tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39368713718337209362024-03-19T03:41:13.709-07:00The Immortal WandererJuan Espera a DiosJohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-38239590220036126792009-01-09T11:18:00.001-08:002009-01-09T11:22:00.782-08:00I Need Your Love<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqx3fMC8569Im4mJRqH3eyouNnS4FF7GMyuWAHP72t-NjAHiw0-F9tC4v5GhkRAVc69HZkcMtlC75RPo7b-UhZZtbyElTZWutdaRWS8s9nMw5arctAHjIxhVO5Mt10HWGfy2sjvDRyZyJl/s1600-h/Lost.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqx3fMC8569Im4mJRqH3eyouNnS4FF7GMyuWAHP72t-NjAHiw0-F9tC4v5GhkRAVc69HZkcMtlC75RPo7b-UhZZtbyElTZWutdaRWS8s9nMw5arctAHjIxhVO5Mt10HWGfy2sjvDRyZyJl/s320/Lost.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289376235228782290" /></a><br />Photoshop has been my latest obsession. It's been really nice to have something new to spurn motivation and channel my creative impulses into. I've woken up almost every morning with a new idea for a photo, or lain awake nights planning and plotting what possibilities I could explore next. I made a deal with a local antique store to rent props from, and have mapped out locations. This whole planning thing has been quite a new experience for me. Those of you who know me know that I prefer intuition to organization and structure. In the past all of my photography has been just that- I see something that looks nice and I take a picture of it. All of this planning and setting up scenes has, on the whole, been rather disappointing; but I think I'm getting better at it. The photos I've been coming away with are pretty terrible, but I'm really impressed with all I can do with them in Photoshop, and am ultimately rather pleased with the end results.<br /><br />This past year I've really felt like my life has been in a slump. Maybe it's always been in a slump but I was too preoccupied with university to realize it. As of now I don't have that distraction anymore and certain things are really starting to get to me. I need some more light in my life. I need a place with more windows. I'm tired of living in this dung hole of an apartment. I'd always told myself that it was just a temporary way to save money until I finished my degree. Well, the degree is finished. Time to move. My current plans have failed, as the best laid plans so often do, and now I need to figure out the next step before I lose all momentum. This is difficult, because as I said before, I'm not a planner.<br /><br />I've been listening to this song http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VFFul1nXwUY incessantly. Hawkmoon 269. I don't know about the video. It's the only way I can think of to get the song where you all can hear it. Just listen to the song. This song has come to characterize a lot of the image work I've been doing lately. After years of being an avid U2 fan, and careful scrutiny of their lyrics, I can say with confidence that this song is not about some girl withholding her love. It's a song about what I feel, what we should all be feeling deep down in our souls. It is the something which is missing in all of our lives. Even as Christians that sense of loss is there, that need, that desire. We're missing that perfect communion with God; love in its complete and perfect form. This world is such a dark place, and we're so used to it that we confuse the thinner linings of brighter clouds with the sun. A couple of my friends have expressed their concern that I've been producing a lot of dark and depressing stuff lately. I suppose I have. But in no way is any of it meant to be hopeless. It is simply that we who recognize this place as fallen, as a temporary home, we know what we're missing. We know what the rest of the world is missing. Why not express that?<br /><br />For fear of becoming complacent, of forgetting, I need His love.<br />"For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together."Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-91163358908884893642008-08-10T15:55:00.000-07:002008-08-10T15:56:23.552-07:00Carte BlancheOn my list of annoyances, shopping carts rate on a par with things like houseflies, cancer, and Al Gore. Now before you write me off as a bigot, I will admit that shopping carts, like nuclear weapons, have their uses. I grew up in a family of six, and I know how much work it is to lug a week's worth of food around a grocery store. It wouldn't be possible if not for shopping carts. I also know how much fun it can be to accelerate a cart up to 50mph or so with your car and then send it speeding off into the night. Nevertheless, I think that shopping carts are the spawn of Satan, and I'm going to rant about it. <br /><br />First of all, shopping carts never work properly. This could be due to the fact that some people spend hours in dark parking lots pushing them with their cars, but regardless, it is a proven fact that most shopping carts are defective. I could go to a brand new store with brand new carts and I would still have to spend 5 minutes sorting through the wasteland of the cart garage thing to find one that doesn't insist on turning left. Something I've never understood is how cart wheels often seem to get clogged with hair. I could understand if they were entwined with plastic bags or something, but hair? Where does the hair come from? From the shoppers? Of course the one cart I might find with functioning wheels will also have a fresh coat of some unidentifiable sticky substance lining the bottom. I usually pretend that some shopper must have just forgotten a bag containing a quart of icecream. That must be it. <br /><br />Another thing I've noticed is that it seems that shopping carts have gotten continually larger since I was a kid. Usually things get smaller as you get bigger, but