Home For Christmas

I woke up early on Saturday morning, threw a change of clothes and my toothbrush in a bag, and started the trek across the desert to my Mom's. It's a four hour drive across some of the most beautiful desert in the world. Much of the way follows old route 66 through abandoned towns, and valleys of cactus and creosote that fall away as far as the eye can see. I've made this same journey maybe thirty five times over the past seven years. This time would be the last. I'll most likely drive up I-40 again, but I'll never have the same destination in mind. I'll never pull up in the same driveway again, expecting to be greeted by same smiling faces. I'll never again sit on that porch in the evening, talking with my family over dinner while the sun sets behind us.

I arrived around noon and helped them pack the garage. All of the remnants of memories and dreams that made my family who they were and are. The half-empty scuba tanks, the old red flag my Dad had made for paintballing, the hammers and saws that had built many a backyard project and assisted in countless home improvements, the ski-rope that towed my brothers and I behind the boat on our river adventures. So many little odds and ends that spoke of daring summers long past. They tug to the surface memories that would otherwise be forgotten. All of these things covered in dust, undisturbed for the past two years.

I never lived there, but it has still come to feel like home. It even carries those familiar scents which I associate with my childhood. So much has happened over the past seven or so years since my family left California, and today my Mom and my youngest brother left Arizona for good. They've left that house where we spent Christmases and Thanksgivings together, where my father died and my brothers became men.

Finished

Snow Trip
Originally uploaded by empyrean_squire

With finals bearing down on me, and projects due which had been put off until the last possible minute, every other leisure activity, including blogging, faded into the background. Actually, they didn't really fade into the background. Instead, as I attempted to banish them from my mind and focus the whole of my attention on my studies, the things that were not my studies became much more pronounced. I was actually kind of worried that the sheer amount of writing I had to do for my classes would so tax the wellspring of my mind that I'd never feel like blogging again. But here I am, as of last night I'm officially 24 credits closer to my BA. It's really nice to have this little bit of respite to catch my breath.

Some of the highlights of this last week have included:

Reading - It's been along time, maybe a year or more, since I've really gotten into a good book. It's easy to find things to read that are interesting, or informative, but once in along while a book comes along that is utterly captivating. I've had to read so much for my classes, and while it's usually good material that I enjoy reading, most of it isn't exactly enamoring. A friend of mine (Natalie) gave me The Princess Bride for my brithday last week (after a year of pestering me to read it) and the day before yesterday I pulled it off the shelf and started in. I'm already half-way through it. I can hardly put it down. I even took it to work with me today so that I could get a few pages read while driving between pool inspections. (I want to clarify that Tony was the one doing the actual driving, just in case anyone had developed mental images of me reading behind the wheel. I've tried it before and it's just a bit beyond my multitasking ability) It's nice to be able to read something so enjoyable without deadlines, or expectations, or the need to analyze and develop an opinion worthy of a college paper.

Hiking - A bunch of my friends and I decided to hike Mt Baden Powell last weekend. We'd planned the whole thing out, and on Friday a cold front moved in, complete with rain, wind and ice. On Saturday morning when I woke up I checked the weather report for Wrightwood, and the forecasted high for the day was 36 degrees with the windchill dropping it another 10 or so. We went anyway. When we got there, we discovered that it had snowed the night before, and the icy wind coming off the snow had an edge on it that would cut through the heaviest jacket. Instead of heading for the summit we decided to take the more sheltered trail around the mountain to Big Horn Mine, where I took the above picture. (I'll admit that this whole section is just an excuse to show off this picture which I've very proud of)

New Filter - I got a polarized filter for my camera on Tuesday. It's interesting how some cheap little accessory can completely revitalize one's enthusiasm. I haven't had a chance to use it yet, but coupled with the photography guidebook that Stephen gave me for my Birthday it should prompt several exciting adventures in the very near future. I was riding my bike up on the aqueduct on Tuesday, shortly after purchasing the new filter, and as I rode along, feeling quite pleased with myself, I started to think of all the wonderful (and not so wonderful) pictures I would now be able to take. (as if simply owning a polarizing filter would greatly improve my standing as an amature photographer) Suddenly I was jerked from my daydreaming by the silhouette of a man about a half mile down the road. He was standing perfectly still, and had this strange protrusion coming from his face. He stood there, very straight and concentrated on whatever it was he was looking at. As I got closer I realized that the protrusion was actually a camera. He was taking pictures of the ducks and other aquatic fowl that were paddling around in the aqueduct. He was in his late 60s, a little stooped, and wearing a khaki safari outfit. His camera was a Nikon D80, and he was sporting this beast of a telephoto lens that could easily have been confused for a rocket propelled grenade launcher. (It probably cost more than my truck) I greeted him and commented on his camera. He responded in broken English laced with a bit of German. He was very friendly, and even let me snap a couple photos with his lens. Needless to say the excitement I had been feeling earlier disappeared entirely.

