It's 4 o'clock and all I want to do is write something. On my typewriter. Which is far far too loud for the small hours in a house full of sleeping students. So I bide my time, as I always do. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, as they say--until the last fell notes of the clock in which I believe only because I have to.
It piles up, the amount of brilliance I'm just waiting to unload--waiting for the right time, the right circumstance, the right experience--until I'm fit to burst, and then it's all forgotten. Gone with the sands of time whose fleeting fantasy guides us all.
Tick tock click clack. It calls my name, but I'm unable to answer. My fingers fizzle when they dare brush the keys. Never enough time. Never enough inclination.
And yet I can feel it, somewhere scarcely tangible. Building; growing; evolving. It seems only a matter of when...

Corona Conceit

There’s an ancient piece of machinery occupying the star spot on my desk. It has a keyboard organized much the same as the newfangled computer next to it, but the keys reach out invitingly; honestly. No hidden functions, no backlit letters, no fickle electronics.
Sheet-metal body, heavy and robust, colored like spilt wine. It exudes an energy of wisdom, experience, and history. Faintly musty like an old leather chair in the far corner of a leather-bound library. How many words has it written? sentences inscribed? paragraphs composed? Like an old violin: how many hands have tickled out a reflection?
A sheet of paper sits waiting––mostly blank––with a few words etched in black ink. Across the page, a black and red ribbon stretches like a banner of literary significance. Below the ribbon, a multitude of metal letters lie ready, poised to strike. A silent story unfolds, before my fingertips even brush the lillypad keys.
And then––no secret writing in the rhythmic clack clack clack––the song of prose grooves to the steady strike of type on paper. No pattern of zeros and ones: all words, all the time. Dancing and skipping across the white expanse like the footprints of fictitious figures in my dreams.
Old and new, side-by-side on my desk, coexist in perfect anachronic harmony. Which will my fingers flit for today? They say a man’s desk is a window to his soul—or maybe they don’t, but perhaps they should…

Looking for excitement? Philosophical conversation? A free beer or six? Grab a good book, hoist a travel mug full of coffee, don a ruggedly handsome face and a thick pair of legs, and saunter on over to Dupont circle when the weather's fair and the breeze is fresh.
I was sitting on a bench when a fellow approached and sat down. Moments later, he apologized for blowing smoke in my face--I hadn't even noticed, due to the cleansing wind--and stood up. Shortly after, he engaged me in conversation--small talk. Sports, girls, marriage, my open book, anything that came to mind.
I was just beginning to lose interest and yearning to get back to my reading when he offered to buy me a beer. I didn't need to look at my watch to know it was hardly beer-thirty, but I acquiesced anyway, despite the warning klaxons screaming in my head.
Shut up, I scolded, there's no way this guy can do anything to you against your will. Better watch out for roofies though, my afterthought added.
I figured I'd go to a bar, sip a drink, and leave to scoop my lovely lady from work. No harm, no foul.
The first bar we entered was an Irish pub where, to my embarrassment (and moderate relief) I discovered I had exchanged my ID for my visitor's pass, and I was without age-verification.
Undeterred, Chuck led the way to the next bar. Same story: No ID, no drink.
Instead, we went to a liquor store, where I picked out an IPA. No sense in wasting a perfectly good opportunity. After all, Chuck instructed me to pick Whatever I Wanted. (In the bar, my first instinct had been to go for Chivas. Chuck had opted for vodka/cranberry--yet another dead giveaway.)
Sixpack in hand, I accompanied Chuck back to the grassy traffic circle where I poured a bottle into my emptied coffee mug and proceeded to drink in public. He told me about his musical career. The conversation was wholesomely bro-ish, and I felt in no way threatened. I guess he just liked to hear philosophy and bullshit from a strapping young straight guy.
As we parted ways--I toward a pair of beautiful bouncy breasts and flowing, herbal-scented hair, and he toward whatever he had planned for the rest of the day--Chuck got a phone call. He said it was a Marine whose Marine wife had just been sent to Iraq. The guy wanted Chuck to pick up some weed and join him for a sordid sodomitic romp in the Pentagon...

Now and then there comes a time in everyone's life when he finds himself in a position in which he would never wish to be.
Just this weekend, I was in a Metro station when all of a sudden I had an urgent need to unload. Struggling through the turnstile with my bulky bags, I asked the location of the nearest restroom. Perhaps sensing my urgency, the guard slowly responded, "Sure, right there at the end of the hall."
Expecting a run-of-the-mill public facility, I hurried toward what looked like a cross between a '50s concept mobile home and a space shuttle. After I lurched inside, the door hissed shut once I located and thumbed the heat-seeking button.
Convenient metal hooks accepted my luggage, and a sign suggested I press another heat button to access the toilet seat. It slid out from the wall dripping water and smelling faintly of industrial cleanser. At least I would be spared the hassle of wrestling with one of those paper seat covers which invariably stick embarrassingly to ones cheeks. I dropped my shorts and sat.
Across the room, a sign proclaimed, "Time limit: 10 mins. If amber light begins to flash, exit immediately." Below the unlit warning light were the words, "Wash Cycle."
I finished my business and turned to the toilet paper dispenser. It too featured a heat-sensing button, which I pushed. Expecting a quick whir and the appearance of several sheets of toilet tissue, imagine my dismay when nothing happened. I thumbed the button again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
Fighting panic, I glanced at the amber warning light which remained mercifully dark. How much time had elapsed? How many minutes had I left?
Fortunately, being a writer in perpetual possession of paper afforded me an uncomfortable and somewhat chafed out. Scrambling to tear sheets from my notebook, cursing colorfully all the while, I wondered what would happen if I were still seated when the Wash Cycle began. Would I drown? Would I be clean?
Finally I finished and washed my hands several times, lurching out of the box in the nick of time.
For all its technological wonder, the space-age shitter had one fatal flaw: it required a human to refill the toilet paper.

What is it with girls? What goes on in those pretty heads of theirs? It really bothers me that their insanity affects me so deeply. I can't quite figure out just why I'm so interested that I'm willing to deal with such back and forth, up and down, twisting spiraling impossible-to-figure-out madness. It seems to me that it should be easy enough to just let go and move on, but I'm somehow stuck.