this hasn't been the case with shopping carts. I don't remember it being possible to block an entire isle with one cart when I was younger. It never fails to happen now though. In the same way that a soldier surveys the carnage around them, looks down at the blood on their hands and then abandons their weapon to wander forlornly in the world, their eyes forever asking 'why?,' the shopper abandons their cart mid isle, losing themselves in a hypnotic trance, disappearing forever in the the vast evil that is Walmart. Couldn't they at least take the darn thing with them? And how does one manage to turn a cart perpendicular to the isle you're in anyway? That takes some serious effort. Is it also necessary that everyone in the store take a cart with them when they shop? I can't count the number of times I'll see a single person pushing a cart through the checkout stand with two small items in the basket. Now Hummers are unnecessary and wasteful vehicles, and I've heard all sorts of people rant and rave about excess and frivolity in conversations that center around Hummers, but if the average person can't make a modest choice when entering a supermarket, can one really expect them to do better with something major like a vehicle purchase? <br /><br />Lastly, you can tell a lot about a person's general sense of respect for humanity by watching to see what they do when they've finished unloading their cart. They have those spaces that are cordoned off with concrete bumpers for shoppers to put their carts when they're finished, but roughly half of the population prefers to leave their carts in or next to one of those parking lot planters. I'm not quite sure I understand the logic behind this. Maybe these people think that it's nicer for the cart. I mean, it's nicer to leave a dog tied up in the shade, so shopping cart will probably appreciate it more as well. Or maybe these people can't tell the difference between the concrete perimeter of the planter, and the concrete perimeter of the cart return. There is nothing so frustrating than when one has been driving around looking for a parking space, only to find the last one has been rendered unusable, and that it actually bears a striking resemblance to the crash site of a derailed freight train. I don't understand why stores don't require a $2 deposit to use a cart, and then refund that deposit when the cart is returned to the rack...but of course then some grocery store workers would be out of a job...Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-15414038819485140182008-07-23T15:57:00.000-07:002008-12-09T07:25:06.422-08:00Paint the Town - Part I<a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWW7uo5fftgB2ikusuNodqYa-kRGgVNik9whEUKHcqSP8z_H2rfVUyFxqQKZ5uKtP6O1zGK6Ik9RzT8llLhZ_-vZS03I-IZF4KUh3rN91XvTKEZq_MdB3tiIavqmeUCVHt-TkpwoOp9LZ_/s1600-h/DSC_0757.JPG'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWW7uo5fftgB2ikusuNodqYa-kRGgVNik9whEUKHcqSP8z_H2rfVUyFxqQKZ5uKtP6O1zGK6Ik9RzT8llLhZ_-vZS03I-IZF4KUh3rN91XvTKEZq_MdB3tiIavqmeUCVHt-TkpwoOp9LZ_/s320/DSC_0757.JPG' border='0' alt=''style='clear:both;float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;' /></a> <br />In our never ending effort to bring light and color to this desert town, and ultimately the world, my friends and I have undertaken a new project. We've amassed a large amount of canvas, sewn together, making a screen which stretches about 3 meters by 3 meters. One of my friends used his Photoshop skills (which I'm very jealous of) and combined some photos to make a model of what our painting will look like. <br /><br />The next step was to project the photoshoped image onto the canvas, and trace the lines. <br /><br />Our final plan is to cut the painting vertically into three sections. The first pane will display the poppies in the foreground, the second pane will show the setting sun, and the third will contain a Joshua tree. After we've finished and mounted the paintings, we're hoping to sneak out at night and hang it up in some very public place, and see how long it takes for someone to notice and remove it. An anonymous tip to the local paper might also be in order...<div style='clear:both; text-align:RIGHT'><a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a></div>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-76890941213264320242008-07-20T21:14:00.001-07:002008-07-20T21:25:32.521-07:00WaywardYesterday I took the CSET- or two sections of it at least. This is just another one of those meanders in the trial; a vista overlooking a possible future. Yet I'm stuck here with my indecisiveness, my uncertainties and discontent. You know that feeling you get when all of your friends are off doing something exciting and for whatever reason, you're missing it? That's me. Life is happening, and I'm stuck here. I'm stuck here and I don't even know where 'here' is in relationship to 'there,' or why 'there' is so much better than 'here,' or why I need to be 'there' in the first place. But nevertheless, the feeling remains that there is someplace else I'm supposed to be and something else I'm supposed to be doing there. <br /><br />"Work to live" they say, but it's really the other way around. We are defined by our work, not by the living that goes on in between. A friend of mine recently pointed out that even Adam had to work in paradise. He was both gardener and steward. Perhaps the difference then was that his work didn't justify his existence. <br /><br />I got to San Gabriel High School at 1:20pm, and followed the paper signs to the waiting area. There were maybe 100 other people there. Many of them already had the look of teachers, that poise which comes with authority. Ten minutes later they confiscated our cell phones and led us into our assigned classrooms. I was