The Best of Europe

The Best of Europe

I'm sitting here in my apartment again. I have at least a dozen assignments due in the next two weeks, and my list of legitimate excuses to put off my assignments is growing thin. Out of desperation I've decided it's time to blog again.

Autumn is always a very emotional time for me. I don't normally consider myself a very emotional person, and so I blame the diminishing daylight (isn't ultra-violet light somehow connected with the production of serotonin?), the departure of summer, and the annual death and dormancy of everything green. Add to all of that the stress of a full time job and a double load of classes, and well, it's enough to make one either completely succumb to madness, or worse yet, wax poetic. (utilizing very poor poetical abilities at that) I've never dealt with stress very well, in fact, I don't usually deal with it at all. I just ignore it and hope it goes away. My efforts to avoid my assignments over the past two weeks have included but not been limited to: Bike riding, Swing Dancing, watching really crummy movies at the dollar theater, watching really crummy movies at the more expensive theaters, vandalism of city property (don't ask), mountain climbing, and shopping-cart racing.

The weather this week has been divine. November has always been one of the best months weather-wise. This year has been slightly warmer than normal, with temperatures ranging from 75-80 to 45-50 at night. The wind has calmed for the year, and the sky is ever the deepest colors of blue, offsetting the tawny desert colors and the brighter, more traditional autumn tones. Walking outside in the late afternoon the air is so still, almost as if the whole world is holding its breath. It's the interim between summer and winter, and like that moment of hesitation one experiences before leaping into a pool, nothing is happening. It's the quiet between happenings. I rode my bike down the street past the empty baseball diamond, past the vacant YMCA, and turned the corner and passed the lonely elementary school. Ultimately I had no destination in mind. I was just riding to get out and away and hopefully clear my head. I was also hungry. As I rode I casually watched the criss-cross pattern of cracks in the sidewalk as they went zooming under my bike's tires, and listened to the arhythmic sound of leaves crackling like cellophane as I sailed over them.

I was getting really hungry, and when I'm hungry it's difficult to think of anything else. I remembered that a friend of mine had told me about some deli near the laundromat, and claimed they had some of the best sandwiches she'd ever had. Being the fan of sandwiches that I am I figured I should give this place a try. I rode over there and was very surprised to find the place tucked away in a little shopping center between two stores I frequent quite often (is that a redundant statement? It sounds good at least). Sometimes it's amazing what you can overlook. The sign over the door read "The Best of Europe," and above that was a bright colored banner which announced to passers-by that they now proudly feature Boar's Head. On the other side of the door was a tiny little shop with all sorts of interesting food items packed on the narrow shelves which lined the wall to the right. There were cans of pickled herring, exotic candies, and colorful drinks. They also had a variety of German and Belgian chocolates. (Now I won't have to bug my German friend to send chocolate through the mail) After looking briefly at the selections on the shelves I turned around and asked the girl behind the counter about their sandwiches. "You'll never eat at Subway again" she said. As she made my sandwich I marveled at how I'd managed to remain ignorant of this store's existence until now. "How long has this place been here?" I asked, thinking perhaps it had only recently opened, and that maybe then my ignorance could be justified. "Oh, seven years or so" she said. Apparently there are still doors opening to magical worlds overlooked by most. A sandwich shop may not be all that exciting, but it sure is a good temporary escape from coursework.

On Ghosts and Folklore

Haunted Ponds
Originally uploaded by empyrean_squire

Myths and Folktales have always fascinated me. I'm amazed at how certain stories can evolve, twist and be embellished through generations of retelling, yet still maintain enough of an element of truth to ensure their continued survival. The life cycle of a virus might make a good analogy. Every time a virus is passed from one person to another, it changes ever so slightly. It's a method of survival. However, where a virus brings sickness and even death, a folktale can infect a person with a glimpse at a culture and a way of thinking that exists just below the surface of what is real and perceivable to the naked eye. The greatest thing about these stories is that they transcend time. Not only do you get a quick view into a present lifestyle and mindset, but you can also see into the past, to the story's origin and a way of life that has been all but forgotten. I'm amazed at how many myths run through the Antelope Valley; from the incredible stories of early pioneers, indians, and outlaws; to tragedies, murders, and monsters.

Yesterday I had to set mosquito traps in the Barrel Springs area around Lake Una. The area lies just south of Palmdale at the base of the mountains. Nestled in the San Andres rift zone, Lake Una is rumored to be bottomless. Hundreds of years ago it was the junction of indian trails, and a trading hub where Chumash Indians would come from the coast to trade abalone shells for pottery and obsidian. About a mile from there are the Haunted Ponds, and an old stagecoach stop which predates the railroad and the forgotten town of Harrold. Wayward and dust-smattered travelers would pass through there, bound for Los Angeles and a new life. They would stretch their legs and knead the sore spots out of their backs, or sit in the shade under the enormous cottonwoods while the coach was outfitted with fresh horses and a new driver. The trail south was perilous. The area was also frequented by bandits- including the infamous Tiburcio Vasquez, who robbed from the rich and gave to himself.