Women wield a kind of weird power, and it really gives me an appreciation for priests and monks and hermits. Now that I think about it, uninterrupted solitude and disinterest in women might not be a bad way to be.

Egad, has it come to this? Lipstick? Puhleez. I think we've had enough of this smear campaign shit--and I do not mean that as another goddamn lipstick pun. Why can't they just play straight? Why does it have to come down to playground tactics?
Come on! We're gonna go squeeze glue on his seat--want to come along?
Right. Count me out.

I can't sleep. There's been a lot on my mind today, right from the moment I awoke. The rest of the day passed paradoxically in a stand-still sort of way. It seemed I could no longer convince myself that time existed. I was entirely too aware of the instant and the fact that any sense of time we have is merely a construct of memory, a chain of instants strung together to give a semblance of continuity.
I wonder what causes such days. There are a couple issues I can think of that might have led to the odd feeling of today. But it couldn't be any one thing, right? Or maybe my mind is just too focused on what I'm missing that it suddenly became aware of its fleeting existence and overwhelming insignificance.
Today I floated through the universe, stuck in the instant, and the whole day had a nightmarish quality. Usually I enjoy my awareness of How Things Are, but today, it just seemed downright wrong.
However, I did enjoy myself with a book and a good cigar, so I wasn't unhappy. I just don't have to words to accurately or adequately describe the day. I just hope tomorrow isn't the same. I need a rest from it.
I also feel much farther than normal from the one I love, and I'm wondering if it's already starting to crumble...

When I was young, we still used corded telephones...

First day of practical Palio training. It was hectic and my feet hurt, but I think I'll be able to handle it. I'm looking forward to getting out on my own and not having to shadow someone (and get tips!). I had something brilliant to say, but I plumb forgot. Now I'm cooling my heels and warming my belly with some Chivas Regal--an excellent drink.

Edited: Ah ha! I remembered:
Sauntering into the doors, decked out in my spiffy new all-black outfit (with a three-colored tie), I looked for the manager who'd introduce me to my trainer.
"Oh, you're working outside with David."
"Better get a polo for him," he added as an afterthought. The outside sections aren't air-conditioned.
I donned the polo, realizing at the same time that my tattoo was now visible, and I hadn't put on a watch. I was in violation of the no-tattoos-visible policy. Goddamnit, I thought, seeking a wrist band or BandAid. We found tape. Now, taped up, I looked like an athete. In my eyes, anyway. Badass. Yes.
However, I now find myself in flagrant violation of my primary principles, which include, ironically, never holding a job that disallows bearing a tattoo on my left wrist--commemorated, until recently, by getting a tattoo on my left wrist. And now I have to hide it. Ah, me.
Anyway, once I start making money and rolling in dough--by the way, Palio serves Zingermann's bread--I'll be happy. It seems as though the people working there are pretty cool too, which is good. I guess people are pretty cool wherever you are. As I strode (and sometimes scurried) hither and thither, I recognized the odd and wonderful sensation of being in a completely separate world from the majority. Not a patron is privy, not a guest can guess the esoteric and exclusive existence chillin' in parallel to their own. The staff is completely separated, cordoned off as it were, from the guests--never customers: guests. I can't wait to be a connected member.

Republicans are brilliant. Evilly brilliant. McCain's choice of a woman as his running mate is a huge blow to democrats and anyone who's intelligent enough to understand that republicans do not have the best interests of the people in mind and they're just trying to steal votes.
All those women and feminist supporters who were planning on voting for McCain out of some stupid spite because Obama ousted their choice are poised on a knife edge of change. Hillary grabbed them and swayed them with her speech. But I fear McCain grabbed them all back by picking a woman--regardless of the fact that she's younger than Obama and inexperienced (a friggin MAYOR mostly) when McCain railed against that with his entire force.
I think we're screwed. The only bright side is, win or lose, we're getting a minority in office for the first time since Catholic Kennedy.

I've been watching the Democratic National Convention off and on. Usually more off than on, but the speeches I've seen have been wildly inspiring. Maybe not quite enough to get me out in the trenches, but certainly enough to get my election juices flowing.
Finally, finally, finally, the democrats have fronted a candidate with some chutzpah, some verve. No more limp biscuit, lame duck, tired old has-beens. This guy is an up-and-comer. I'm really excited. But also really worried and nervous: the republicans are up to their usual evil tricks, and I fear that too many people are too stupid and sheepish to ignore the lies and irrelevant dirt dug up by people with nothing better to do than , and realize that anyone who votes republican and earns less than a quarter-million dollars is being duped.

I'm watching it right now and wishing I'd been watching and blogging throughout like all those people paid to post on the internet

sign: 911 was an inside job
msnbc as liberated
this could be a turning point--excitement builds; my heart starts thumping.
how can one BE a republican?
how can they sell out humanity like that?

Well, I've re-initiated the blog, and I'm hoping for some feedback. Much more to come.

In this day and age, psychology and psychiatry are in the stage of development equivalent to when surgeries were performed by barbers. Very scary stuff.
Of course, that doesn't at all mean I don't advocate the field. On the contrary, the only way for mind studies to advance to the point of being very helpful is the trial and error method. Psychiatrists and psychologists struggle in a field misunderstood by nearly everyone. Their craft is not supported by those profit-mongering axes of corporate evil, insurance companies. By far some of the least ethical groups of people ever to sanctimoniously step up and "grudgingly" accept our monthly deposits into the corporate coffers.
If you know someone who is considering becoming a psychologist or psychiatrist, offer a crumb of encouragement and steer them away from talking to anyone who might reveal to them the difficulty of in a field disrespected, misunderstood, and feared by most everybody.
I almost wish I had a reason to sit and talk to a psychology person.

