The Trout Would Have A Different Take

In the night, with stars searing silver in the black sky, I crouched next to the small bed of orange coal and thick smoke I had been trying to nurse into a heating fire. The cold wind blowing up over the rim of the Mesa, the largest in the world, and over the lake had quelled the flames piled high into the quarter moon night earlier. Then it had blown the ash into the cool tuft of ghost pine and cottonwood it was now. The air was cold, alpine regions in November are not the warmest. Above ten thousand feet, the ice comes early and visits often.

The coals gave birth to a wispy yellow flame eating at a feathered strip of spruce bark I had prepared for this purpose. The light ate at the dark around the ash pile and shut off the stars in its flare. The flame crept slow up the bark's feathery inner reaches and then found the pine needles, heavy with oil and dessicated brown, flaring brighter, it found the pile of hatchet chips I had made earlier in the night. When the fire was still a living thing fighting back the night and me and my brother had sat on logs with our boots in front of the fire and meat frying in the iron skillet. I knew the heat would go away and we would need the chips. While I worked a pine log into a necrotized mess, Sean fried our food.

The fire eventually returned to us with my prodding. The light crept out over the ground in waves from the pit as the fire grew strong. The first of the pine branches caught and I sat back on my haunches. The heat came to me, driving out the cold that had awakened me. The undulating ring of the fire reached out to encapsulate all the rocks of the pit and then me and then our two bedrolls laid out on the ground, one full. The air glistened and condensed into a heavy cloud under my nose as i lived and breathed. Not too far away, people slept in their heated rooms, cocooned in their bedding. Me and Sean were planted thousands of feet up, near Leon Peak, ice crust on our bodies and beds.

He was across the flames from me curled in a ball snoring like he always has. The house we were both raised in did not quite have a thousand square feet to itself. Sean and I and one brother who ran from Colorado for good slept in one small bedroom with a bunk bed on one wall and a half a bunk bed on the other. The fire my dad would build on all the winter nights in our cast iron stove kept us warm against the tide of high Colorado cold.

While the fire built itself into the potential it had, I cajoled it along with food and air. Off in the trees, something big moved.

Sometimes I wonder if in the processes of the night, the foreign night that happens in the throes of discomfort to most, but the night that me and Sean can find solace in, some greater God comes to be. Not the creator of hominids who shit on their floor and cringe in anger at the unkempt dirtiness of nature around them and want to mold it into another floor to cover in their waste, but a greater God. One who has no idea that here in this galactic backwater, there are apes covered in skins they did not earn with flashing steel tools carving from the life of the wood fuel for meager comfort. The ground, heaving and beautiful covering the true iron nickel heart of this earth wrinkles and splashes onto itself with ferocity, but with a scale of time we can not even ponder with any skill. The universe stretches into what we can only behold as forever and we find in it's tidal backwater of time, our few years our few years, our vapor that flickers and fades, a reason for all of this.

I heard the hiss and gurgle of boiling liquid and saw the fire had gotten close to the enamelware coffee pot. I helped myself to a dirty cup of it and sat staring at the fire and across it my brother having a vocal dream.

Here in the city, the stars are not visible for the orange glow of our lights and the smoke of our heat. We are wrapped in our bedroll hiding from the cold current of nightsky that sparks on the flint of time and light and we hide in our beds and snore.

The greater god may come and go in the dark, but that night, I felt only the cold and the heat of brotherhood ownership and the stomach full of fish we had pulled out from under the ice of the stream. Greater truths may have been lost as I sat there in the dark happy and missing someone beautiful.

Rock Hammer

One time, back in another life, I had to attend leadership training. My particular methodology of motivating made people hurty in their feely bad spot, apparently. So, as it turns out, I did learn some valuable lessons. The be nice rule? That comes from there.