I was poking around the lake looking for a good place to set my mosquito traps when The Caretaker suddenly appeared. He's an interesting guy, middle-aged, tattooed, and sporting a mustache and a fisherman's hat with the words "Bite Me" embroidered over the brim. I run into him almost every time I'm out there. He's full of old stories; from the things he's dredged up out of the lake or found with his metal detector; to the history and local lore of ghosts, mysterious murders, and even dragons... Whenever I run into him I know it's going to be at least a half an hour before I'll be able to get any work done. I don't mind though, he's fun to listen to. He told me the Old Mountain Lion had been spotted down there again. He turns up around Barrel Springs every autumn. Forty-five minutes later I was once again crawling through tules and cattails and thickets of woody brush that reached over twenty feet tall. A few of these thickets are over a mile square and so tightly packed that only the tiniest amount of sunlight is able to break through. The maze of pathways and animal trails through the muddy ground are beyond confusing and one could easily spend hours wandering in circles and never know it. The dim light and broken branches protruding at grotesque angles give the place an eerie feel. Even the birds are reluctant to penetrate very deeply into the thickets, and the silence adds to the spooky ambiance. It's easy to see how the early settlers came up with the name "Haunted Ponds."

Fire

As the sun goes down, the smoke drifts in from the south and the sky is ablaze with color. The trees display their brilliant autumn hues of saffron, copper and claret. The full moon rises as red as the Mosaic Nile. Away over the mountains thousands of people lament as they watch their lives go up in flame. Sometimes it’s absurd how accurately the world reflects one’s inner turmoil. These feelings of beauty and elation, remorse and despair, all flickering, dancing, melding, and fusing into the brightest of colors; searing the soul and scathing the mind. These conflicting emotions: always rising and falling, sometimes fighting, while at other times augmenting each other. The flame surrounds and consumes us, and most of all it reminds us that we are indeed alive.

Tempus Fugit

It’s the most wonderful time of the year – according to the plastic animatronic Santa Clause that was waving to me from a shelf in Costco. I should be used to how early Christmas items go on sale these days, but every year it takes me by surprise. It is that time of year though: time for that unabashed conglomeration of commercialism which we call The Holiday Season. It’s that time of year when I really start to question the values of capitalism without forgetting the alternatives. It’s that time of year which also includes my birthday. How did it get here so quickly? I’ve heard the theory that time seems to move more quickly as you age. When you’re five, a year is a fifth of your life. When you’re fifty, a year is practically an insignificant amount of time. It should amount to a slow but steadily perceived acceleration of time as our lives progress. This year has gone by ridiculously fast. I suppose it may have something to do with the pace I’ve been keeping. I’ve been jumping from one project to the next without even pausing to catch my breath.

I ducked out of my Latin class early tonight. The clock was broken. We were going to watch Troy, which I’ve already seen, and I hadn’t been paying attention anyway. I fought the wind between the classroom and my truck, and then headed to Albertson’s to get something to snack on. I wandered around the store for a while and finally ended up with a bag of cookies and a pumpkin. I went through the self-checkout and plunged headlong into the cold, windy parking lot. Instead of turning towards home I turned the other way, and on a whim drove up to the aqueduct. There is something truly amazing about sitting in the dark while a 50mph wind whips around you. I sat next to the pumpkin and listened to the wind while the lights from Mira Loma burned below. The whole valley was lit up, and the dust in the air took up some of the glow and held it just over the city, almost like a thin pool of amber fog. It looked like the valley was on fire. It reminded me of the night I spent on the roof of my house at the Indian Museum and watched the Writewood fire slowly burn its way down the mountain twenty miles away. That seemed like such a long time ago. The lights of Lancaster hit the mountains behind me and were cast back into the darkness. The quarter moon slowly sank below the ridgeline. Cars drove past on Gotte Hill, and I sat there in the dark with the wind and the pumpkin and watched as time danced it’s fleeting dance.

ad·ven·ture (ād-věn'chər)

verb
1. to take a risk in the hope of a favorable outcome


Last weekend was filled with adventure. It was rich and amazing. As the sore spots on my collar and the spiral on my back slowly fade, I'm reminded by Tom Petty that "coming down is the hardest thing."

Spirals are interesting symbols. They mean many different things. According to some scholars, certain American Indian tribes and Celtic peoples believed that the spiral depicted the passage of time. In modern culture we're taught to think of time as a line without beginning or end. Like a straight line, a spiral can have no perceivable beginning or end, and unlike a straight line, a spiral time-line suggests that time can run parallel to itself. This actually may be a much more accurate notion of how time works, at least metaphorically, as there are many similar repetitions and parallels in history. e.g. the rise and decline of nations and cultures, the pendulum swing between political and philosophical ideals. Our entire lives are made up of cycles. Like the seasons, our experiences come and pass, and then come around again only slightly changed. What a dizzying thing the world is. It's good to remember that whatever season you're going through in life, it will eventually pass and be replaced by another season. And while being torn between remorse for the loss of the old, and fear and excitement at the dawn of the new, that season will come around again, but differently. I suppose that could be either reassuring or very depressing, depending on how you look at it.