time is such a goddamn confusing thing. there's only an instant. everything else is just a memory or dream. Seeking continuity through REM rearrangement of the neurons. It's just so weird, it freaks me out sometimes when I start to think too deeply about it.
And we barely remember--a hazy idea at best, generally--what came before this one infinite instant (<--how can that even be?). There are methods and materials that can cause the isolation and highlight of that instant. Present. The only one that really exists (our concept of past is very much alike that of the imagined future). Unfortunately, the mainstream has been rather effective in shutting down that portion of humanity. They sort of shot themselves repeatedly in the foot though, by being such poofs.
Maybe that's part of why I'm so interested (but bad at forming habits) in dream activity--specifically achieving on-purpose lucid dreams. And why I spent a good part of my younger college days soaring on the wings of demons.
As far as the past goes, it's not even difficult to completely make up a scenario in one's imagination and place it in the shelves of memories. I've tested it. For real. Eyewitness testimony is a pile of crap. Pure dramatics. The human mind is not so difficult to tap. Psychology is really our weakest science with the greatest potential--but no one pays attention to all that junk.
There are so many saps in the world, it shocks and saddens me. How does one get to be like that? If I were like that, how would I know? Am I a sap?
God I hope not.

the 37th annual Mountain Fair opened last night with a some Buddhist monks chanting prayers followed by a sweet drum circle which made me think about Indian powwows where dudes sit around a huge drum thumping away--I want to get that together sometime soon with some homies. It's intense as hell. I got to play a big bass drum, which maybe had something to do with the intensity. BOOM boom boom boom BOOM boom boom boom BOOM boom BOOM BOOM BOOM boom boom boom...hiaalaleellayeleylaalalayelyea!

Siempre digo que quería practicar mas el Español. Siempre. Pero nunca tenía la oportunidad. Hasta ahora. Mis jefes añadieron a unos Mexicanos y ahora puedo hablar. Por primero, no tenía confianza. Siempre tuve en miente las frases y conversaciones, pero siempre vacilé en miedo. No más. Puedo hablar con ellos en tópicos anchos

Me ha ponido casi intérprete entre los Mexicanos y mis jefes--lo comprendí cuando el jefe pide algo y mis amigos me miran para traducir. Pero lo difícil es que no se muchas palabras especificos para los implementos.

Está bien. Gano mucho. Ahora (como siempre) quería irme a un país donde podría hablar solamente en español.

The past several days have been completely taken up by a most enjoyable visit. I don't feel like going into all the details--and you probably wouldn't want to hear anyway.

Camped, climbed, fought, loved, saw Girltalk, imbibed, ate, river-bathed, etc in Aspen.
Chilled in Carbondale.

Now it's time to get back to work for a while, until the day I finally return home to my lovely lakes, far-flung forests, sleepy sanddunes, wrecked roads, and wet winters. Gotta make that money.

I'll write something better once I'm back in the swing of things. Tonight: a concert in the park featuring some musicians connected to Grateful Dead. Should be fun.

Thank God for South Park. Is it okay to say that? Will I be smitten by the nearest lightning bolt? No? Phew! Okay.

Every once in a while, there comes a time when the only solution to a mounting problem is to slap on the closest relevant South Park episode. Today I had to watch Smug Alert (Season 10).

For those of you (meaning mostly me) who've seen the episode, an explanation is unnecessary.
I'm out in Colorado in an area rife with wealth, an area where people can afford to be Progressive and Ecofriendly and 100% Organic. Commercially, of course. Not necessarily morally. They drive their Hybrids; they buy their price-gouged organics; they tout their values--and they are Smug.

Don't get me wrong: I'm all for ecofriendly behavior and progressive attitudes and organic crops. But once such ideas become fads, and once people get lofty dispositions because they buy ONLY organic food, they lose any favorable stance they might have had.

There's a law of Judaism that says that charity must be anonymous: It doesn't count if there's a nametag. I agree with that particular facet. Do good, but don't point out to others that you're doing good. Being ecofriendly, progressive, and organic is good. But don't strut your stuff.

My landlady, God bless her soul, is a prime example of a smugger. She always flaunts her hybrid and her organic-only diet, and claims to embrace eastern religions. However, she hasn't the first foggy fucking clue that her attitudes toward other people don't even touch--aren't even on the horizon of--those mostly-ignored prophets of ALL religions whose culture she and other westerners like her--and other easterners for that matter--try to embrace because it's the cool thing to do.
If someone says they are Buddhist, they are probably lying. Ask them what enlightenment means. If they answer anything other than "enlightenment is realizing there is no enlightenment and that people are people, for better or for worse," they haven't even begun to understand Buddha's teachings--which generally tend toward There Are No Teachings.
The same thing is true of the other religions. Teachings twisted, prophets pushed out. Goddamn, this could turn into quite a rant. Anyway, you know what I mean. Or maybe you don't. It doesn't really matter.

When you're eco-smug, progressive-smug, or organic-smug (or religion-smug), you're no better than the assholes who think only about their own massive bank accounts and private jets when it comes to politics. There's a word that I think a lot of people misunderstand that really applies to Smugness: liberal fascist. Please don't be one.

In other news:
I had a great visit with the family. It was a nice, refreshing break from the doldrums of work. We hit up lots of great beyond-my-budget restaurants, and I took them climbing. Having the dogs stay with me was nice too. Except landlady's attitude toward dogs in the house opened my eyes wider that she's a blesséd hypocrite and far more stiff-necked than she claims.

A long time ago, I was browsing the aisles in my local Blockbuster when I espied a movie called The Professional. The cover of the video (this is before the advent of DVDs) was so compelling, I never forgot it. It featured a man's face hidden behind small round sunglasses, wearing a tight knit hat. He was backlit by flames.
As the years went by, I kept seeing that movie in various video rental stores, but never picked it up. I found out it was about a hitman, which made me want to see it even more. It features an all-star cast including Jean Reno, Gary Oldman, Danny Aiello, and a very young Natalie Portman.
Finally, I had Netflix send me a copy which I just now watched. And to my dismay, the movie was rather disappointing. Perhaps some of my disappointment had to do with years of being built up in my mind. Or maybe it just sucked. It had a saccharine 90's flair for stupid side characters and absurd antics beyond the realm of Hollywood foolishness. I know, I know I tend to have too-high expectations for realism that Hollywood usually doesn't provide, but this was just beyond reason. They could have done much better.
The storyline was good. Jean Reno was great. The 90's, however, I'm beginning to believe, were as bad as the 80's. God help us.

