(no subject)
02.27.04
QOTD:
"Belief? What do I believe in? I believe in sun. I rock. In the dogma of the sun and the doctrine of the rock. I believe in blood, fire, woman, rivers, eagles, storm, drums, flutes, banjos, and broom-tailed horses" ---- Edward Abbey
Week opened on a soggy note, low gray clouds and oppressive damp chill. Constant drizzle rat-a-tating on the roof of the "big tin shed." I longed to be in the, watching the normally dry canyon bottoms flow in order to get a solid picture of the "hydrological regimen." Strictly business here, you see. After all, it's just water flowing through the spring green of a Sonoran canyon; certainly no joy in that. .. Alas, brother B. (I'm currently assisting him in preparation for a monster project) chose to stay dry and so we moldered in the office, fighting memo battles and what not. I went so far as to write a long and well reasoned argument in order to convince the powers that be to make a sensible choice. If you wonder about the outcome, let me attempt a picture that will paint 1,000 words: a spring rite, gay and lively, hope riding in the basket of a lead balloon trying not to land on the caustic flowers all done to "Bring in the Clowns." Remember, it's much easier to just say "no" to a powerful and well worded argument than to actually respond with a counter argument.
It's the next morning now and I'm trying to tell you that on Tuesday, we returned to the beloved country. But of course the kids are whining as they fight about nothing, the TV is on, and my dear wife is beginning to snarl. This domestic bliss serves only as some sort of osmotic filter, sucking near complete thoughts from my head, returning them as fragments of words, inchoate and insensible but safe for consumption by pets and small children. Quickly, I realize that what I am trying to think is counterpointed by the squalid chaos. Perhaps it takes being run through the domestic buzzsaw to appreciate the symphony of verdant canyons. Even the pictures fail in describing the day.
Low clouds creep over the highest peaks in a game of meteorological peek-a-boo and quickly I am overcome by the painful joy of reminiscence. Taking the suggestion of the crazy substitute teacher, Mr. D'agostini, climbing up a monster pine tree on a rainy and windy day in order to better feel the storm. 70 feet up, swaying and whipped with rain, laughing. Walking up the long hill home on a dreary day. Cold and wet prune feet, I would come home to find that my mother all ready had a fire going in the afternoon. She would make me a grilled cheese sandwich, tomato soup, and hot cocoa. Perfect rainy day food. Boot the dog away from the spot in front of the fire and fall asleep watching Phil Donahue. Of course, we can't go home, nostalgia grips, and we're left with vague feelings of familiarity. Inappropriate terms drifting through the mind as the past tries to connect the present. I think sylvan thoughts and have an alpine dream. Coarse, dark wool above the boot socks, low growl of Tibetan horns, alpenstock, Swiss cheese.
I move on, singing Cat Steven's "The Wind" under my breath.
Brother B. soon admits that he'd much rather blow of the day of surveying and instead head up to the peaks to watch the world drift by. I agree but like all good soldiers, we trudge on. The jets are very nearly absent and for once, the sky is not chronically torn by the "sounds of freedom". Sweet canticles of bird life stream on the rushing wind, made rich and vibrant by damp canyon air. I tell B. that I wish I had a Tibetan or Swiss horn, those giant things that make that hair raising low sound, depending only on canyon acoustics for amplification. I would send rumbling calls down the canyon, scaring the hordes miles away at the mouth. I would settle for a few more men to produce a deep bass "ohhmmmm." I would prefer the eerie howls of the coyote pack.
Lunch comes, B. heads off to "see a man about a horse" and I find a rock to lay upon and nestle myself in the thigh high bunch grass and brittle bush, and I am all but invisible from more than two feet away. While I wasn't cold, the misty winds and hidden sun kept me, jacket less in only a "killer" cotton shirt and wife-beater, from being warm most of the morning, and now in this grass womb I felt nothing but comfort and a desire to do nothing. Nibble on the simple lunch of nuts, berries, PB&J (Organic 100% whole wheat bread, organic blueberry spread no high fructose corn syrup, and the deep brown of true peanut butter for me), and probably the occasional twig. Lunch time entertainment is classic cinéma vérité, directed by the wind and the mountain. The interplay of light and shadow provides endless awe, drifting clouds punctuated by black-brown rock. Soundtrack of course is the rustle of waving grass and untrammeled birdsong. Searchlights from the heavens, beams of gold filtered sunlight down through thin spots in the clouds, provide focus and narrative, highlighting bits and pieces of canyon, once even shining directly upon me. Taking cues, I let my thoughts roam and then briefly stick upon things; lustful fantasies about un-named somebodies, "deep-time", and one million impertinent lively somethings.
