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Thursday, December 20, 2007
a childhood dream...
When I was a child, I visualized time. Time existed in blocks, representing years, set vertically against a void. Months existed as horizontal lines of blocks, within the larger year blocks, days existed as horizontal lines of blocks within the month blocks, hours as vertical blocks within day blocks, minutes, seconds, and so on. The present drifted upward, toward the end of the millennium. I visualized boundaries. I could see time. I still see it that way today, in my child-like mind.
As a child, I once dreamed that I climbed to the top of a windswept mountain top, on the eve of the new year. It was cold, harsh, and so very old. The wind was the past, blowing time away behind me, and when I reached the summit, I turned my face to the wind, to watch the boundary that I'd envisioned in my mind come rushing toward me. I held fast to the ice covered trees, my little hands freezing in the gale, and my hair being covered in the blowing snow and ice. Eyes ever forward, though. I had to see it. The passing of a boundary of my own invention.
As, in my mind, we slide downward through the minute, day, and month blocks of the 2007 block, my wish is that as we open the door to the 2008 block, and the screaming gale force wind of the past sweeps history behind us, that we take a snapshot of all that has come before us, and remember for the future.
Happy Christmas to all who celebrate it, and Happy New Year!
He's sending stones skimming and flying Circles spinning out his time Though the earth is dying his head is in the stars Chances are this spark's a lifetime
Out of touch he'll live in wonder Won't lose sleep he'll just pretend In his world he won't go under Turns without him until the end
Rivers run dry but there's no line on his brow Says he doesn't care who's saved It's just the dice you roll, the here and now And he's not guilty or afraid
One day he'll slip away Cool water flowing all around In the river and on the ground Leave a pocketful of stones and not believe in other lives
Until then he'll live in wonder He won't fight or comprehend In his world he won't go under Turns without him until the end
Lyrics: David Gilmour Song: Pocketful of Stones Album: On and Island
We live out west. Not in west. Some people say we live over on the left. I'm quick to remind them that we live on the right side of a left hand state, but we live on the left side of the city. It's all so directionally challenging and ideologically ambiguous.
Out west they gots animals. Lots of animals. But not the kind pictured to the left...at least, not many. Well, not around these parts, at any rate. 'Round these parts we gots the Elk, and the Deer, and the Bears. What always confused me about people who hunt for sport is that they enjoy killing things that are beautiful.
"Hey there Billy Joe, lookie there at that there Elk 'a headin' this here aways...ain't that a purdy thang?"
"You said it Joe Bob. You know what? I think I'm gonna take this here rifle, and blow a hole in that there Elk so's I can cut its head off 'n hang it on the wall over my wood stove."
"Sounds like a plan Billy Joe."
Boom. Groan. Splat. Another one bites the bullet. Ah well. Mankind. Ever the collector of pretty things and trophies, right? Right. It explains the many wives of Donald Trump, at least. Still, I suppose people would frown on Trump if he were to treat his wives like the hunter treats an Elk. At least his wives have a fighting chance...for a time...until the lawsuit is filed.
Still, we live out west. Things out west are bigger, it seems. From Elk to Egos, we make 'em big out west. Not as big as a Texas ego, mind you (those are legendary, loud, and un-paralleled in the world), but we got some big egos, and big opinions, and big trucks, and big trees, and lots of big guns. So why do we all seem to have this need to crowd together in clumps around rivers? Once, as I was looking across the valley from the top of Doomsday Hill (If you live in Spokane, you'll know what this is), at about mile five on the Bloomsday route (again.. Spokane thing), toward the newly built Life Center Church and the surrounding River Run Housing Community below it, all so tightly nestled in the river bottom below, someone asked me "ain't that purdy?"
"No." I said. "The Church looks like a giant barn and the houses are too close together and all look the same, and I haven't seen a white tailed deer in this area in two years."
We make 'em big out west, you see. We love our open spaces, so long as the Californian's stay away. We love our deer and our elk, so long as they shift over a bit when we erect two hundred egg crate homes in a ten acre area.
This afternoon, it's snowing outside. It's snowing all over this big 'ole Inland Northwest. Maybe that'll slow down our biggness for a while. I'm gonna go outside and enjoy this coming northwestern snowy weekend. I'm gonna forget about Billy Joe and Joe Bob, and make my own West, my own open spaces. I'm gonna shoot animals with my gun of choice, my camera, which converts the animals to pixels, instead of hamburger.
It's a curious thing, the news. It gets under my skin, angers me, I become incensed and upset at the inhumanity in the world. I don't like to hear that people have to debate whether water boarding is torture, or not. It doesn't make sense to me that anyone would say otherwise. I don't like hearing the arguments about who's killing Christmas this year, and who may or may not be living an airport bathroom lie. Since the CD player in my car died some months ago, I've had to endure the news. The news is a bad muse, I've found.
Music, is my muse...so...change the channel, of course.
I don't understand these radio stations. I can only take the Rolling Stones for about thirty seconds, and I don't get the boring monotony of "modern" music. It all sounds the same to me. This music isn't my muse either. It would seem that, when my cd player died, my muse left me. My internal dialog drifted into nothingness and has been replaced by a news listening curmudgeon. Nobody wants to listen to that, least of all, me, though I still maintain my opinions about things.