Groooaaaaannnnnnnnn I'm so bored. And it's really hot. My family arrives tomorrow evening, which should be a lot of fun. Then after that, Andrea pops in for a visit. The next couple weeks will be quite a treat, and a nice breather from work. I'm excited. But bored.

Hoo wee, yesterday was a helluva day. Started the morning with a nice long sleep-in to catch a few missing zees. Then meandered on over to start my volunteer shift at Lobsterfest, which consisted of sitting in the shade drinking free beer and reading my book. Then, I got to eat a free lobster. I sat with two dudes who'd ridden their bikes from Aspen (30 miles give or take) and ended up going to a bar to play pool with them.
One of them was gay and started hitting on me, which was flattering and awkward. What do you do when a guy says, "You have a really nice ass," or "Judging by your swagger, I'd say your package is thick though not long" ? Just nod and say you're content with your beautiful girlfriend, I suppose.

Today was sweet. I went climbing and ended up finishing the clean-up of my project. I then climbed it, nabbing my first first ascent. I'm calling it Leighway. There's a piece of history for this guy. Score one.

The folks will be in town day after tomorrow! Excited.

Shit. I just realized I used almost the same wording to talk about my new climb in two consecutive posts. How lame! My apologies. Here's a lil something a bit more interesting.

A long time ago there lived an old witch. Her ramshackle cottage crouched in a clearing in the woods protected by a strong and ancient magic. The witch had long since given up on luring succulent children, and instead just gathered roots and nuts, and lived out her remaining days in solitude.
But she was very lonely.
One day, a knight errant strolled along a faint path in the woods. As it happens, it was the very path the old hag used to get to her clearing. The knight saw no sign of the magic-hidden clearing, and he continued on his way, head nodding in exhaustion.
The witch, stooped and tired from a morning of gathering, noticed the wandering man-at-arms. Ah ha, she though, here is an opportunity for some company. She shucked her sack of roots and herbs and rubbed her hands together to warm up for a spell. Closing her eyes and muttering, she extended her arms.
Her creature lumbered onto the path, nearly tripping the knight's horse. The stallion reared, and the knight grabbed wildly at the reins, startled from his doze. He dropped his lance as the magical creature growled and slobbered, rows of teeth flashing in the dim forest light. The creature leapt up and dragged the knight from the saddle, clawing and gnashing at his throat. After a struggle, the knight managed to sink his dagger deep into the beast's heart. But he was badly wounded and lay bleeding on the soft forest floor as the beast's body melted into a rancid puddle.
Gasping for breath, the knight tried to remount the horse, but couldn't gain his feet. At that moment, the witch appeared before him.
"Good sir knight," she murmured, "stir not, lest ye worsen the injury."
He groaned.
The witch selected a particular root and chewed it, as she gently untied the knight's breastplate and moved aside his blood-stained tunic. She caught her breath. The creature had caused more damage than she'd planned. A sweat broke out on the knight's forehead and he mumbled incoherently, eyes flickering in febrile heat. The witch cursed her clumsiness and gently stuffed some of the chewed root into each puncture. After a moment, the knight's brow smoothed, and he slept.
The witch used magic to transport the man to her shack and laid him on the bed.
For many days, the witch treated the wounded man as he balanced on the knife edge of death. She constantly berated her over exuberance.
Finally one day, the fever broke. The knight managed to eat solid food. And though he was grateful, he refused to stay, for he had important business to attend to. Saddened and angered, the old witch stalked into the woods. When the knight strode outside, he was unable to find a path leading out of the clearing. His horse was gone. His armour lay against the hut, rusted through.
"Egad! How many days have I lain here?"
The witch appeared at his side. "Days, bold knight? Ha! Time knows not such boundaries in this place."
"Then you seek to imprison me here?"
A hurt look crossed her face. "Imprison? Nay. Enchant perhaps." She smiled coyly and sidled up to him, holding his gaze. His eyes lost focus, and he suddenly saw her as a beautiful maiden. She grasped his hand and led him inside. Heart aflutter, he let her push him onto the bed. She peeled of her dress and straddled the knight. He stared up at her, utterly lovestruck, as she pulled aside his tunic and eased onto him. Knowing the spell would soon break, she rocked furiously until he could contain himself no more and burst with a soft cry.
She pulled a dagger from the pillow, thrust it into his throat, and dismounted. With a sad sigh, she built up the fire and prepared the spit.

The End.

Oh man. Long day at the office. Sometimes I think I've learned just about all I can get out of this internship. Usually I'm just sitting around cruising the net looking for climbing news. Staring at the same old websites day after day can wear on a fellow. On days where nothing happens, I'm bored. To tears.
I wish I could edit more features, but with an issue about to head to publication, there's really not much for me to do. Speaking of the issue, this is the one with my article. Accident Report. The issue should be out in a week or two--but who really knows what goes on here?
It looks like I'm not going to have as many articles in the actual magazine as I'd hoped. Most of my work is just online news. Ho hum. At least I've had a lot of time to read out here. I've ticked more than nine books since I arrived.
I'm working on cleaning up a new route at the crag. Once I get all the dirt and plants out of the crack, I'll get to climb it and name it! Then I'll be in the guidebook as First Ascent. Oh yeah.
Last night I watched No Country for Old Men. That is a hell of a movie. So intense. The acting of the killer is phenomenal! I watched it before bed and had a slew of bad dreams. That's what I call a great flick.
Thanks, Sam, for your comments. You make me feel loved.

Today is a beautiful day. Above the cloud cover is an expansive azure sky, reaching down and around to embrace the world. I'm leaving the office in an hour to head outside to do some landscaping.

Sometime this week, I'll be heading up to the crag to work on cleaning the new route I'm developing. I have to dig out all the dirt from the crack and clean away the lichen before the line is ready to roll. I'll have my name in the guidebook as the First Ascentionist! And I get to name the route.