The reason I bring this up is that I see people instigate or exacerbate conflicts all the time with ineffective communication. When someone bumps into you and you see fit to tell them in profane manner how you are so incredibly inconvenienced, it is more or less worthless. You have lost your foothold the minute you raise their hostility.

A few months ago, I had to deal with citters. Urban hominids.

A gang or posse or whatever the current term would be of inner city youths was standing where I needed to be. They fucked with every single other white person (the youths represented several races) there on that sidewalk. They left me alone. When I approached the curb, they let me pass. While I would like to think it was because of my bearded grumpy face and Tonka truck build, the more likely answer is that carrying two rock hammers strung up on your backpack earns you some respect. Which makes me wonder how respect is earned. I ever get fucked with, and generally, if I need to ask that someone stop annoying me, they do it. Maybe people find politeness intimidating. Or maybe it's my god given talent for not smiling.

Or maybe it's the rock hammers. Maybe I should change my name to Rock Hammer?

Thoughts?

For Posterity

It occurred to me that, while certainly not something I'm shooting for in the near future, someday, I will probably have children. Then I made a list of life lessons I hope to impart first and foremost. The list is not complete or in any order.

The List:


You Must Be Nice

Before you accomplish anything else in your life, achieve niceness. Very rarely, statistically almost impossibly, being nice may not be helpful. Throughout the eons of human evolution, we have developed communication systems exceedingly complex, but the simplest and most effective and most universal means of making yourself understood is pleasant disposition. Before you try to assert, insinuate, intimidate, persuade, or manipulate, use the perfect love and universal medium of empathy. Failing that, relate to them with the sick and pale spectre of sympathy, even though you disrespect them when you do so.

A Wrestler Can Take Any Other Martial Artist In A Fight

If you are living passionately, and being perfectly human, you will be in a bar fight or two. Know that the fundamentals of combat have no tolerance for flash or flair. Long after the black belt man wearing American flag yoga pants has wasted his precious few moments of primacy, a wrestler has fight and wind and most importantly, core strength. A wrestler works on the fundamentals of the animal. Legs and wind and core strength. That being said, you will not impress others with flaring, spastic movements that are photogenic. Prioritize appropriately.

Mix the Butter, Cheese, and Milk Separately

Why? Well, the cheese will not melt in fluidly to the macaroni. If you melt the ingredients separately into a sauce in another pan, or even a microwave self bowl, you avoid the chunky and greasy consistency of most home made non cardboardgenic macaroni and cheese. Give it twenty years, you will understand this better.

No One Person Has The Answer

Including you. You will not find a human being with the answer to the questions you will most earnestly seek. Entropy is extant in all human endeavors, most importantly the search for truth. You must understand that you fight the irreversibility of all things every day and with every journey. The minute you stop moving inside the suspended matrix of knowledge and existence, you will be wrong. As are all others who have stopped their journey to the truth and believe that the truth is a location they inhabit.

Sometimes You Must Be Mean

This is important. At times it will be necessary to temporarily suspend being nice and find your fire. It is painful and forever creates rifts inside the web of human relationships you make. That changes nothing.

Metadrinking

Have you ever let a handy societal metaphor just slide right by because you didn't have the skill to use it? For instance:

Last night, I was feeling a little down, so I went for a long walk to return an overdue book and pick up another I had been half-heartedly wanting to read. Now that I see the book has been made into a movie starring a boring action movie guy who made his career off of trite teenager pandering hip-hop and murdering the legacy of Asimov, I feel it is a priority. Unfortunately, when I got to the library, it was closed (I'm sure some huge proportion of librarians are in fact combat veterans and deserve the day off) so I went to the bar.

At the bar, I experimented with their homebrew stout, it was OK, if a little too rich a malt. Then I tried their bitter, it was OK, but to hoppy for an ESB. On the TV, since I was too early to watch the (professional) football game, I settle for watching the Air Force v. Army game. The Air Force beat Army pretty handily, at least while I was watching. The victors were restrained in their celebrations by military bearing, which is refreshing compared to the rest of the NCAA where every third string defensive end has a signature endzone routine.