Last weekend was amazing. ;)

Perception

I'm wondering what, entirely, factors into our awareness of the world and the people and things we encounter in it. What makes one thing stand out to us over other similar things? Is it the rarity, or the aesthetics of a thing; or is it something entirely different?

A couple of weeks ago I arrived home from work, and upon pulling into my parking space I noticed an elderly lady watering the sand-filled planter two doors down. This may not seem very odd to those whom are reading this, but allow me to first tell you a bit about my apartment complex. From what I can gather, I believe this place was originally built in the '40s. The doorknobs, hinges, and faucets are consistent with those in some of the historic buildings I worked on when I was employed by the Department of Parks and Rec. That means that either this building is the same age as the others, or it was built with spare parts. I'm also fairly certain that there have been no significant, professional alterations or repairs made on this building since it's initial construction. From the outside, the building looks like a large pink hotel, and from the inside it looks like a very small pink hotel. Like the building, the grounds appear to be maintained by the residents. Some of the residents are prone to demonstrating both their artistic flare, and their pride in ownership. There are several junk cars, and odds and ends parked at creative angles (some utilizing the "rule of thirds"), which have probably been there since the apartment was new.
Now, back to this elderly woman who is so diligently watering the dirt planter in front of the complex. Many times when people move to the desert, they go through a period of Green Withdrawal. This period is usually characterized by hysterical behavior, and it isn't uncommon for these people to sporadically water sand, in hopes that something will grow there. It doesn't help matters when something actually does start growing there. It’s great sport to watch these poor souls, as they water their patch of sand faithfully every morning, and then a few days later, when a faint greenish hue appears, they howl triumphantly and start serving their little plants a double portion of water. It generally takes them almost a month to realize that they are, in fact, cultivating tumbleweeds. My first thought upon seeing this woman was “oh great, a crazy person.” I got out of my car and walked to the door of my apartment, trying not to make eye contact, but still watching her from the corner of my eye. As I got closer I noticed a bag of what may possibly have been grass seed on the porch next to her, and several little flowers in plastic containers, along with what looked like little packets of vegetable seeds. My perception of this woman completely changed. Apparently she was turning that ugly planter into a little garden of sorts. What a brilliant idea. As I proceeded into my apartment I realized how harsh my misperception of her had been initially. I really liked this idea of planting vegetables in front of the building. The next day, upon closer examination, I realized with dismay that the bag of grass seed, the flowers, and the vegetable seed packets were in fact concrete, plastic, and empty jello packets respectively. It also occurred to me that there were no old women in residence on that side of the building. So once again my perception of this woman changed. Was she just some nomadic geriatric who enjoyed wasting water? I still like the idea of growing vegetables, and maybe some blackberries in front of the complex.

Pet Peeve of the Week: People who stop in heavily trafficked intersections for no apparent reason. I understand and appreciate aimless wandering, but the center of a major intersection is not the ideal place to suddenly decide to give directive to your previously random roaming.

Things I’m thankful for: Anti-lock breaks.

Building Patience

Opportunities to build patience usually appear in forms most irritating, at the worst possible times in life, when one is undoubtedly already in need of an abundance of patience and not looking for another opportunity to exercise it. Today I’ve had many such opportunities to exercise patience.
Scenario:
I’m exhausted, starving, late for my flight, waiting in line at some over priced, two-bit airport burger joint to pay eight dollars for a burger that wouldn’t make a sufficient meal for an anorexic Olson twin, when some gelatinous jerk jumps the queue and then spends ten minutes placing his specialty order with fifteen modifications and concludes by specifying three times that he wants his burger “Cut in half! Cut really in half!” What a brilliant use of an intensifier Sir. No, really!

I need to quit praying for patience when I really need it, as it seems to only make things worse.

Retirement

So after a long and relatively boring day at work I’ve a number of things I’d like to write about. It’s a shame that these thoughts always seem to come in torrents, and never at regularly spaced intervals- like twice weekly. This would make things much more consistent and maybe I would appear more organized. Ok, I’m trying to think of an appropriate quote- it seems there is a proverb that mentions something about an organized mind, but apparently my mind is too cluttered to remember it. My Bartlett’s is staring at me from across the room, but I refuse to be further sidetracked.

Virginia Woolf wrote that in order to write fiction, one needs have an allowance of at least 500 pounds a month. I’m not up to date on my inflation rates, monetary conversions, or which alt+keypad code results in the pound sign, but I think 500 pounds translates to something in the neighborhood of $5,000.00 a month in the world of today. It’s a very novel idea. Now, besides the NEA, where do I find someone willing to give me $5,000.00 a month so I can write?

When I was six months out of high school and a neophyte in the working world, I realized that I was ready to retire. Working for a living is very overrated. It’s really a shame that we have to devote the majority of our lives to working, just so we can afford to spend more of our time doing little, unimportant things, like eating. Don’t get me wrong, I love to eat, but I’d much rather be without the need to eat than have to spend the rest of my life working, at least at a regular job. Why can’t people just run on solar energy instead of food? Wouldn’t that be better for the environment? Yeah, I’m sure scientists might have developed a way for us to synthesize ATP using only sunlight years ago, but McDonalds would have bought and destroyed the research.