informed that my ball cap was in violation of the "rules," and would either have to be removed or turned around backwards. This made me immediately curious as to whether they had a high incidence of cheating by ball cap. I turned my cap around and took my seat. I glanced around at the other testees, and realized that nearly all of them were taking the math section of the CSET. Ironically, the classroom must have belonged to a math teacher. The walls were plastered with charts displaying mathematical processes and equations. Typical. I suppose I shouldn't complain though. I was the only English major in there. The only help I got was from the alphabet border circling the room just below the ceiling. <br /><br />I drove back toward the mountains under a line of palmtrees. The sun was sinking toward the coast and the restlessness I felt had become too much. I had to get it out of my system... The little church was bustling with activity when I arrived. I traded my flipflops for the pair of sneakers I kept behind the seat in my truck- the souls covered in duct tape. I payed at the door, just as the band was finishing their warm up. A crowd of people lined the walls, waiting. The music started and I asked the first girl I could find. We took to the floor and the rest of the world melted away. Two hours later I was taking a break near the stage, when the girl who played the tennor sax jumped down and asked me to dance. I noticed that one of her pupils was dialated, and realized that she must be blind in that eye. Even lacking depth perception she wasn't reluctant. I led her in a lindy circle, then a double outside turn, whip, and sweethart. We switched to charlston and back to lindy. The song was fast, and the band was fantastic. The song kept playing, building momentum. My cares and concerns were mixed with sweat and music, all evaporating up into the night. <br /><br />The moon was full, and the evening was cool. I took the mountain road home. I rounded curves and sped along cliff sides which emptied off into the night. The headlights lit the road only a few feet ahead. This is where so many young people play their game. They drive these roads as fast as they can, often losing control and flying off in darkness. They die young.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-34137324965702389592008-06-27T16:25:00.000-07:002008-06-27T16:26:45.348-07:00Breath IntoIt's been awhile since I've blogged. It seems like so much has happened in the past month or so, but in reality it hasn't been much at all. I finished up the last of my BA and walked across the stage to receive the little roll of paper which symbolized all that I've accomplished over the past few years. And now I'm free. I'm free to choose my next form of incarceration. And to be honest I'm feeling quite uninspired. This is a statement summing my life in general, not merely my educational pursuits. There are high points and lows. There are those times when inspiration flows in and out like dental floss, or those beaming solar flares shooting out and back through the sun's corona. And then there are times when you float like a leaf on a placid pond, without even a ripple. Here I am, waiting for the wind to blow me. I know from whence my inspiration flows. Sometimes he is there like a pillar of fire, and other times he is the faintest whisper. I'm waiting for that sweet breath of air. My sails are empty.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-7257463090974691682008-05-25T11:32:00.001-07:002008-05-25T11:32:47.346-07:00To FinishAscending the heights he hangs, his movements fluid, graceful and delicate, his hands and feet fitting into cracks and crevices. With the alacrity and finesse of a dancer he works his way up the cliff. He reaches a point and pauses, assessing his route, determining his next movement. The final section is more difficult than anything he has encountered yet. His forearms burn with fatigue and he leans back, straitening his arms and allowing his biceps to rest. He gathers strength for the next move and pushes upward, muscles screaming. A solid hold for his right hand, and a shallow stub of rock slightly supports two fingers of his left. He presses his toe into the smooth slab, his special shoes gripping the sheer surface and giving him traction. With a burst of strength he rises, his left hand shoots up toward the next uncertain hold. His angle is precarious. He jabs for the hold and misses, his left foot breaks loose. He hangs on by his right hand and regains his former footing. His strength is failing. For a brief second doubt enters his mind. It's too difficult and he is too tired. "No!", he tells himself. He must finish! He has the strength to hang on and therefore he has the strength to try. He is roped, making the consequences of failure purely mental, yet he carries on as if the stakes were mortal. His body is racked with pain and exhaustion, but he perseveres, his mind overcoming his physical anguish. His battle is between mind and body. <br /><br />This is how I feel right now. There is no giving up. I have to press on.