Once I had drank the two beers, I settled up with the card I had just activated and walked out into the night. On the way, I stopped for a pint of bourbon. I stopped and talked for a minute to my friend's sister as she exited the college library where she had been studying. Her husband will be home from Iraq before Christmas.

So, three loyal readers, start spitting out some good English major type dubious metaphors from that.

Hayduke Lives!

You know, I'm not sure that I would set off the bomb of a revolution, but I would probably hold the fuse for anyone who did.

I don't like the government. I really don't. The big monstrosity that is the federal government has no business over here. They need to stay back East where they've already gutted the Appalachians and destroyed anything worth seeing over there. They need to keep their big stinking hands off of the people who haven't already given their head over to the reins of a fat and more or less murderous regime. It isn't even George Bush. He was really only working off the extremely generous executive power he inherited from Bill Clinton when the Democrats had control of the legislature back in the early 90's. Remember Waco and Ruby Ridge? If that shit does not scare you, then you are a moron. Unless you believed everything the media said about those people. Then you are a fucking moron.

Trust in any government at this point in history is a pleasant delusion. A conservative estimate of the number of civilians killed in the last hundred years by their governments is around 151 million. How many have terrorists or common criminals managed to kill, maybe 10,000? I can say for a fact that I have never seen a terrorist. In fact, I have never known anyone who was attacked by a terrorist. I have, however, run into quite a few people who have had property taken, livelihoods destroyed, and health ruined by the US government.

Alright, so there might be one or two guys in a million who might have some sort of device strapped to them that explodes (terrible grammar; I apologize), there are a shitload of guys running around armed with pepper spray, tazers, batons, and full on loaded firearms that love to bully nonconformists. The terrorists aren't winning, they already won. They're on every street corner, they prowl around looking for someone with too much freedom on their hands, they walk up behind unarmed students who take too long to ask a question at a debate and beat him and taze him and then accuse him of a felony.

that paragraph will offend the shit out of a lot of people, I just realized. On the other hand, while those fat fucks hassled people who can barely afford to insure their car, keeping the county safe for old ladies and suburban tyrants, me and some damn good friends and criminals were actually sacrificing for our homes. I hate seeing those fucks swelling out their uniforms and pretending to be badasses.

Did you know that if a police dog attacks you and you hit it or fight it in any way, you are guilty of felony assault on a police officer? You are being attacked by a fucking dog, of course you're going to fight it. If a cop starts hassling me (and the camo jacket and beard make it a likely occurrence), I am not allowed to resist. I can tell you one thing, if any mother fucker hits me with a stick, I am taking his arm. And when that happens, I am going to jail. Just like that, me, peaceful and disgruntled and highly decorated veteran that I am, will be going to jail because I didn't do what some guy who has some reason not to make it into the army, a two year degree in criminal justice and a bad childhood told me to do.

To conclude:

I used to be a prison guard, and believe me, the only difference between your average prisoner and your average nine to fiver is that he got caught. I know most of those guys were in for shit I had done and got away with. The arbitrary nature of law "enforcement" guarantees that no one who is really dangerous to lots of people goes to jail. The profiteers who have the lives of those coal miners in Utah on their hands? Still free. Some kid who got caught twice with an ounce of pot? 1-3 years.

I fucking hate the government. Not G.W.'s government, any government. If Nathanael Greene or Patrick Henry were alive today, he would be jailed as a terrorist. Paul Revere would have been gunned down by the BATF. Motherfuckers.

Note: This post brought to you by veteran's day, when the country lets us know it loves us by offering us 90 days same as cash (w.a.c.) on mattress sets. Oh, and a free fishing licence if you manage to get a service related disability. Fuck you people.