Back on track now- so this idea of retirement had really taken my fancy… That is, until I met Eddie. Eddie is the retired brother of our accountant at work. He’s in his late 50s, and is so bored that he wanders into our building at least twice a week for his complaining session with his sister. I’ve noticed this tendency in retired people to spend the vast majority of their spare time complaining. (Actually, I’ve heard that it’s a tendency exhibited by most people who don’t have enough to occupy their time. Which may be why you find so many critics on youtube) You know, “idle hands…” and all that. Don’t get the wrong idea here, I really like Eddie, we’ve had some really great conversations, but he has to be the most eccentric bored person I’ve ever met. He’s always taking up the most bazaar new hobbies. Some of you may remember the movie Twister, which was about these people who chased tornadoes, well Eddie chases cell phone dead-zones. No joke. He even has a red pick-up truck that’s outfitted and insured to the max, just so he can get as close to any cell phone dead zone as he can. He has a polychrome map that displays the different dead-zones for different service providers, which he made via his own research. Last year he made a snow machine for his grandkids. We don’t get very much snow around here, maybe one storm a year is actually worthy of being dubbed a snowstorm. I don’t know where he got the idea, maybe from Popular Science, but he built the thing out of a pressure washer, and it actually makes enough snow to cover your average front lawn in about an hour. About six months ago my boss decided to relieve him of some of his boredom, and recruited Eddie to be our mail carrier. Now, twice a week he goes to the post office and picks up our mail from the PO Box, and then brings it by with him when he comes to visit his sister. Today he announced his newest hobby. Apparently he spends enough time complaining at the post office that he’s on a first name basis with the workers there. He informed us that he’s put dibs on post office box #1. According to the workers, it belongs to some 90-year-old woman who is due to croak at anytime. Supposedly she hasn’t checked her mail in over a week, so it may be he won’t have to wait much longer. How morbid. I really need to introduce the guy to Youtube, or maybe Digg.com.

Sunday at the Mission

I spent this last weekend in Tubac with my Mom, helping her take care of my Aunt. My Aunt has been very sick this last month, and my Mom has had to stay with her constantly. It was a very interesting experience. Tubac is a very small town, filled with artist shops and expensive houses. Friday and Saturday my Mom and I explored some of the shops, and Sunday morning I got up relatively early and went exploring alone. About two miles South of Tubac is the Tumacacori Spanish Mission. The mission was started in the 1750s, and abandoned around 1848. It’s since been partially restored, and is now under the care of the National Park Service. I’ve been to many of the California missions, but this mission is very different. It’s out in the middle of nowhere, and doesn’t receive nearly the amount of traffic as San Gabriel, or San Juan Capistrano. In fact, the entire time I was there I only encountered one small family.

I wandered around the grounds for awhile taking pictures, and then decided to spend some time inside the sanctuary. The NPS interpreter had loaned me a frayed and crumpled pamphlet, which told about the history of the place, and about the Franciscans who built it. If walls could only speak…

I’m not Catholic, but I do have a great deal of respect for the traditions which have been observed for millennia, by many men and women who were more devoted to God than I could ever hope to be. Even if my views and understandings of Christianity are completely incompatible with theirs, I respect and admire their devotion to what they believe to be the Truth.


I sat on an old bench in the nave and read the journal entries of the monks who had carved the mission out of the wilderness. According to the pamphlet, two of them had been interred beneath the chancel. The mission had literally been built with their sweat and blood. It was convicting on many levels. Unlike modern missionaries, these people never hoped to retire. They lived and died at their posts. To think of devoting one’s entire life so completely to the spreading of the gospel; it’s an amazing thought.

The Broken Clock

While reading Faulkner, one image really stood out to me- Quinton’s pocket-watch, which he ripped the hands off of, yet continues to carry around with him. All throughout his chapter he carries the broken watch with him. It sits in his pocket continuing to do what it was made to do, namely, to tell time- although without its hands it’s virtually worthless. The watch is still an intricate, functioning piece of equipment; it’s just unable to display the results of its futility.

A good friend of mine turned me on to Lifehouse’s new song “Storm” a couple of weeks ago. It’s a wonderful song, and it’s something I really could have related well to six months or even a year ago; but right now I feel like their song “Broken” is a much better theme for the place I’m at in life. Have you ever read Ecclesiastes? These song lyrics really stand out to me:

The broken clock is a comfort,
It helps me sleep tonight
Maybe it can stop tomorrow
From stealing all my time

This past year has been one of the toughest of my life. My Dad passed away, and some other things happened that were really hard. The Lord was there for me, and really helped me through it all. Now the sun has come out again, and there are some very promising things on the horizon, yet I feel like I’m missing something. These are the times when it seems to me it’s most important to remain broken. Life is full of meaninglessness- especially here in this post-postmodern world. It’s so easy to lose focus, to fall into meaningless monotony, and “wish time away.” (As another friend so eloquently put it) The Lifehouse song goes on:

In the pain there is healing
In your name I find meaning
So I'm holding on,
I'm barely holding on to you

Lord, help me to find meaning in your name, though everything else may pass away. While life keeps ticking on, invisible, our time goes by, wasted. Give me purpose in you.

