarthy, there was an elegance to the handling of such extremes. I am continually mystified at people who cant get over Blood Meridian - Its just not that good. And don't even get me started on people who want to think it is an accurate historical portrayal.
With all that said, however, it has some gems in a handful of lines. And bad McCarthy is still better than a lot of other writers best. The line about war, as said by the character of the Judge, is one I have always liked.
While looking for that quote, I came across another interesting perspective on McCarthy, in particular his Pulitzer winning The Road.
I am an unabashed fan of The Road, and have recommended it to most everyone I know. Some who've taken me up on it liked it, others did not as is the way with anything. I think it is one of the best works of literary fiction I've ever read, truly a master work. But beyond that, I've thought since it first came out, that it was a bold move in literary fiction, as it is essentially speculative fiction. Science fiction, speculative fiction, SciFi, Sciffy, call it what you will, is a dirty term in literary circles. Like fantasy (thud and blunder), it is an area regarded by the literati as populated by hacks, and poor use of language, and all the other cardinal sins against literature. And, to some extent, they are right - There is a lot of really terrible speculative fiction. But there is a lot of really good speculative fiction, and plenty of writers who are far more literary and skilled at their crafting of language than a lot of the icons of literature. I personally think there are more fundamentally important works of science fiction, than there are of (at least modern) literary fiction. Perhaps only made more so by the fact that, the engineers, the scientists, the builders of our world read science fiction/speculative fiction. Their bliss, their flights of fancy, and the reflections of their hopes, dreams, failures, and losses, are all in speculative fiction. These are the people who build our world. Yet to many literati, their voices and concerns are low and vulgar, they are the unwashed rabble.
And someone, at least, has the balls to point all this out: Dipping Their Toes in the Genre Pool
I need to read A Canticle of Leibowitz again. It is a fantastic book. I was thrilled last fall when I saw it was among the required reading for a popular course at New Mexico Tech. Seeing numerous students carrying it around, dog earing pages, and talking about it was fantastic.
Really, I was trying to find a Cormac McCarthy quote to use in a discussion, and it somehow led into an expanding gyre of the random. So, I'm running with it.
"It makes no difference what men think of war [...] War endures. As well ask men what they think of stone. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner." Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian
Blood Meridian is, without a doubt, my least favorite McCarthy novel. At least of those I have read (I have yet to read The Crossing, The Sunset Limited, Outer Dark, Cities of the Plain or The Orchard Keeper). I am not turned off by the violence, or the despairing philosophies, or any of the rest that so many others find repugnant about the book. I simply think McCarthy has done better. Blood Meridian is revisionist, a nice way of saying its historical accuracy is precisely dick, and compared to McCarthy's masterpieces such as Suttree and The Road, poorly written. It lacks the subtlety in extremes of those two novels. While they deal with extreme, and violent, situations and the wreck and ruin of human lives, Suttree and The Road do so with understatement, and the literary equivalent of negative space. The unsaid. offers little subtlety in its extremes, reveling in the violence, and base vulgarities of nearly every character. I understand the idea, the portrayal of human natures desired, but I simply find Blood Meridian to be inelegant all around. Even in Child of God, which lacks some of the subtlety of later McCarthy, there was an elegance to the handling of such extremes. I am continually mystified at people who cant get over Blood Meridian - Its just not that good. And don't even get me started on people who want to think it is an accurate historical portrayal.
With all that said, however, it has some gems in a handful of lines. And bad McCarthy is still better than a lot of other writers best. The line about war, as said by the character of the Judge, is one I have always liked.
While looking for that quote, I came across another interesting perspective on McCarthy, in particular his Pulitzer winning The Road.