This Is How I Get Chicks

Same flourite chunk from the other day:


Cue music:

I suck at photography, but this is what happens when shortwave UV light hits that mineral. Not a black light. Those are for teenagers to put in their basements to pretend they're on drugs. So, if you ever find a purple, green, or clear mineral, hardness of 4, octahedral cleavage on cubic crystals, take out your handy UV light and blast that shit, yo.

Fuck you, merle haggard

One of them cold nights. I've got rid of the last of the porter. The hard way.

Now, the problem with these cold nights is that I am freezing in this drafty house all on my lonesome. When I could be holding you tonight, doing wrong instead of doing right. Fuck all, she don't care what I think. I'll just sit here and...Take it, Merle.

Jesus, them beers is rough. I think my left eye just quit working. If it's working, it ain't pointing right. Bad alcohol can make an eye go wobbly. Four beers of this stuff, the equivalent of about 10 American light beers, is definitely enough to knock a screw loose. When did they start putting gay Phil Collinsesque saxophone solos in country? I'm talking ot you, Merle. Jesus, man, i thought you was on my side. Apparently not. Fucking Merle.

We were friends, man. Remember the old Ford? The '70 with the cranked out 302 with the four on the floor? Of course you don't. You were only there in cassette form. motherfucker. Merle will no longer be capitalized on this here blog. Nope.

The song used to could get me a little happy, then I heard this extended version where you turn into gotdam Huey Louis and the News. Ain't no woodwind gonna change the way I think.

I think I'll just sit here and drink.

Now, take a motherfucker who used to blast out of a rigged up stereo around diesel fuel and wood pallet holocausts out in the desert. you'd think the guy would be a little more of a Hank Williams kind of guy. Fuck, man. Settin' the Woods On Fire. Now, there's a song. No long ass solos. Leave that shit to rock music. We'll order up two bowls of chili. Settin' the Woods on Fire. Shit, man. Pyromania that all ages can enjoy!

I am aware that my membership in the Hank Williams Sr. Fanclub cements me in the throes of the absolute uncool. Fuck you. Besides, I think the mineralogy thing pushed me way over that line long ago.

I had a point. God, my left eye is not working. Surprisingly, since I am a rightie, my left eye is the dominant one. Makes firing a rifle a little bit of a challenge. With a shotgun or pistol, I am a fucking surgeon. At least when I'm sober.

Me and my buddy James used to go out to the Kings River and take a 24 pack of Natty Light and a 12 guage. The game was, drink a can of beer and then throw the can up in the air and shoot it. Yay! Obviously, by the time we killed most of the case, the game got more challenging. We ammeded the rules to mean the can had to actually sink in the river. So then even when we missed (because we were drunker than shit) we could just run up to the bank of the river and plug the thing full of lead until it sank. I fell in once. I think that one was one of our multiple case days. I woke up in a tree. Long story, but suffice it to say, I had some issues to work out.

Part of the long story is a woman, and the other part is some serious "Fuck, I killed a lot of poor religious (much like my kin)folk" issues. I forget exactly where those two intersect. Something about supporting freedom and democracy around the world or something. Hoorah!

Anyway, I am having trouble typing. thanks, merle. Asshole.

I Am Weary

I always knew it would happen, but I didn't want it to happen this way.

No, I wanted the sun to be hailing down from the reaches of an azure high mountain sky while the Monument Valley's thick red sand blows itself over me in a loving embrace of her native son.

I wanted to be out on the raging main throwing my back into jib lines and holding a knife in my teeth, ready to cut myself loose to fall and fall away into the final deep black of our halide original dreams.

I wanted to be off into the Revolution of some people against some government where I would fight and win and lose, finally whiling away my time in some far arroyo with a woman I make my own with skin the color of sun polished bronze and eyes that show you the world in their onyx sheen.

I wanted to be surrounded by a brood and grandbrood and great grandbrood of my descendants who would gather around me and ask me if I saw God in the failing twilight of my rheumy eyes, and I would tell them that I saw him everyday in the wrinkled hands of an elder and the pink powdered skin of a newborn.