I've started writing for this online magazine at www.suite101.com. Go ahead and check it out. Just plug my name in the search. Also, I'd love any suggestions for articles. No one is making use of the comments section of this blog--makes me feel lonely. Is anybody out there??

Next post (barring some big news) will be about sex. Maybe that'll catch your interests.

This morning I got to move some trees around with the Machine. Big and burly as it is, it didn't come close to filling this empty space, but tons of fun nonetheless. I really hate feeling sorry for myself. What a drag. Landscaping is a welcome distraction, but there really is no escape.
Four hours at the office seemed like forever. Time is really a fickle master. Don't like doing research unless I'm really interested in the subject. At least I'll have a good byline though.

Holy hell, how could I forget? Something momentous happened yesterday while at work landscaping. I got to drive a Caterpillar track loader! Sweet-tooth Jesus was it amazing. Talk about a piece of machinery built from necessity and testosterone!
You sit in the seat and grasp the handles. Buckle in. Like mounting some kind of futuristic war machine. Ease the throttle forward. Disengage the safety features. Feet operate the pneumatics; hands forward moves forward; hands backward moves backward; one hand forward, one hand backward turns. A throaty rumble accompanies every primitive jerking movement. Steep hills and loose dirt bow before your might. I felt like I could drive the thing all day. You've got to try one!

Last night I had a dream that I was on El Capitán. The scenery wasn't remotely similar to the real El Cap, but my mind knew it was. I started up top in some kind of cave. More like a clubhouse for the Valley dirtbags. At some point, I lowered down and climbed the top 50 feet or so. Also someone started tossing a rugby ball around. Keep in mind, El Cap is 3000 feet high. All in all, it seemed rather dangerous, though not remotely realistic.

It's late. Well, not late at all, really, but late considering I'm waking up hellishly early tomorrow to earn $96. It might be a mistake to read On The Road at such a late hour because of the odd frenzied pace. I got the original scroll version which has no breaks--paragraph, chapter, or otherwise--and I think the effect is similar to some sort of benzedrine. So anyway, I think I'll just tell a story to amuse myself and perhaps lull myself into some kind of soon-to-be-not-enough sleep.

Once upon a time, there was a man who became addicted to yawning. He'd worked so hard his entire life, that he never had enough time to sleep. And so he yawned. He yawned and yawned and yawned. While he was working, he yawned. Before he ate and after he ate, he yawned. Eventually, his wife had to stop looking at him because he yawned so much. Every time she looked at him, he yawned, and she--of course--couldn't help but yawn right back. And so it went.
Though tired, yawning helped him get through long days of work. He'd gotten so good at it, in fact, that he was able to fall asleep for the brief second his eyes closed to make room for his expanding jaws. That one instant of rest enabled him to work again for a few minutes until his next yawn.
His boss and his coworkers often wondered why they felt so sleepy at work, though they'd gotten good nights' rests. One afternoon, his boss walked over as the man was mid-yawn, and asked him to finish a project that a recently-resigned coworker had left undone. As he instructed the man, who'd just finished a yawn, the boss felt his ears pop and was unable to resist a cheek-straining, jaw-stretching yawn.
Damn, he though, must get more sleep. He left the man to his project and returned to his boss office, stifling another yawn.
The man worked on the project, stopping every so often to catch a quick wide-mouth snooze.
As time went on, his jaw muscles strengthened and grew thicker. His yawns became wider and more efficient, pulling him into a deeper rest each time. His eyes were constantly red and watery from the strain.
Some time later, he arrived home, greeted by a note from his wife:
Dear yaa-aah-ahhh-aaawwn, it said,
I've gone to stay with my mother. I think I've become infected
by your yaa-aah-aawn constant yawning. It's become such a
problem that I must escape and figure out how to yaa-aaaawwwwn
get more sleep.
The man, of course, yawned several times during the reading of this letter. It didn't mean much to him: because of his continuous mouth-stretching, he hadn't much time or energy to devote to more mundane matters. He went about his chores, doing what he did best, and yawned himself into bed.
A few hours later, he woke up for work. Tying his tie, he yawned so wide, his mouth became stuck open. He couldn't see and he couldn't hear. Knot forgotten, he felt his way to the phone and dialed 9-1-1.
"Emergency operator," came the curt reply.
"Ah yahh haaww. Haaww!"
"Sir, I cannot understand you."
"Haaww. Ah yahh haaww!"
"Sir, where are you? Do you need help?"
"Yaaahh, yaaaahh"
"If this is a prank call, you'll be in trouble, sir."
Exasperated, he slammed the phone into its cradle. Still nearly blinded by his upraised cheeks and almost deafened by his down-turned jawbones, he stumbled out the door.
He hasn't been heard from or seen since. He's probably still yawning to this very day.

The moral of the story, if you missed it, is: get sufficient sleep. Or else you're doomed to wander in dark silence forever. While yawning. Which is a very cumbersome word to write over and over and over. And if you didn't yawn while reading this story, it means either you were sufficiently rested or sufficiently rapt in the intensity of the plot. Either way, I commend you. YAAAAWWWWWWWWWN. Bedtime.

I was in the gym today, doing my part to cut some of the fat from this overweight country when I heard an odd scraping noise over the volume of my headphones. I looked over to ascertain the source of the sound. To my surprise, it was an old man hobbling slowly into the weight room, leaning heavily on his walker. A quick double take assured me I wasn't mistaken. Surely this chap was lost.
However, he sat down and started working his wrinkly biceps, nearly-useless legs dangling beneath him like the empty scrotum of a gelding.
My workout ended, I didn't hang around to see the rest. But I'm baffled, unsure whether to be proud of the fellow or dismayed that he'd neglected his legs in favor of beach biceps. I'll have to get back to you on that one.