The Antelope Valley is a very diverse place. To the East is high desert, to the South are the San Gabriel mountains, usually covered in snow, to the West are rolling grasslands, and to the North are dry lakes. I took my new camera and my guitar and headed west this afternoon hoping to catch the sunset, and maybe a bit of worship. There is just something about rolling grassland that evokes a sense of timelessness. I found a nice secluded spot up on a little hill and parked my truck there and watched the sun go down. I managed to get a few decent pictures, and revel in the knowledge that those moments were created just for me.

Potato Wave

A while ago I was stumbling around the Mental Floss website, when I came across this blog on mondegreens.

What is a mondegreen? Well, according to Wikipedia, "A mondegreen is the mishearing (usually accidental) of a phrase as a homophone or near-homophone in such a way that it acquires a new meaning." I don't know if you're familiar with the story of the minister's son who was overheard by his father while conducting a funeral service for his dead bird. The son concluded the service with "These things I pray unto the Father, unto the Son, and into the hole he goes!" This is a mondegreen.

According to the wikipedia article, the term was first coined by author Sylvia Wright. It is derived from a misheard line of The Bonnie Earl of Murray. Write's mother had read the ballad aloud to her as a child, and she misheard the last line of the second stanza.

Ye Highlands and ye Lowlands,
Oh, where hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl Amurray, [sic]
And Lady Mondegreen.

The correct last line is: And laid him on the green.
I'd like to sign out with the same youtube video used on the mental floss blog, which is a rewrite of Pearl Jam's "Yellow Ledbetter." I hope you enjoy it.

Something Noteworthy

Something more that must be mentioned. Upon arriving home from the beach today, I was pleasantly surprised to find a large box bearing the Amazon.com logo. I usually get one such package every week or two, only this one was much larger and didn’t contain books. Instead it’s contents yielded my very own edition(?) of the Settlers of Catan board game! I’m very excited, I love board games, and Settlers is definitely one of the best.

Oceans Apart

I went to the beach today. It’s funny, I’ve lived nearly my entire life a mere hour from the beach, and until this year I’ve very rarely bothered to visit it. Both of my parents are from Florida. My Mom was an airforce brat, and spent most of her life in various countries and states, and my Dad was just a good ol’ boy with roots in Georgia and Alabama, and a heritage as rich as the South itself. He spent his summers on the Gulf of Mexico near Panama City, and the rest of the year at Cocoa Beach on the Atlantic. His Florida upbringing had completely spoiled him, and he despised the beaches of California. It’s no real wonder. The Pacific is freezing, it’s always overcast, and it’s so crowded that there are times and places where you can’t find enough room to sit down.

Every summer we’d pack the family van and Mom and my brothers and I would make the trek back to Florida to visit the grandparents. It was no small venture, and my Mom’s style of traveling didn’t expedite the journey. It wasn’t uncommon for our route from Southern California to Florida to include stops in places like Salt Lake City Utah, Oklahoma City, or even St Louis Missouri. (I should point out here that when you’re ten, and have to spend eight hours a day in a cramped van with your siblings, you want to reach your destination as soon as possible, and while her inefficiency used to drive me nuts, it has instilled in me a real love of traveling for the sake of traveling) Around two weeks after our departure we’d reach our destination, which was, more often than not, the family beach cottage near Panama City. My Dad could only get a maximum of three weeks off work, and therefore couldn’t really afford to gallivant around the country with us. He’s usually fly out after we’d arrived, spend his three weeks at the cottage with us, and then fly back home. I spent many a summer on the beaches of Florida, and had grown to share my Dad’s disdain for the beaches of California.

Today was beautiful. All of the trips this year have been beautiful in fact. We got there around noon, and the mist had almost burned away. The water was freezing as always, but if you are to keep moving, and take an occasional break to play ultimate frisbee or football, one can manage quite well. At one point a few of us had swum out past the breakers, and were waiting for a nice set to bodysurf on. We looked up and saw a pod of dolphins heading our way. Now I’ve swum with dolphins before on a few occasions- a couple of times in the Gulf, and a few times while sailing around Catalina Island. It’s not as exciting as you might think. In fact, it can be downright terrifying. Dolphins are much bigger in real life than they look on TV, and when you’re in murky water, and an animal that’s almost twice your size, approaches you rapidly, it can be very unnerving. These dolphins came right at us, and swam around us and under us. It was fun, but none of us had the nerve to reach out and actually touch any of them.