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-4152945006666180602008-04-26T22:17:00.000-07:002008-04-26T22:18:34.671-07:00Weekend At LastWork, class, appointments and deadlines, soaring gas prices and the plummeting value of the dollar. All of the stress that lie has to offer. The week is over now. People everywhere are winding down so they can gear up for another week of the same. In the last of the failing light I took my bike and headed for the aqueduct bridge on Gotte Hill. It was an evening of Spring's perfection. It's evenings like this which cry out in inspiration to poets and mere mortals alike. <br />It was late in the twilight hour. The stars were out and the sky was colored from a dark aqua in the west through lavender to midnight blue in the east. I followed the path along the water on my bike. It's course wound around the foothills halfway between the stars and the valley floor. The horizon was a straight line running infinitely off ahead of me, and giving way to the city below. I rode through still pockets of air, some warm and some cool. Each one carrying with it its own unique smells. There was the musky smell of moss and moisture which rises off of bodies of water and carries with it the scent of life and renewal. A second later my face was filled with the breath of the evening, a breeze fell off and away from the curving valleys to the south, and I was surrounded by the aroma of a million flowers, jasmine and primrose, each variation bringing to the surface vivid memories of unseen blossoms, hikes and hills long forgotten. Accompanying the smells were the sounds of crickets and frogs, the world transitioning between light and dark. Mixed with the natural were the sounds of distant neighborhoods. A family laughing, a car door closing, a dog barking. Slowly the streetlights came on in the world below and the weekend was underway.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-36236993909098023692008-04-18T20:56:00.000-07:002008-08-01T08:36:48.326-07:00Tales from the BedriddenSo today has been an interesting day. Not that everyday isn't interesting, but I just feel like writing about today. I've had the flu now for the past three days. I've been doing a lot of sleeping and watching movies and youtube. There isn't much else to do when you have a fever of 103 and you can barely stand. Yesterday was grad-fair, and I had to go to that to get my cap and gown for graduation. Going out when you're very sick comes highly unrecommended. My only alternative was to make the 100mile drive to Bakersfield and buy one from the school bookstore there at a later date. With the price of gas as high as it is I opted to attend the grad-fair. I learned that driving with a high fever is probably not all that different than driving drunk. I also learned that when you stand in line for an hour on the verge of passing out only to find that they don't have any gowns for people over 6', you'll find out that you could have just ordered the dern thing online anyway. But I'm digressing, I'd only intended to talk about today. So today I had a term paper due for my Ethnic Literature class. The assignment was about as vague as the purpose statement for the class. I think when delving into controversial realms too deeply, you become immersed in a quagmire of PC lingo that makes it nearly impossible to communicate intelligibly. If a language is a set of sounds that have mutually agreed meaning, making the terms you use to define something as far from being a representation of what you're actually defining as possible, has the potential to cause quite a bit of confusion. And here I was worried that my paper would be unintelligible because I'm running a fever. <br /><br />I also ruined a pair of shoes today, which is rather amazing considering I've barely stepped outside. My amazing urban pipelines, the preppiest shoes I own, which I got for $10.99 at Kolhs are pretty much kaput. I blame the outrageous price of rent in Southern California, or possibly the fact that I'm feverish (you can blame everything on that one). So due to the high price of rent in California I'm forced to live in a little run down pink hotel room. Yes, it's very gay. It's also only slightly larger than your standard walk-in closet. What little space I do have is taken up by books, my bed, my bike, and my clothes (living in a closet does have its perks). I have no room for furniture. This makes it difficult to eat meals. I resort to eating most of my meals while sitting on my bed. Needless to say I've become very ingenuitive. I discovered a long time ago that shoes make great cup holders. You can put a 20oz soda in a shoe, and it will sit there through a veritable earthquake. This discovery is something I've been very proud of for the past couple of years. Well, today when I got back from dropping off my paper, with a package subway lunch, I kicked off my flipflops, dropped my lunch on the bed, plugged in "Whitesquall" on DVD (great movie by the way) and set up my cup holder shoe and enjoyed my lunch and my movie. Two hours later, in the midst of the storm which the movie is named for, I noticed half an inch of liquid sloshing back and forth in the bottom of my shoe. There was a hole in the cup, dad gum it! I tried to wash the shoe out, but I don't have much hope that it can be salvaged. I can only imagine what it's going to be like walking around in sticky shoes. On the bright side, I learned that canvas shoes don't leak.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-20815135979484850442008-03-30T20:20:00.000-07:002008-03-30T20:29:22.804-07:00The Clerkenwell KidLike snapshots of another world. A friend of mine recently linked me to <a href="http://theclerkenwellkid.blogspot.com/">this blog.</a> The author’s short stories, while some are a bit melancholy, are really amazing reads. I meandered around the site trying to find out a bit more about him, and apparently he’s a musician, and if you look hard enough there is a link to <a href="http://www.myspace.com/clerkenwellkid">his myspace</a> where you can listen to some of his music. While it’s a bit too morose for my taste, it’s still quite beautiful and some of it hints at vintage 40s jazz. The stories are like the music. They’re rather surreal glimpses at a uchronian world that has a very 1940s feel. Short and sweet and beginning <em>in medias res </em>without any background or resolution, like the passing window into a life which one sometimes catches in a photograph of a stranger. The stories are just that. Short snippets. They give one the impression of looking at pictures of some life in a world that never was.