It has been put to me, by my wife, that I am allowed to purchase myself the following (RED) product:
I like the idea behind the Product (RED) website. I believe the Global Fund to Fight AIDS in Africa is doing good work. That's why, when I decide to purchase the 8gig iPod nano, I'll get it from this site so that a portion of my capitalistic need to have music, will go to help people less fortunate than myself. But I haven't done it yet. Even though a portion of it is for a cause that I feel is good, I can't justify the cost to myself yet. I can't decide if that makes me selfish, or prudent.
So, I continue to go without, and my muse remains distant. But, someday, I'll be able to justify the cost to myself I think, and maybe someone in Africa will thank me for finally making a decision.
Life has been busy of late. But Christmas looms...as does time off for good behavior. Ahh... time off. Time to sleep in, contemplate, eat, and watch movies with the kids...oh, and go sledding, and open presents, and eat some more...all that stuff. I'm looking forward to it...are you?
I hope this little vignette from the Finch Elementary Second Graders Holiday Program makes you smile. It made me smile. Enjoy.
the legends of deep creek...boyd, tx writing project...V
Just north of Boyd on Farm to Market road 730, about half way to Decatur, if you veer off to the right, just past that second bridge, you'll be almost there. The hinterlands of youthful imaginations. The Blair Witch area of Wise County. Legends abounded. Lies, sex, drugs, alcohol, mystery, fear, adventure. It was all to be had here, if the right people showed up.
My little girl Drive anywhere Do what you want I dont care
Tonight Im in the hands of fate I hand myself Over on a plate
When the tarmac stopped and the gravel began, you knew you'd entered Deep Creek. But, now, where to go? Shall it be the cometary? The Screaming Bridge? Submarine Hill? All have their merits. There could be rednecks at the cemetery drinking and trying to get to second base with their cowgirls...we'll park outside and do a walking reconnaissance of the area first. But remember, they're armed, and we're only armed if Cory shows up. Keep to the shadows and the underbrush. Ascertain their number, and report back in a half an hour.
Oh little girl There are times when I feel I rather not be The one behind the wheel
Come Pull my strings Watch me move I do anything
If the cemetery is a bust, we can head over to the Screaming Bridge and tell the story again. The story of how she drove over the embankment, into the creek below. Deep Creek itself. The legend of how, if you stop your car on the rickety old wooden bridge that's barely rated for automobile traffic, turn off your engine and roll down your windows, you'll hear her scream in the distance even today.
Sweet little girl I prefer You behind the wheel And me the passenger
Drive Im yours to keep Do what you want Im going cheap
If we get tired of that, we can just go park at the top of Submarine Hill, view the scenery, and hang out under the stars on one of the highest points around. Submarine Hill. Famous for the "viewing" of the "submarine races" in the area. Euphemisms all. Submarine Hill. Famous also as the last resting place of the legendary Mamba Tree. The Mamba Tree. A simple tree turned landmark by an odd event involving drunken preppy kids and Mamba candies. The Mamba Tree was ruthlessly cut down by another group, unceremoniously dragged to the top of Submarine Hill, and tossed into a heap. I know, because I was there. I drove. We stood on top of the truck, trying to get even higher so that we might touch the night sky grand and cold above us, held our arms wide and screamed out triumph for nobody to hear.
He set down his coffee after taking another calm sip, sat up straight, and continued, "What is evil?" His tone was professorial now, and I smirked accordingly. He smiled back, and returned to his normal tone.
"Sorry," he said "It's a new habit I've picked up you see."
I thought for a second in silence, and tried to actually come up with a good definition of the term "evil." I was sure Wikipedia had a nice long definition including "harm to others, dishonesty" and etc... All of these, most likely, would be from one perspective or another. Relative. I had the impression that he was seeking an absolute. There are some absolutes, I was sure, but I wasn't going to give them up so easily, so I countered with the response "On the surface, evil is simple, but it becomes more complex as one thinks about it more deeply. Were we to talk about situations or events, I could tell you which one was evil, and which one was not."
"Fair enough." he said. "Was Manifest Destiny an evil ideology?"
I had to think on this, as well. Manifest Destiny, simply put, the ideology that 19th century America had the God given right and destiny to expand westward at all costs. At least that's how I interpreted it so many years ago. Looking back, and reading commentary by historians, one gets a mixed perspective of Manifest Destiny. Reading contemporary accounts of the time, it seems that people were caught up in the idea of expansion westward at all costs. But, history is often written by the conquerer, not the conquered. Modern writings by Native Americans give a wholly different perspective of Manifest Destiny.
So, was it evil? I wasn't sure. But I had an answer.
"On retrospect, it would seem that Manifest Destiny was an evil ideology, as it harmed others. However, I don't think that many of the people who espoused the ideology were evil, rather, misguided. So again, it's more complex."
He laughed at me. "Are you a post-modernist?" he asked.
"Oh no. There are a few things I'm certain about."
My body is mounting a rebellion (could be colitis flare up, but not sure). I'm trying to fight it off, but I think I'm going to be overcome with the desire to yak on my screen soon. So, you know, watch out when you're reading this...
...maybe someday I'll get back to regular posting. I know you all are wondering what's going to become of the Don stories, or the Mephistopheles stories, I'm wondering too...