In the pacific it’s not uncommon for the waves to reach over six feet in height, and that can make it difficult to actually get out away from the beach. If you don’t know what you’re doing you’ll get pushed back in close to shore, and if there’s a rip tide you can get stuck at shoulder depth with six foot waves breaking over your head and pushing you in, while the rip tide pulls you back out. Dealing with situations like this is a constant battle. You have to pay attention, and be strong swimmer. When a wave comes, to keep from being bowled over you must dive down to the bottom and press your body to the ground. If you do this correctly the wave’s energy will pass over you and keep you down. After it’s passed you’ll be pulled back up towards the surface. At this point you can surface and take a few breaths, and swim in whatever direction you’re heading until the next wave comes. If you want to head in against a rip tide, you have to ride the waves. There’s a great analogy in this somewhere, but I can’t find it right now. I think it pertains to the waves that life sends at us. Maybe I’ll figure it out in a day or two.

After we were pretty well frozen, we came in and decided to go for a walk. We were at Zuma beach, and about two miles north of Point Doom. This massive cliff rises sheer out of the water, and has an ominous look about it. I’ve never understood why “ominous” is never listed as being synonymous with “exciting” in the Thesaurus, because anything that’s ominous is bound to be exciting, and Point Doom is no exception, so of course we had to check it out. We got down there and watched a few people rock climbing, suspended 100 feet over the open ocean. When we climbed around the point, we found a beautiful little cove with a beach about a hundred yards across which ended in another cliff. After climbing around that cliff and out onto the rocks we found a series of tide pools. The rocks were covered with anemone, barnacles and muscles, turning them dark shades of purple and green. There was a strong breeze that blew in our faces, and blew foam and spray around us. It reflected the mood of the ocean below it. The waves would rush in amongst the rocks a few feet below us and shoot spray up and around us. The cliffs rose high to our backs, and in front of us the open ocean stretched off over the edge of the world. It brought on the feeling that this was not the ocean we’d been playing in before. This was the ocean that sank ships and birthed storms. It was turbulent and terrible, and if it so desired, it could swallow up all the land that it had yielded millennia ago. Standing there on that rock, with the waves and the wind whipping around me, and looking that ocean in the eye…it was incredible.

Thoughts from 7/29/07

So over the course of this last week it's become quite apparent to me that it's time to write another blog. I had resolved that I would write yesterday evening after I got back from the 'Horse Canyon Expedition.' (which was a blast by the way, thank you everyone who came, or wanted to but was prevented by extenuating circumstances) Upon arriving home, I realized, when I tried and failed to unlock my apartment door with the keyless entry remote to my truck, that I was probably too tired to write anything substantial, and decided to put it off until this morning. Seeing as it is now said morning, and I've effectively slept through church, (not intentionally [and for those of you concerned about my salvation- I'll have you know that I intend to attend tonight]) I have nothing left but to write.

Ironically, I'm not entirely sure what to write about. Sometimes, especially after an extended trip into the middle of nowhere, I find myself overwhelmed by the exposure to God's excess creativity and feel inspired to create something myself. I find it odd that while I feel inspired by nature, I don't feel inclined to write about it. There are several ideas I've been tossing around inside of my head this past week that might be worth blogging about. Does the atrophy of linguistic fortitude contribute to, or does it reflect the decline of a culture? Why is every dietitian I've ever met overweight? I thought we bought our oil from OPEC… Through it all I hear Dr Frye's voice echoing in my head. "You need to focus John. You can't write a paper with five thesis statements." Good advice I'm sure… William P. Warford is hands down, my favorite columnist in the local paper. Just the other day his column featured "12 things to think about." (Or something like that. I don't have the time to go hunting through the local paper's ridiculous website) It was interesting, but it was a bit much. I think he was able to spend average of 3 sentences on each topic, and none of them were very profound. I really hope that journalism doesn't continue to follow the same trends as television. Would it be too much to think that people who actually read the paper have sufficient attention spans to spend more than two minutes reading an article? I suppose that's why articles are summarized in the first paragraph. Oh well, maybe I'm missing the point.

I'm still reading The Sound and the Fury. I really need to finish it so I can move on to the other books I have to read for my Fall classes. Even with most of the summer to prepare, I'm still not sure that taking 24 units and working full time is something I'm going to be able to pull off. I've heard rumors that it's been accomplished before though. I hope I'll still have some friends left when I reemerge around Christmas.

Anyway, Faulkner has been my first exposure to stream of consciousness. I suppose that's fitting though, since the advent of the genre has been attributed to him. Someone once told me that Ambrose Bierce actually beat him to it by a good fifty years or so. I also suppose Bell only invented the telephone because Edison was a lousy runner. I'll have to say that the whole entire lack-of-punctuation-thing is really interesting. I wonder if I can write my Faulkner paper in stream of consciousness. It's not likely, although I'm willing to bet that 90% of the response journals Dr. Frye receives will be.