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-22015910135992532722008-03-13T19:45:00.001-07:002008-03-13T19:52:29.022-07:00In a galaxy far, far away<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/empyrean_squire/2331584791/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3195/2331584791_d3ce8a991a_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a> <br /> <span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/empyrean_squire/2331584791/">Long ago...</a> <br /> Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/empyrean_squire/">empyrean_squire</a> </span></div>You've got to love living in a place like this. We've got everything here. On the front page of the paper today was <a href="http://www.avpress.com/n/13/0313_s1.hts">a story</a> about a 62 year old man who was shot and killed while he was out for a walk. The sad thing is, that's hardly even news in the Antelope Valley these days. What's interesting about this particular murder was the fact that the man was shot through the chest with an arrow. Who shoots people with arrows in suburban neighborhoods in the middle of the night? Maybe it was some of the wiccan kids who hang out in front of Barns and Noble at night. Maybe they were acting out a live action D&D quest and the sexagenarian didn't make his saving roll. Or maybe one of the gang bangers on that side of town decided he needed some culture in his life and joined an <a href="http://www.sca.org/officers/marshal/combat/archery/index.html">SCA</a> group. Oh the possibilities. <br /><br />That's nothing though, about six months ago the <a href="http://www.iht.com/articles/ap/2007/06/30/america/NA-GEN-US-Gang-Mom.php">mother of some thugs</a> must have attended a PTA meeting or something and decided to take the advice about being more involved in her kids lives to heart. One night she loaded up the family sedan and drove her kids and some of their friends over to the house of a rival gang member so they could pop a cap in his ass. They shot up the house pretty good, and fortunately no one was injured. Apparently Mama neglected to teach her kids to shoot. For shame!<br /><br />As if all of that weren't enough, now we've got some Lord of the Sith running around stealing IPODs.<br clear="all" />Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-1853830666726724222008-03-02T22:50:00.001-08:002008-03-02T22:50:50.403-08:00Bumming Cigarettes"Ah, so you've become a beggar" She said.<br />"Not necessarily," he replied, holding it loosely between his lips. "You see, the chief difference is in who is benefiting through the transaction- the receiver or his client."<br />"You mean the parasite or its host." She casually retorted, disinterested.<br />He lit the thing and drew deeply, causing the smoldering end to glow fiercely and retreat like some slow burning fuse, consuming itself. "Some parasites are beneficial to their hosts you know, in which cases the relationships are more symbiotic."<br />She rolled her eyes and waited for him to continue.<br />"If I were begging money, for instance, like that deplorable character over there, ultimately I'd be negotiating with a person to hand over their most precious commodity- Time. You've of course heard the phrase 'time is money.' Time is the only thing in the universe that has any significant value. Think about it, we are each alloted so much of it, and that's it. When you boil it down it's the only thing we have which we can't get more of. It's the 'reductio ad absurdum of all human experiences.' Then, to make matters worse, we sell it- by the hour no less. They call it 'a career' and in reality, all you are is a harlot. Prostituting your time away to the highest bidder. 'Here,' they say, 'is a week of your life in the tangible form of a green piece of paper.' And then these leaches come up and ask you if you can spare a dollar. Damn. Hardly live with myself I could, if I were making my living by stealing minutes and hours of a fellow's life."<br />"So explain to me how bumming cigarettes is any different. They cost money too. Just how do you propose the giver is any better off?"<br />"Oh that's easy" He said, taking another drag off the slender white cylinder held in his fingers. He exhaled the thick smoke like an old locomotive gathering momentum. "Cigarettes kill people. Lung cancer and all that. Every cigarette you smoke is equivalent to losing a couple hours of your life. I'm doing them a favor taking the things off their hands. Instead of asking people to give me time in paper form, I'm giving them time. I'm offering to extend their lives, and they don't even realize it."<br />"Brilliant," she said sarcastically, "Relativism at its best."<br />"Precisely," he said.<br />"Of course, wouldn't it be more beneficial for everyone involved if you threw those borrowed cigarettes away, instead of smoking them?"<br />"No" he said, tilting his head back and blowing smoke straight up in the air. It dissipated and became one with the dense fog surrounding them. "That would defeat the whole purpose."Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-25813292086406921412008-02-26T22:38:00.000-08:002008-02-27T21:03:56.201-08:00D-dayDue date: March 12th. 15 days and counting. <br /><br />With 14 response papers, 1 term paper, an annotated bibliography, a portfolio, and 50 sentences left to diagram, I am busy doing what any sensible person in my situation would be doing...namely, making lists of things I would rather be doing. I've never been one to make New Years resolutions, but I lately I've unconsciously been making "end of quarter" resolutions, and the list of things I've resolved to do after this quarter ends has gotten so big I think it might help to write it down.