My lengthy experience with the unforgiving, uncompromising, unaccommodating, unfailing, unmanning, unflinching, uniform court system has, I think, made me a more forgiving, compassionate person. This is deeply, deeply troubling, because that means the System has succeeded, though in a rather roundabout way.
I'm much more likely, now that I've faced the unwavering Machine, to recognize the individuality of the transgressor, and see that, in a similar circumstance, I might proceed the same way. The very nature (as we have built it) of the Beast does not permit it to take individuality into account. The System is all-encompassing, all-sweeping, all-binding, all-powerful, and we have made it that way. Laws do not treat people as people. Laws treat people as units or cogs in the vast Combine of civilized society. Operated and oiled by a relatively tiny plutocracy, the rest of the flock becomes as un-unique as any sheep in an enormous flock. The sheep knows he is One, but when viewed from above, he's no more than a wool-producing, self-warming blob, just like all the rest.
Laws, so convoluted throughout an entire history of overlapping and overlapping, adding and adding--never taking away, just adding more to countermand--have stripped the majority of people of their rights as individuals. Ironically, our uniquely identifying fingerprints are gobbled up and stored in the blind memory of the Machine.
Sadly, there is no way to fight the System. You can't outsmart omnipotence. All one can do to try to scrape away the wool that they've encouraged us to hide behind is to understand the looming presence of that which we've eagerly helped to build. All one can do is try to avoid capture in the cold, impersonal, mechanized grip of the Combine. And to do that, one must blend into the surrounding foliage and hope the law enforcers--the power-corrupted, trigger-happy, duped minions--don't peer with squinty, dead-serious eyes into your hiding place. Because they will get you. The Indian never wins. The revolutionary always succumbs to the sucking strength of power and becomes the Pig.

It was a rainy day in Scotland. William burst in the door of his cabin with a sheep under his arm.
"What are you doing?" his wife asked.
"I want to introduce you to the pig I'm fucking," Willy said.
"Willy, you're drunk. That's a sheep!"
"Woman, I was talking to the sheep."

Here from a king's mountain view
Here from the wild dream come true
Feast like a sultan, I do
On treasures and flesh never few

But I would
Wish it all away
If I thought I'd lose you
Just one day

The devil and his had me down
In love with the dark side I'd found
Dabblin' all the way down
Up to my neck, soon to drown.

But you changed that all for me
Lifted me up, turned me round

So I
I would wish this all away

Prayed like a martyr dusk to dawn
Begged like a hooker all night long
Tempted the devil with my song
And got what I wanted all along

But I
I would if I could
I would
Wish it away
Wish it all away

No prize that could
Hold sway
Or justify my giving away
My center

So if I could
I'd wish it all away
If I thought tomorrow
Would take you away.

You, my piece of mind, my all, my center,
just trying to hold on one more day.

Damn my eyes!

Damn my eyes!
If they should compromise the fulcrum:
If wants and needs divide me
Then I might as well be gone.

Shine on forever
Shine on benevolent sun
Shine down upon the broken
Shine until the two become one

Shine on forever
Shine on benevolent sun
Shine down upon the severed
Shine until the two become one

Divided, I'll wither away

Shine down upon the many.
Light our way, benevolent sun.

Breathe in union

So, as one, survive
Another day and season
Silence, legion. Save your poison.
Silence, legion. Stay out of my way.

--Maynard James Keenan

http://youtube.com/watch?v=b-9w7GBcd00

I have a serious need to vent. Everyone out here is so Zen and peaceful, but oftentimes, you can see some pent-up exasperation and anger. Bottled up and disallowed escape.
You can't help it; you're human.
I think, despite all forms of meditation and calming and all that junk, that people need an outlet. A punching bag. A shooting range. A piece of gadgetry to smash. A down pillow. Whatever it be, people need some token violence. It's much worse to pen up anger under the guise of calm. We come from such violent roots--by way of survival--that it's inescapable. Of course, there are those few individuals who are really capable of separating themselves from the chaos of the world. Certain Buddhist monks. Gandhi. Jesus. People in comas. Those of us who can't achieve that enlightenment need something to hit once in a while. And I'm sorely lacking right now.
I'd almost be willing to buy a new Xerox machine for the office just so I could take this perfectly good one out back and treat it to a baseball-bat facelift. Goddamn, can you imagine? Little bits and pieces flying all over the place, ricocheting off your forehead, making such a satisfying sound! The leverage of the bat just bringing destruction like something sent from hell to do god's dirty work. Vicious vibrations with every blow until your hands go numb, and your shoulders ache. Tendons and veins stand out like ropes as you grip tighter, swing faster, hit harder, rage deeper; until anger you didn't even know you had bubbles up to the surface to get its hit on. Fuck you! your mind screams, as your breath becomes ragged, and sweat breaks out at your hairline. Die, worthless lump! Channel, focus, aim all aggression at this one inanimate damnit-doll, this whipping boy, this piece-of-shit technological target that didn't actually do anything to deserve this terrible treatment. Or did it?
Just abandon all reason and give in to that wonderful, instinctive animal ferocity. Let the adrenaline take hold and bellow its unholy mantra of havoc. Faster, faster, faster! Grit your teeth, flare your nostrils, narrow your eyes. Give in; let go; have at it! Growl and howl with each downward arc. Never; never; never stop! Plastic, metal, glass cringes before your might. Again. Again. Again. Again. Shred, stomp, snarl and roar.
And Oh, but it feels good! The mess you've made, the energy expended. Muscles throb, and pulse pounds...
Something suddenly makes you stop swinging. A smile. And perhaps you chuckle a little. Giggle some more. Bark with laughter. Double over, helplessly gasping for breath, ribs aching, stomach tight. Exhausted.
And no longer angry.