We work on through the afternoon and like most, it doesn't seem quite long enough. Certainly, at least to a mind wrapped in social constructs made with pride in the U.S.A., we have "accomplished" things. We came, we saw, we tugged and scratched our beards, checked grade with the clinometer, kicked some bedrock, and we flagged a line in harmony with contours. But as always, I pass the walk back to the truck with thoughts of "our time here was too short." I dream of living here for the short work season. To some degree people are a product of place and I desperately want to be this place. Watching night chew away at the edges of the day, the cheery song of the cricket, brother coyote running down the canyon bottom seeming as if the evening meal will be compensation for his lovely song, the strong unmistakable musk of javelina as they rumble through the camp so thoughtlessly set upon their ancient paths. Don't forget the birds. The unidentified bird with a whooping cry of woman in climax, the last ha-ha-ha'ing of Gambel's quail and the occasional cry of Owl. Bats fly over and I wish my body possessed the means to parse and render their high-frequency cries. As Spengler wrote:
"For music is the only art whose means lie outside the light-world that has so long become coextensive with our total world, and music alone, therefore, can take us right out of this world, break up the steely tyranny of light, and let us fondly imagine that we are on the verge of reaching the soul's final secret. . ."
Oswald Spengler, "Decline of the West, volume II"
Temporarily experience the world as a bat, not as a "picture" of light reflected, but as a composition of sound echoed. Impossible to imagine. Though were I feeling a bit more didactic today, I would probably prattle on that whichever of these two senses assembles our conception of the world, they both rely not on direct perception, but on the interaction of an outside force (or "thing") with the object. So, certainly, the presence of the observer is significant even if the object has an objective yet impossible to perceive form. I hear you know bringing up "radiation" and something about trees falling in the forest and automobiles, and I say, of course, you're right. . .but I'm not in the mood today. The main problem with philosophers is that they think too much. I know of few philosophies that mean much in the face of fresh air and the gentle throb of a healthy young heart. I have digressed.
Wednesday and Thursday were much the same, except the jet jockeys were hell bent on destroying silence with low level full burner overflights and this all played beneath the luster blue of sunny spring sky. Look east at the dingy brown cap of filth hanging over the Valley of the Scum, look up and west into an impossibly deep blue and you'll know why I wish to be in this place. Oh how simple joy finds us when we need it most.
Of course, Thursday also brought a long awaited discussion with the engineer (my boss' boss). The engineer, like most of his kind, is stubborn, completely dispossessed of the ability to relate to other humans, and an old white male. Me, the sophist¹ bureaucrat cactus hugger civic servant memo-warrior, in love with rhetoric and logic, passion for what I believe to be in the public's best interest. My boss is of course an open-minded peacemaker. I appreciate him for this. What ensued was what my boss described to a late arrivee as a "tennis match." I saw it rather as "death tennis 2084 style" where the ball is flaming and the object is not bounce the ball out on your opponent's side but rather to hit your opponent, causing him to burst into flames. Back and forth with sizzling arguments, me defiant of authority exercised capriciously and wrongly, him angry at the mere act of defiance. Eventually, my boss, and I'm rather happy that he did this, stuck up for me and got the engineer to listen. Granted, I didn't "win" but I came away with what I wanted, not losing, some logic prevailing, and most of all, I did not submit to institutional idiocy.
Friday, I spent the morning in Tatiana's pre-school classroom. I'm the new room mother, so to speak. I can freely say mother because except for the early morning rush to drop children off, I do not see males older than 13 on the campus. So I am a mother. I love the school and it's ideal that education comes from experience. The kids garden, do woodwork, take care of animals and so many other things. I sing and nobody laughs. Well, they laugh, but it's with delight not derision. Of course, I also have a slight crush on Miss J., Tatiana's teacher. She is quite beautiful. I don't usually go for blondes, but she has that most natural shade of blonde, spun gold of honey and straw. But it goes beyond looks. She's full of positive energy and most of all, I love her voice, especially when she sings. One fantasy I have is someone that sings in a warm folksy voice, singing a song to me to help me go to sleep. I think she might just do that. Perhaps her fantasy is to have one of her student's father, preferably a tall one of "athletic" build (he he), have a crush on her. Oh, now I die, I die laughing as I sing this haughty song of myself.
There you have it. Too much maybe. Not enough? I don't know. But thanks for reading this far. Thanks for reading about nothing.
¹ Sophistry often implies making the weaker argument strong and thus deceiving listener's with wordplay and tricks of rhetoric. As Robert Pirsig pointed out, though, that's only because the sophists lost and the "dialectics" won in the struggle to define the nature of reality for the Western mind. Though, he might be wrong. At any rate, I would like to say that if you hold this definition of sophistry dear to your heart, that I will do you the favor of pointing out the weakness of my argument: he is my boss' boss and he felt I was wrong and he is an engineer. This has been provided for dry, intellectually charged humor. You can start laughing now as you head back to where you were.