<br /><br />Things I would be doing if I weren't in the process of committing suicide by academics, and things I am resolved to do after I am finished committing suicide by academics:<br />1. Read a novel. For fun.<br />2. Subscribe to a photo-assignment group on Flickr and maybe sync the escapade with my blog.<br />3. Write a short story. Or, better yet, write and actually finish a short story.<br />4. Visit the Grand Canyon (it's been years since I've been there and it's more than time to visit it again)<br />5. Drive to Moro bay. With my bike.<br />6. Visit Cal Poly San Louis Obispo. Probably while doing the above.<br />7. Camp on the beach. See the two above.<br />8. Make a frisbee golf course at Lane Park and not get arrested for it.<br />9. Become more artistic.<br />10. Visit the Huntington.<br />11. Go skiing again<br />12. Clean my apartment. (...yeah)<br />13. Swing dance...alot.<br />14. Win the lotto.......................<br />15. Finish filling out my grad-school apps.<br />16. Finish filling out my passport app.<br /><br />There are more that will come to me as soon as my head hits the pillow...or as soon as I resolve to write those response papers.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-39282999820748157922008-02-24T00:08:00.000-08:002008-02-24T00:59:32.750-08:00Nocturnal Oblique10pm, I'm at Denny's again. Breakfast for dinner. There has to be a better place to study. I can't wait to move someplace that has a little more respect for itself - I hate it when I sound young and naive. I know there is more to life than pie at 1am and pretty waitresses, but is it too much to ask for some place that can accommodate me some of the time? I've got to quit reading stream-of-consciousness novels.<br /><br />Two eggs, bacon, hashbrowns and toast - $7.99. I could get the same at Alice's for $3.50, and it would taste better too, but they aren't open this late, and if they were I doubt they'd be serving breakfast. <br /><br />Sometimes you get tired of being alone in the same apartment, listening to the same music and staring at the same walls, and you just have to get out. You pick a secluded booth in the back- or the region of the restaurant farthest from where you came in. You haven't been there five minutes before a young couple lurches in, clinging to each other like Siamese twins. They too seek out the alleged "back" of the restaurant, and as luck would have it, they take the booth in front of you. At first glance you might think they're just out for a casual date, but the girl plops down on the guy's lap and they begin to put on a display that could make any trollop blush. In fact, you're not entirely convinced that they aren't in the midst of some nefarious act of harlotry, and that money won't be changing hands afterwards. Apparently a booth at Denny's is cheaper than a hotel room. On the wall to the right is a black and white photo of a navy sailor kissing a girl. For some reason the photo seems romantic, while what is taking place in front of you is nauseating. As you attempt to focus on the books in front of you, two very portly fellows also find their way to the back. They take the booth behind you. They sit down heavily with a disturbance that is undoubtedly recorded by seismometers across the county. For some reason just sitting down isn't good enough for the guy on the opposite side of your bench and he seems to sit down several times and even then he can't sit still. The other one decides that now is the most opportune time to phone his deaf mother and very noisily discuss his various gastro-intestinal conditions. Between the constant, wave-like motion of the bench beneath you, -instigated by the avoirdupois beta noire behind you- and the frivolous fornication unfolding in front of you, you're not able to get much done.You watch the rain out the window. Your stomach churns to the tune of "Your Body is a Wonderland" by John Meyer and you look to the sailor and his girl for sympathy, but you don't really get any. Maybe you were better off at home, but after all, you're diagramming sentences, so what difference does it really make?Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-68223487797292645142008-01-29T12:31:00.001-08:002008-01-29T12:36:33.377-08:00Snow Day<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/empyrean_squire/2222732550/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2371/2222732550_144485fe6b_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a> <br /> <span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/empyrean_squire/2222732550/">DSC_2555</a> <br /> Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/empyrean_squire/">empyrean_squire</a> </span></div>Last Thursday ten of us went up to Mountain High to go skiing. The trip had been planned for two weeks and we weren't going to be stopped by the stormy conditions we woke to. The snow levels had dropped to about 3,000ft the night before, and the white frosting nearly touched the valley floor. I checked the snow conditions online, and the resort's website reported that they'd received 18 inches of fresh powder the night before and were expecting another ten inches to fall during the day. Perfect. I arrived at the D's around 8am, and after testing out a pair of snow chains we loaded the fifteen passenger van and headed up the mountain. The drive up was absolutely amazing. The snow lay lightly in the branches of trees and delicately covered the other desert plants. The way the sun hit the embalmed plants made it seem like they were covered in tiny pieces of glass. About halfway up we had to stop and put the chains on the van, and before we reached the top the sky