I am an unabashed fan of The Road, and have recommended it to most everyone I know. Some who've taken me up on it liked it, others did not as is the way with anything. I think it is one of the best works of literary fiction I've ever read, truly a master work. But beyond that, I've thought since it first came out, that it was a bold move in literary fiction, as it is essentially speculative fiction. Science fiction, speculative fiction, SciFi, Sciffy, call it what you will, is a dirty term in literary circles. Like fantasy (thud and blunder), it is an area regarded by the literati as populated by hacks, and poor use of language, and all the other cardinal sins against literature. And, to some extent, they are right - There is a lot of really terrible speculative fiction. But there is a lot of really good speculative fiction, and plenty of writers who are far more literary and skilled at their crafting of language than a lot of the icons of literature. I personally think there are more fundamentally important works of science fiction, than there are of (at least modern) literary fiction. Perhaps only made more so by the fact that, the engineers, the scientists, the builders of our world read science fiction/speculative fiction. Their bliss, their flights of fancy, and the reflections of their hopes, dreams, failures, and losses, are all in speculative fiction. These are the people who build our world. Yet to many literati, their voices and concerns are low and vulgar, they are the unwashed rabble.
And someone, at least, has the balls to point all this out: Dipping Their Toes in the Genre Pool
I need to read A Canticle of Leibowitz again. It is a fantastic book. I was thrilled last fall when I saw it was among the required reading for a popular course at New Mexico Tech. Seeing numerous students carrying it around, dog earing pages, and talking about it was fantastic.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Once More, The Sound of Guns...
I've actually tried to avoid gun blogging. I don't want to be a "gun blogger", something I've always found limiting, even if only in the eyes of others. It is inevitable however. It has to come up. I am a strong supporter of the right to keep and bear arms. Skill at arms is integral to my philosophy of a "neo-bohemian" lifestyle. In my little "Uber Mensch 2.0" ideal, being handy with a gun is as essential as the ability to read, write, drink coffee and wear trendy hats.
Cute oversimplifications aside, I like the guns. The guns are an important part of my life, and my social consciousness. Unfortunately, this turns a lot of people off, people who otherwise agree and identify with me and vice versa. A lot of my politics and philosophies are currently quite popular with a set who abhor the idea of guns and gun owners, much less an active pursuit of firearms use as a skill for saving lives. This is something I've learned to live with, and try to do what I can to change one person at a time. Usually, I don't have very high expectations, but from time to time a surprise comes along from an unexpected corner.
Such an unexpected corner was this article in High Country News: Why We All Need the Democrats to Abandon Gun Control
Its a good article. Do I think its spot on? No. But I think the ideals of that article would be a good place to start.
My only real criticism is that I think it is a mistake to look to the Heller decision as the end all be all of Right to Keep & Bear Arms legislation. Heller, while a real victory for RKBA, left some holes that we must be aware of, and be ready to fight. That said, in the context of the HCN article, and its target audience, Heller as a benchmark makes a lot of sense.
There will be more, in coming days/weeks/months. Somewhere in my head there is an epic post about guns, in general. As well as a lot more. One entry at a time, though.
Cute oversimplifications aside, I like the guns. The guns are an important part of my life, and my social consciousness. Unfortunately, this turns a lot of people off, people who otherwise agree and identify with me and vice versa. A lot of my politics and philosophies are currently quite popular with a set who abhor the idea of guns and gun owners, much less an active pursuit of firearms use as a skill for saving lives. This is something I've learned to live with, and try to do what I can to change one person at a time. Usually, I don't have very high expectations, but from time to time a surprise comes along from an unexpected corner.
Such an unexpected corner was this article in High Country News: Why We All Need the Democrats to Abandon Gun Control
Its a good article. Do I think its spot on? No. But I think the ideals of that article would be a good place to start.
My only real criticism is that I think it is a mistake to look to the Heller decision as the end all be all of Right to Keep & Bear Arms legislation. Heller, while a real victory for RKBA, left some holes that we must be aware of, and be ready to fight. That said, in the context of the HCN article, and its target audience, Heller as a benchmark makes a lot of sense.
There will be more, in coming days/weeks/months. Somewhere in my head there is an epic post about guns, in general. As well as a lot more. One entry at a time, though.
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