I'm starving and need to wrap this up so I can get some food. I suppose the entire point of this blog should be that I need to blog more often. Maybe that will help me to focus more and make my blogs seem less like Faulkner novels. (although I doubt it will help my grammar and punctuation at all)

Writing - from 6/8/07

A twenty-something C.S. Lewis wrote, in a letter to one of his fellow students, that in order to develop decent writing skills it is necessary to write constantly; whether you're writing letters or stories, it doesn't matter. Just write. Unfortunately, Alan still has my copy of C.S. Lewis' letters; otherwise I'd give the exact quote. I'll have to forgive him, since he is receiving his Masters degree tomorrow and I'm not going to be able to attend.

It's really a no-brainer though. Everyone knows that if you want to excel at something you must practice. For some reason it seems more natural to forget that fact when it comes to writing. I've always associated practice with things like painting, or playing the piano. Those things are difficult. They require fine muscle control and coordination. All that writing should require is long-windedness and the ability to sit down and type for hours on end. Right? I suppose it's just one of those strange and completely incorrect assumptions I'd made a long time ago. Aren't great writers just born great? I'm sure we've all had that moment as children when it finally occurs to us to wonder what hamburgers are made out of, or where the eggs in the refrigerator come from. If you were homeschooled you may have just always known these things, but most people don't think beyond the grocery store. One morning you're sitting at the breakfast table staring at the back of a cereal box with your spoon halfway to your mouth when you experience apotheosis: milk comes from cows; eggs come from chickens; Soylent Green is people, and writers must practice! So in the spirit of practice, here is some longwinded drivel.

I'd like to start by announcing that the Spring Quarter is finally over. I'm both relieved and a little sad. Today is the first day of summer break, and after work I had absolutely no idea what to do with it. I decided I might as well ride my bike, so I headed off down 50th street and rode around Quartz Hill a bit. It's interesting how different a place can seem depending on the time of day and your mode of transportation. I've ridden my bike around "downtown" Quartz Hill several times, but it's usually in the evenings after most people have gone home. There are way too many people on the roads between 3 and 6.

My bike has been acting strange for the past few weeks, and today was worse than ever. After putting up with it for a mile or so I decided it was high time I did something about it. I ended up taking it to Gil's bike shop, and he told me that I had a bad cassette (the conglomeration of gears on the rear wheel) and that if I took it back to Sport Chalet they would most likely fix it for me for free since it was probably still under warranty. That was nice of him. I headed over to Sport Chalet, and luckily the guy who sold me the bike was there. He remembered me and told me that he'd take care of it. The only problem is that he expected that it would take at least a week if not two to get the parts! So now it's the first day of summer break and I'm bikeless! Oh well. I left my bike there and walked down to Barns and Noble to see what they had on the clearance shelf. There wasn't anything worth mentioning, but all the same I felt like loitering in the coffee area. There is nothing that makes one feel quite so sophisticated as sitting on a pinstriped cushion, reading classic literature in the midst of Starbucks sipping urbanites, and since I was feeling very unsophisticated today I thought it might cheer me up a bit.

I was in the mood for Kipling- classic, deep, but simplistic enough that my brain wouldn't have to do much work. Yep, reading Kipling is a lot like watching PBS. I couldn't find Kipling in the fiction section; in fact I've never been able to find Kipling in the fiction section at Barns and Noble. So I went to the service desk and asked if they had anything by Kipling. "Who?" "Kipling. Rudyard Kipling." "Oh. Is that spelled K-E-P?" "No, I'm pretty sure it's K-I-P." "Oh, ok, David Kepling. We have two of his books here." He turned the computer screen around so I could see. "No, Rudyard Kipling, not David." "Oh." Blank look. "You know, Kipling" I said, "he wrote 'The Jungle Book.'" "…Ok…" He typed 'The Jungle Book' into the title search bar. "Oh, wow, there are a lot of books listed in our database…it doesn't look like we carry any of them though." "Ok, well thank you anyway." How disconcerting. So much for my sophistication fix. I'm not sure which is more depressing; that a major book retailer like Barns and Noble doesn't carry anything by Kipling, or that their employees couldn't tell him from Michael Eisner. Oh well. I decided not to let it ruin my day.

Most people who know me well know that I don't drink coffee or tea. I've never acquired a taste for it. I even shy away from coffee flavored ice cream. There is however a drink that I find to be just as distinguished and trendy as any of the exorbitantly priced concoctions that the coffee consorts can come up with. No mocha java double shot espresso could ever compare with Black cherry IBC- especially not on a hot summer day. As it happens, they sell these wonderful things at the Starbucks in Barns and Noble. So I bought an IBC and a hardback copy of Aesop's Fables for $8.61. Not bad. At least it got my mind off of my poor bike.

First Post in a New Blog

At the prompting of my good friend Alan,(Bezalel) I've decided to create a blogspot. I think I may finally have overcome my own unique form of agoraphobia, and am now more confident posting my thoughts out in the open for anyone and everyone to read. We'll see what comes of it.
I'm going to finish this opening post with the same quote from George MacDonald which I used on my first Myspace blog:
"I would that not God only, but all good men and women might see me through and through. They would not be pleased with everything they saw, but neither am I, and I would have no coals of fire in my soul's pockets."
Ciao