had clouded over and more snow was coming down in big thick flakes. The wind on top of the mountain was blowing about thirty miles per hour, making the 28 degree temperature feel more like 5. We were all dressed for it though. The wind whipped over the summit and carried the powder snow with it in thick clouds. In the mid afternoon Mario and I took the tram over to the East resort and found it all but abandoned. There were only half a dozen other skiers up there, which meant we had the 1.3 mile run all to ourselves. It was quite an experience, as the wind was blowing even harder up there, and sometimes the powder clouds would completely envelope everything, reducing visibility to about 5 feet. It also made it impossible to tell how fast I was going. There were a few times I was blasting along at almost the same speed as the flying snow, and watching the eddies swirl in slow motion around my feet like an affectionate house cat. All of a sudden a pinecone would appear on the ground some feet in front of me, and just as quickly it would be lost in the mist behind like it had been fired from a catapult. The brief reference point would give me an idea of how fast I was actually going. Fortunately no one got hurt. I was sitting at the lodge later that afternoon watching a tractor clear the snow away from the picnic area. Mario had gone inside to get a drink, and as I waited for him to come back out the deep resonating sound of the tractor suddenly made me think of the Discovery channel programs I'd watched on avalanches. I remembered the big avalanche that happened above Devil's Punchbowl a few years ago. I hiked up there with Jed and Levi a couple of weeks afterward, and we were all amazed at the field of rubble that lay all around us. Big chunks of snow and ice interspersed with tree branches and logs over forty feet deep and more than a half mile long. The whole mess was permeated with sawdust. A reminder of the trees that had been ground to pulp beneath the weight of it all. I reassured myself that if there ever had been avalanches at the resort I would have heard about it. It wasn't worth worrying about. The rest of the day was wonderful. The next day on the news they reported that there had been two avalanches up there and three people had been killed.<br clear="all" />Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-26802241249596576562008-01-11T13:23:00.000-08:002008-01-11T22:52:20.429-08:00A New YearI’m discovering just how much can be fit into a week. I’ll just hope this last week doesn’t characterize the year to come. School started again on the 2nd, and I’m already bogged down by upcoming due dates. Modern British Lit is going to kill me. Not only do I have more assigned reading than I’ve ever had in any one class, but it’s authors like <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=CTrT6wh172AC&dq=finnegans+wake&pg=PP1&ots=e2uLuFaVew&sig=Z53K4MYezi-6Ww12xMGyZOMB9gE&hl=en&prev=http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=+finnegans+wake&btnG=Search&sa=X&oi=print&ct=title&cad=one-book-with-thumbnail#PPP2,M1">Joyce</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Woolf">Woolf</a>. 20 units this quarter, then burn-out. <br /><br />Does the sentence “I ran a marathon” contain a transitive verb or is it prepositional? The proposition is implied. Where did you run? I ran <em>in</em> a marathon. Apparently “marathon” can be used to describe a distance as well. What did you run? I ran a marathon. Context. <a href="http://www.usingenglish.com/glossary/descriptive-grammar.html">Stupid descriptive grammar</a>. <br /><br />Work has been slow, which is nice. The manager is out of town and there hasn’t really been anything to do anyway. We tested out the new projector system and laptop by watching <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0464061/">I’m Reed Fish </a></em>in its entirety. It seems to be working well, but I think we should watch a few more movies on it just to be sure. Meanwhile I’ve been spending most of my time in the back playing Jin and reading <em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crome_Yellow">Crome Yellow</a></em>. It’s difficult getting back into the 9-5 groove after the holidays. <br /><br />I filed my grad app yesterday. I can’t believe I’ll actually be finished in June. It’s been too many years coming. Everything is lined up…well, except for grad school. It’s a little late in the year to be filling out grad school apps, but I think I’m going to try anyway. For the past month or so I’ve been thinking about what to do next- grad school aboard, grad school out of state, grad school at home- or no grad school at all. I’m entering another of those “major transitional periods.” Ironically, we’re reading <em><a href="http://www.ketzle.com/frost/roadnot.htm">The Road Not Taken</a></em> in Modern American Lit this week. <br /><br />A couple of days ago I built a <a href="http://www.studiolighting.net/homemade-light-box-for-product-photography/">lightbox</a> for doing still life photography. Now I just need to find something to photograph other than Campbell’s soup cans. <br /><br />Thanks to Kritter, Colby, the Jimminks and the Pedersons I’m steadily becoming not only more interested, but noticeably better at both Volleyball and Ping Pong- both games I’ve always been terrible at, and consequently, uninterested in playing.