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. ;)