QOTD:
"Belief? What do I believe in? I believe in sun. I rock. In the dogma of the sun and the doctrine of the rock. I believe in blood, fire, woman, rivers, eagles, storm, drums, flutes, banjos, and broom-tailed horses" ---- Edward Abbey
Week opened on a soggy note, low gray clouds and oppressive damp chill. Constant drizzle rat-a-tating on the roof of the "big tin shed." I longed to be in the, watching the normally dry canyon bottoms flow in order to get a solid picture of the "hydrological regimen." Strictly business here, you see. After all, it's just water flowing through the spring green of a Sonoran canyon; certainly no joy in that. .. Alas, brother B. (I'm currently assisting him in preparation for a monster project) chose to stay dry and so we moldered in the office, fighting memo battles and what not. I went so far as to write a long and well reasoned argument in order to convince the powers that be to make a sensible choice. If you wonder about the outcome, let me attempt a picture that will paint 1,000 words: a spring rite, gay and lively, hope riding in the basket of a lead balloon trying not to land on the caustic flowers all done to "Bring in the Clowns." Remember, it's much easier to just say "no" to a powerful and well worded argument than to actually respond with a counter argument.
It's the next morning now and I'm trying to tell you that on Tuesday, we returned to the beloved country. But of course the kids are whining as they fight about nothing, the TV is on, and my dear wife is beginning to snarl. This domestic bliss serves only as some sort of osmotic filter, sucking near complete thoughts from my head, returning them as fragments of words, inchoate and insensible but safe for consumption by pets and small children. Quickly, I realize that what I am trying to think is counterpointed by the squalid chaos. Perhaps it takes being run through the domestic buzzsaw to appreciate the symphony of verdant canyons. Even the pictures fail in describing the day.
Low clouds creep over the highest peaks in a game of meteorological peek-a-boo and quickly I am overcome by the painful joy of reminiscence. Taking the suggestion of the crazy substitute teacher, Mr. D'agostini, climbing up a monster pine tree on a rainy and windy day in order to better feel the storm. 70 feet up, swaying and whipped with rain, laughing. Walking up the long hill home on a dreary day. Cold and wet prune feet, I would come home to find that my mother all ready had a fire going in the afternoon. She would make me a grilled cheese sandwich, tomato soup, and hot cocoa. Perfect rainy day food. Boot the dog away from the spot in front of the fire and fall asleep watching Phil Donahue. Of course, we can't go home, nostalgia grips, and we're left with vague feelings of familiarity. Inappropriate terms drifting through the mind as the past tries to connect the present. I think sylvan thoughts and have an alpine dream. Coarse, dark wool above the boot socks, low growl of Tibetan horns, alpenstock, Swiss cheese.
I move on, singing Cat Steven's "The Wind" under my breath.
Brother B. soon admits that he'd much rather blow of the day of surveying and instead head up to the peaks to watch the world drift by. I agree but like all good soldiers, we trudge on. The jets are very nearly absent and for once, the sky is not chronically torn by the "sounds of freedom". Sweet canticles of bird life stream on the rushing wind, made rich and vibrant by damp canyon air. I tell B. that I wish I had a Tibetan or Swiss horn, those giant things that make that hair raising low sound, depending only on canyon acoustics for amplification. I would send rumbling calls down the canyon, scaring the hordes miles away at the mouth. I would settle for a few more men to produce a deep bass "ohhmmmm." I would prefer the eerie howls of the coyote pack.
Lunch comes, B. heads off to "see a man about a horse" and I find a rock to lay upon and nestle myself in the thigh high bunch grass and brittle bush, and I am all but invisible from more than two feet away. While I wasn't cold, the misty winds and hidden sun kept me, jacket less in only a "killer" cotton shirt and wife-beater, from being warm most of the morning, and now in this grass womb I felt nothing but comfort and a desire to do nothing. Nibble on the simple lunch of nuts, berries, PB&J (Organic 100% whole wheat bread, organic blueberry spread no high fructose corn syrup, and the deep brown of true peanut butter for me), and probably the occasional twig. Lunch time entertainment is classic cinéma vérité, directed by the wind and the mountain. The interplay of light and shadow provides endless awe, drifting clouds punctuated by black-brown rock. Soundtrack of course is the rustle of waving grass and untrammeled birdsong. Searchlights from the heavens, beams of gold filtered sunlight down through thin spots in the clouds, provide focus and narrative, highlighting bits and pieces of canyon, once even shining directly upon me. Taking cues, I let my thoughts roam and then briefly stick upon things; lustful fantasies about un-named somebodies, "deep-time", and one million impertinent lively somethings.