<br /><br />Last night I received an anonymous comment on one of my entries, and so I logged into sitemeter to see who it might possibly have been. I was surprised to see that I’d already received nearly 50 hits that day. (I usually average around 2 or 3 per day) Looking at the referrals page it appears that almost every single viewer had been googleing the lyrics to <em><a href="http://www.sweetslyrics.com/474401.Lifehouse%20-%20Broken.html">Broken</a></em> by Lifehouse and google had been sending them to the <a href="http://theimmortalwanderer.blogspot.com/2007/08/broken-clock.html">Broken Clock </a>entry on my blog. It’s really nice to suddenly get so much traffic. It would be even nicer if more people stuck around and read some of the other entries. Thank you to those of you who do. <br /><br />Let’s see, what else? Oh, a new word worth mentioning:<br /> <br /><em><a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/widdershins">Widdershins</a></em> – I believe is Scottish Gaelic for counterclockwise. <br /><br />That’s all for now.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-84568480420227147882007-12-18T22:19:00.000-08:002007-12-18T22:26:48.294-08:00Home For ChristmasI 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. <br /> <br />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. <br /><br />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.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-40642889130386740812007-12-06T18:13:00.001-08:002008-01-19T23:55:47.173-08:00Finished<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/empyrean_squire/2083387008/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2001/2083387008_0eb70f33e6_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a> <br /> <span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/empyrean_squire/2083387008/">Snow Trip</a> <br /> Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/empyrean_squire/">empyrean_squire</a> </span></div>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. <br /><br />Some of the highlights of this last week have included:<br /><br />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 (<a href="http://wherefancyisbred.wordpress.com/">Natalie</a>) 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. <br /><br />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)<br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.pictureline.com/images/bigpictureB.php?id=14867">this beast</a> 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.<br clear="all" />Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-66112336167431025522007-11-16T12:17:00.000-08:002007-11-16T12:23:59.436-08:00The Best of EuropeThe Best of Europe<br /> <br />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. <br /> <br />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. <br /> <br />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. <br /> <br />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.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-1321317391097706392007-11-01T16:04:00.001-07:002007-11-01T16:10:21.989-07:00On Ghosts and Folklore<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/empyrean_squire/1817596208/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2208/1817596208_4aca9cd921_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a> <br /> <span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/empyrean_squire/1817596208/">Haunted Ponds</a> <br /> Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/empyrean_squire/">empyrean_squire</a> </span></div>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. <br /> <br />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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiburcio_Vasquez">Tiburcio Vasquez</a>, who robbed from the rich and gave to himself. <br /> <br />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."<br clear="all" />Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-45507153241043062612007-10-24T21:53:00.001-07:002007-10-24T21:53:57.155-07:00FireAs 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.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-66028901941114268252007-10-17T21:52:00.000-07:002007-10-17T22:00:22.261-07:00Tempus FugitIt’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 <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> 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. <br /><br />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.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-13378569415992426732007-10-11T13:34:00.000-07:002007-10-11T13:36:37.973-07:00ad·ven·ture (ād-věn'chər)<em>verb</em> <br />1. to take a risk in the hope of a favorable outcome <br /><br /><br />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." <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Last weekend was amazing. ;)Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-1723411393618090662007-10-02T14:42:00.000-07:002007-10-02T14:45:05.277-07:00PerceptionI'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? <br /><br />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. <br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Things I’m thankful for: Anti-lock breaks.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-13083041246501581912007-09-09T22:01:00.000-07:002007-09-09T22:17:03.443-07:00Building PatienceOpportunities 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.<br />Scenario:<br />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! <br /><br />I need to quit praying for patience when I really need it, as it seems to only make things worse.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3936871371833720936.post-43523953595962336342007-08-31T16:02:00.000-07:002007-08-31T19:37:35.471-07:00RetirementSo 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. <br /><br />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?<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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 <em>Twister</em>, 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.<br /><em></em>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15429717259962669437noreply@blogger.com0