I now face it down. I am staring down the bore of life's final stunt to get our attention before Life swallows us back into the bowels of its forever engine. It won't come how I planned, it will come while I am broke and poor and smell like a mediocre dopplebock. tonight, I will pull my guitar to my heart and tell her 'through the years, you've always loved me, and my life you tried to save. But now I shall slumber sweetly, in a deep and lonely grave.'

My eyes close as the moon rises and the stars navigate the sailors on the sea.

Of course, a person could say I am making way too big a deal out of a head cold. Those people are the ones refusing to send me baked goods. I will curse them to the valkryes tonight!

*************************************

I Am Weary (Let Me Rest), Traditional

Boring Cliched Blogger Moment

Now for the coolest thing a blogger ever does. It's montage time!

So, I realize this is not exactly fascinating to those not inclined toward the mineral arts, but I thought I'd show off some different prizes I have gleaned from the hills the last month or two.

First of all, I found a nice tumbled barite crystal in an arroyo out in the Bookcliffs. Sure, it''s not the prettiest girl at the party, but she'll turn heads. Maybe.

However, better than that barite, was the chunk of molten super awesome that I found in the Cave of Mysteries. It's a little known place I hit up on occasion for some fun. There I found the transparent and more sinister twin of the friendly icy crystal above:

Bizzaro Barite!

I know, still boring.

But then, hailing from the far reaches of the Uncompagre, there's fluorite!

And, fluorite again!

And some totally righteous biotite on a K-Spar and quartz matrix lovingly pulled from the black heart of the larimide. And I know at least one person will be checking out my badass Daddy-O, entedre intended.

With this much nerdiness in one place, it's amazing my Daddy-O gets any attention at all.

ECON 101

October's over, and all told not as terrible as it has been. You may thank one Jen for your not being subjected to sad and rambling missives on why everyone sucks and everything is fucked. And that was indeed a Limp Bizkit quote. I submit that I am the first in my circle of friends to ever use the genius of Mr. Durst in a post.

Now, I have a few things to get off my chest. One:

The GI Bill is not as great as cracked up to be. I would like to see the person who actually manages to go to school on that amount. Last I checked, you could expect to spend something like sixty grand on school, and by my reckoning, $1075 a month for 36 months works out to $38,700. Now, if you figure on living incredibly light and only spending $400 for rent (which means you live in a lungbox and you're spending $150 keeping it warm enough not to freeze the pipes), and only spending around $150 a month on food (a near impossibility), you can figure on tuition and fees being around $250 a month and you have exactly 125 dollars for every month. Now, let's assume you have something like a car to insure ($40) and a phone bill ($75), that leaves a hefty ten bucks a month sitting in the old pocket. Which means you may purchase one 24 pack of PBR a month. That works out to an average of .789 beers a day. That fucking sucks. Obviously, a plan B is in order.

So, let's say you use some of that $150 on food stuff that is not immediately edible. Let's say you spend some of it on barley, a little on malt, a touch on yeast, and the rest on little flower pellets called hops, you just spent $30 give or take. Fucking sweet. Considering that that thirty dollars of random grain and floral products produces five (5) gallons (U.S) of prime malt liquor beverage, you now have the equivalent of five twelve packs. Figuring on how a twelver of any beer worth drinking is no less than ten dollars, you figure on saving around thirty cents or so a beer. Not to mention that you have a two month supply that easily gives you a beer a day, or my preference, two beers every other day.

Sure, that's fifteen (15) loaves of Albertson's brand wheat bread or thirty (30) lbs. Of zucchini that you won't have, but beer provides quite a few nice little calories and some liquid caramel inspiration.

So, there is my rational explanation as to why I have five gallons of brown percolating liquid in my laundry room and 40 bottles of a porter I managed to cajole up to 13-14% alc. By vol.