You love climbing. You love the approach. Tie in your safety knot, and take a look at the wall. The grade--tough but well within your range. So you slip into your shoes, and brush your fingers against the rock, getting familiar with the surface, seeking those first few elusive holds. Then you pull up and take that first step off the ground. Don't look back. Don't look down.
The first several holds are a bit awkward as you struggle to get used to the route. As you climb higher, it gets better and better. You're high enough up that you know a fall now won't be fatal. You get a feel for the moves. Goddamn, you think, this line is fuckin' rad! It may be the best route you've ever been on. And you love it.
Hard enough to keep it interesting, you reach each bolt with excitement. Any bit of nervousness dashed as you find that deep hold and reach down to clip your rope. Safe again! Shake 'em out. Stay fresh. You want the line to go on forever. You love this route. Your fingers get so familiar with the intricate crimpers and tiny pockets. It's like it was made just for you. Clipping!
As you get higher, you feel stronger. You start to dream of sending--all the way with no falls. But just as you start to think that, you feel a pump coming on. Ignore it. Continue up. Don't check your rope drag. Don't estimate how far past your last bolt you are. Keep climbing.
Grasp the hold and squeeze! The next bolt is just up there. One more move. Forearms start quaking. Latch your thumb and fingerlock. You can do it. Pull. Look for foot holds. Don't give up. Don't look down. Must clip that bolt! Losing grip. No! Stay on, goddamnit! Fingers start opening of their own accord. Adjust your hold. Slipping--no! It's right there. Oh God, how high up are you? Don't think like that! Go for the hold! Errggghh. Rational thought vanishes. Ahggh. Evvvhh. Stay strong. Ffffff.
Falling! you blurt.
You lose your grip and plummet. Wind whistles in your ears. Hands instinctively flail. As death rushes up at 9.8 m/s, suddenly you're caught up short, and your feet slam against the wall. You look skyward. Fifteen feet up is your bolt, pointed out by your taught rope. Now what? You've lost the onsight. Are you too tired? Will you ever see the route the same again? Try to shake off the defeated feeling.
Climbing! you call. Time to move on.

Thank God it's a beautiful day. I started the morning at quarter to seven with an egg and lox on bakery bread. Delicious. Then, I drove out to Sopris Mountain Ranch to start my new job: landscaping.
Spent the morning swinging a pickax, digging irrigation trenches. Enjoyed the sun and the music and seeing my burly image in the enormous mirrored windows of this multi-million dollar house. I went inside to drop a deuce and discovered it's the most beautiful house I've ever been in. With sweeping views of Sopris Mountain from just about anywhere inside. Left some nice streak marks in the new toilet too.
I enjoy the work (so far), but I can really understand, Erik G, why you returned to AA after sophomore summer with rippling muscles and an attitude to match. It's labor-intensive. My hands are still a bit shaky every time I pause my frantic typing.
Music: Disturbed and Avenged Sevenfold
Pay: $60 for four hours.
I can live with that.

Wow. I'm lucky to be alive. I mean, I guess we all are kind of lucky to be alive just from a philosophical point of view. But I just tempted fate in a major way (as if I don't regularly while hanging off 1/4 inch bolts stuck in a wall 60 feet off the cold, hard ground). I biked over to my friend's house, and about 2 blocks from my home, I realized I hadn't yet fixed my light onto my bike. Fuck it, I thought, I've come too far.
Turns out, my friend lives on a country road about 3 miles from where I stay. It was bright evening daylight when I left. A few hours, three beers, and a large glass of scotch later, it was nearly pitch-black.
I turned on my red rear light, hoping cars on my side of the road would see me with enough time to veer away into the ditch, sparing my selfish, foolish life, and took off into the dark night. Scorpio beckoned me home. I should, at this point, also mention I had taken my right contact out in the morning because it was irritating me. So I'm squinting along the road, trying to follow the faded or nonexistent white line indicating the shoulder. I'm glancing back every so often to check for approaching headlights. The alcohol is making me swerve ever so slightly. Plus, I can barely see the pavement. I turn off the country drive onto a sort-of main road and cross the bridge. Even the reflectors are invisible because I don't have a forward-facing light.
I thought for the briefest moment: Maybe I can hold my cell phone aloft and get some light that way, before realizing that would be stupidly pointless and would cause me to take one of my much-needed hands off the slightly misaligned handlebars (I'd forgotten I hadn't yet adjusted my bike handlebars and gears after getting new grips), so I abandoned the phone idea.
Every so often, I'd have to pull off the road to let a car zip past. They slowed down about two feet from me when they saw me. Did I mention I was wearing a black fleece jacket and no helmet? (Good lord, could I ask Death any more directly to sweep me away?)
Finally up ahead, I saw soft, orange illumination. But lo, it was only one street light before a lengthy stretch of curvy, shoulder-less road. The light served only to whisk away my precious night-vision, cultivated through decayards of perilous pedaling.
After a grim while, I got to the main road which was, thankfully, lighted well enough that I could see the road surface. I was also visible to cars from a good pace back. I finally felt safe. Sort of.

Fascism: my antidrug

Just got back from a weekend in Rifle. Well, no. That's a lie. Just got back from pizza and beers after showering after getting back from a weekend in Rifle. Rifle's a great canyon 1 hour away of limestone walls and greasy, over-used holds. But it's great. And Daniel, I realized much after the fact that when you asked if I wrote about my climbing experience you meant in the mag, not in my blog. Well, no, I don't write about my own climbing experiences in the mag. I'm not good enough. Yet.
I went there with an editor (Andrew) and his girlfriend (Jen). They climb 5.13. I was a bit intimidated at first by all the regulars there who all know each other. At some point Sunday afternoon, a couple of those regulars were leaving (in an Audi S8--sick car), the passenger jumped out, noticing Andrew was holding a Pabst Blue Ribbon (the original energy drink) and said, "Hey, you guys want some real beers?" Turns out, his friend driving the Audi is Adam Avery who owns Avery Brewing Company in Boulder. Delicious IPA.
We camped out there, and I got to use my new tent which is phenomenal. Except I was cold cuz it's a bit too big for one person alone. The stars were spectacular.
After a while, I was able to get comfortable in the canyon. I'm not used to the type of rock, nor am I at the level of the other people who chill there, but I had a great time nonetheless. They're psyched to see new people out there, and very encouraging. Got on some scary climbs a bit above me (ha) but I was able to struggle up.
Someone said I sound like Keanu Reeves. Good Lord.
The same phenomenon that causes the limestone to get polished also makes it pretty soft on the hands, unlike sandstone. Despite that, I climbed enough to tear hell out of my fingertips. I wonder if that will change my fingerprints? I really don't like having my prints in the system. Goddamn Big Brother.
Anyway, I'm not sure whether I like the Frying Pan (where there are lots of unique routes and plenty of potential first ascents (where I get to name them!) and a much nicer view and much closer to town and breakfast and dinner at Jefe's house with his 1 y/o baby) or Rifle (where there are lots of chill people and challenging routes and camping). For now, I'm going to go with the Pan. We shall see. Stay tuned.