We work on through the afternoon and like most, it doesn't seem quite long enough. Certainly, at least to a mind wrapped in social constructs made with pride in the U.S.A., we have "accomplished" things. We came, we saw, we tugged and scratched our beards, checked grade with the clinometer, kicked some bedrock, and we flagged a line in harmony with contours. But as always, I pass the walk back to the truck with thoughts of "our time here was too short." I dream of living here for the short work season. To some degree people are a product of place and I desperately want to be this place. Watching night chew away at the edges of the day, the cheery song of the cricket, brother coyote running down the canyon bottom seeming as if the evening meal will be compensation for his lovely song, the strong unmistakable musk of javelina as they rumble through the camp so thoughtlessly set upon their ancient paths. Don't forget the birds. The unidentified bird with a whooping cry of woman in climax, the last ha-ha-ha'ing of Gambel's quail and the occasional cry of Owl. Bats fly over and I wish my body possessed the means to parse and render their high-frequency cries. As Spengler wrote:
"For music is the only art whose means lie outside the light-world that has so long become coextensive with our total world, and music alone, therefore, can take us right out of this world, break up the steely tyranny of light, and let us fondly imagine that we are on the verge of reaching the soul's final secret. . ."
Oswald Spengler, "Decline of the West, volume II"
Temporarily experience the world as a bat, not as a "picture" of light reflected, but as a composition of sound echoed. Impossible to imagine. Though were I feeling a bit more didactic today, I would probably prattle on that whichever of these two senses assembles our conception of the world, they both rely not on direct perception, but on the interaction of an outside force (or "thing") with the object. So, certainly, the presence of the observer is significant even if the object has an objective yet impossible to perceive form. I hear you know bringing up "radiation" and something about trees falling in the forest and automobiles, and I say, of course, you're right. . .but I'm not in the mood today. The main problem with philosophers is that they think too much. I know of few philosophies that mean much in the face of fresh air and the gentle throb of a healthy young heart. I have digressed.
Wednesday and Thursday were much the same, except the jet jockeys were hell bent on destroying silence with low level full burner overflights and this all played beneath the luster blue of sunny spring sky. Look east at the dingy brown cap of filth hanging over the Valley of the Scum, look up and west into an impossibly deep blue and you'll know why I wish to be in this place. Oh how simple joy finds us when we need it most.
Of course, Thursday also brought a long awaited discussion with the engineer (my boss' boss). The engineer, like most of his kind, is stubborn, completely dispossessed of the ability to relate to other humans, and an old white male. Me, the sophist¹ bureaucrat cactus hugger civic servant memo-warrior, in love with rhetoric and logic, passion for what I believe to be in the public's best interest. My boss is of course an open-minded peacemaker. I appreciate him for this. What ensued was what my boss described to a late arrivee as a "tennis match." I saw it rather as "death tennis 2084 style" where the ball is flaming and the object is not bounce the ball out on your opponent's side but rather to hit your opponent, causing him to burst into flames. Back and forth with sizzling arguments, me defiant of authority exercised capriciously and wrongly, him angry at the mere act of defiance. Eventually, my boss, and I'm rather happy that he did this, stuck up for me and got the engineer to listen. Granted, I didn't "win" but I came away with what I wanted, not losing, some logic prevailing, and most of all, I did not submit to institutional idiocy.
Friday, I spent the morning in Tatiana's pre-school classroom. I'm the new room mother, so to speak. I can freely say mother because except for the early morning rush to drop children off, I do not see males older than 13 on the campus. So I am a mother. I love the school and it's ideal that education comes from experience. The kids garden, do woodwork, take care of animals and so many other things. I sing and nobody laughs. Well, they laugh, but it's with delight not derision. Of course, I also have a slight crush on Miss J., Tatiana's teacher. She is quite beautiful. I don't usually go for blondes, but she has that most natural shade of blonde, spun gold of honey and straw. But it goes beyond looks. She's full of positive energy and most of all, I love her voice, especially when she sings. One fantasy I have is someone that sings in a warm folksy voice, singing a song to me to help me go to sleep. I think she might just do that. Perhaps her fantasy is to have one of her student's father, preferably a tall one of "athletic" build (he he), have a crush on her. Oh, now I die, I die laughing as I sing this haughty song of myself.
There you have it. Too much maybe. Not enough? I don't know. But thanks for reading this far. Thanks for reading about nothing.
¹ Sophistry often implies making the weaker argument strong and thus deceiving listener's with wordplay and tricks of rhetoric. As Robert Pirsig pointed out, though, that's only because the sophists lost and the "dialectics" won in the struggle to define the nature of reality for the Western mind. Though, he might be wrong. At any rate, I would like to say that if you hold this definition of sophistry dear to your heart, that I will do you the favor of pointing out the weakness of my argument: he is my boss' boss and he felt I was wrong and he is an engineer. This has been provided for dry, intellectually charged humor. You can start laughing now as you head back to where you were.