I had a dream this morning about teaching young kids--maybe fifth grade--about representative democracy. I was some sort of student teacher (because the real teacher was sitting against the wall on the side). Apparently my teaching style is to gather the kids close and have an open discussion trying to get them to tell me their understanding of the different words I use to describe political positions. A little girl plopped herself down right in front of me and started using a piece of chalk to color a blackboard eraser. I asked her, "Is there something wrong that you're trying to get my attention like that?" That's when I noticed some brown substance on the floor. Oh damn. This girl just shat her pants. I beckoned the real teacher over, and she took the little girl out of the classroom.
The kids were really getting into the discussion, and I think I made some headway in teaching them about the balance between necessity and screwage in our democratic system.
Overall, the dream was pretty damn sweet, and I kind of want to be a teacher now.

Woke up at 4:30 AM feeling disgusting. Crept to the kitchen for a bite to eat and slunk to the bathroom to take a shower. Felt much better after.
Stopped by the used book sale at the library again today. Picked up another five books--totaling fifteen. Also totaling three dollars.
I had a crazy dream last night. Some sort of dystopian situation. Andrea was there as a major player. I woke up thinking I should write it down, but my lazy ass decided not to.
So sore all day after three consecutives of climbing. Smoked a J in the bathtub like the Dude, and finished Disclosure by Michael Crichton. Great book. All about people abusing positions of power. Great perspectives--based on a true story, like many of his.

It's weird to think of the same full moon rising over in MI as it does here. Today we were out at the crag--one of the best days of climbing yet--and the moon just popped out of a pocket of clouds, top half first. That was about when we decided to head down.
Rack of lamb for dinner. Goddamn.
Great sunday tradition we've got going: breakfast early, crags all day (watch out--if you eat only protein bars all day you'll get the shits like whoa) martinis and dinner at 10pm. It's gorgeous out here.
Jefe brought his 1 y/o son out to the crag this morning. Cutest little guy. I fed him 2 jars of baby food--which isn't very tasty, by the way.
Too tired to shower but apparently not too tired to blog. Strenuous weekend. Loved it.

As I walked home from work today, I saw a quaking old man struggling out of the driver's seat of his car leaning on a cane. Normally, this wouldn't bother me too much--but then I saw he wore an eyepatch over one eye. Honestly. Driver's seat. Eyepatch.
Look, I love old people: they have great stories. But I'm wondering why there isn't a driver's license reevaluation at a certain age. Not to be age-ist, but there comes a point where someone is just too old to be driving a 3,000-pound Cadillac on the streets. If only our politicians weren't of such an age where a reevaluation would be required, perhaps it would be implemented.
Eyepatch. Driver's seat. Come on.

When I was climbing yesterday with the boss, an editor named Jefe, we had just finished clearing a path to the new route he'd just put up.
This guy has been climbing more than 30 years. Long hair, aquiline nose, one-year-old kid--funny guy. I'm sitting there having just scrambled down a 80 degree slope with the help of a rope, and he turns to me and says, "Care for some pot?"
So polite, so no-nonsense. Cracked me up. Guess you had to be there.
Going to his house for breakfast tomorrow before heading back up to the crag. I'm not excited for the approach. Loose scree and lots of potential break-neck falls, not to mention the fact that it's 60 degrees uphill for a good half hour or more of constant slogging and my muscles won't fire properly because of the altitude. Not so bad when I'm just standing still though.
You should be here.

The commercials with the turtles talking about how nice and slow DSL internet is--are so true! I hate to admit it, but Comcast is right. DSL sucks. Don't ever get it.

Yesterday I went climbing for the first time out here! We drove about 30 mins and hiked up a near-vertical scree hill to get to the cliff. I was only able to do two climbs (one on lead and one on toprope) but it felt great to get back into it. I also learned this lesson: always bring warm layers and always bring a raincoat.
I don't have a raincoat.
Afterwards I smoked a doob with one of the guys I climbed with. At the end of the month he's taking off for Alaska for three months to be the cook on a fishing boat. Goddamn.
Now that I'm finally meeting some dudes my age, I'm beginning to feel more comfortable in this place. Much to be said for chillin' with people just as broke as you are.
In other news, I just finished 1984, and I finally have a word for the growing illiteracy of our culture! Newspeak! Everyone should read the book before it's too late. Uncommonly brilliant and perceptive, and its message is perhaps more pertinent today than it was even when Orwell wrote it. (And by the way, for anyone who thinks it's about the USSR and China--you're dead wrong. It's about the U.S.A.)
Much love.

Well, I'm out here in Colorado. The drive was good. Lots of time to think. And only two cop scares! Funny how seeing a cop still sparks that awful feeling in your gut even if you're locked into the exact speed limit with cruise-control.
There was a crazy blizzard in Nebraska and Eastern Colorado with 50 mph winds. I passed at least three wrecked semis. two were jackknifed and one was on its side looking like a beached whale. Scary as hell and strange. I found myself checking the date to make sure it was May.
The town is nestled at the base of Sopris Mountain. Pretty cool. Once I'm acclimated and in good shape I'll hike it.
My landlady, Laurie, is an aging hippie who lived in Aspen when Hunter S. Thompson ran for sheriff on the Freak Power ticket. Everyone out here is pretty cool, but a lot of them are obsessed by "ORGANIC" foods. Why would you pay $30 more for a piece of lettuce just because some savvy businessman stuck the word "organic" on the label? Jesus.
The other night, Laurie had a friend and his date over for dinner. While setting the table, she brought out a vaporizer. The lack of oxygen and a huge hit went straight to my head and I had to duck out for a bit to get a hold of myself.
Work is pretty sweet. Mostly I just cruise the web for climbing news and write it up online. Sometimes I get to edit writers' stories, which is my favorite.
More to come...