(no subject)
04.04.04
A long week this past week. I've struggled to try and write what has been going on and except for Tuesday night in the mountains, I've been unable. I think that is why I like this picture of me. It certainly isn't the most flattering picture ever taken of me. But I like it because it shows my face red and splotched and dirty after a long day. My sticker shows clearly and if you look closely at the hat, you'll see some of the marks made by granite shrapnel. But most important, it captured my mood.
Pensive, hurting, lacerated by regret and sorrow, I fell asleep crying most nights. I spent much of the week working by myself, doing the jobs nobody else is capable of (think moving very big rocks) and so it ended up that I had far too much time to think. Working with rock leads to thoughts about rock. Some nights I even dreamed rock moving dreams. Shoes covered with powdered rock left by the carbide drill head, face bleeding from rock shrapnel, even had a few bits of rock stuck in the beard. Rock, rock, rock. I love stone. I feel a bit guilty stepping up to break something that has sat beneath hundreds of thousands of sunsets, seen every rain in this part of the world for the past 10,000 years. I imagine that if Jim is reading this, he is groaning thinking I am about to mention the Vishnu Schist and the Zoroaster Granite. Rest easy Jim, that will be the only mention.
Working with rock teaches patience. Some days, you get the rock. Some days, the rock gets you. Move too fast, be a little to careless, there goes a finger or a toe, smashed, bleeding, and you'll realize how much a finger is like a hot dog in a microwave when you see the finger "guts" hanging out the end. Patience. Whether using fancy hammers or a breaker-drill, breaking rock in a controlled fashion requires resolve, a little strength, and the ability to laugh when things go wrong. Moving a large slab or boulder takes a lever, a basic understanding of leverage, and mental flexibility. A little strength helps, but it isn't absolutely necessary. And that iceberg tip of bedrock that really should have a little (unavailable) high explosive jammed up its ass, takes time, eye protection, sledgehammers, and more resolve and even more time. Singing helps, too. At times this week, I found myself wishing I could learn the stoicism of rock, to bake under the sun for thousands of years without blinking. Mute and yielding only to deep time, slowly dissolving into the earth. I had some of those old feelings, the desire to wander off and to slowly melt into the background noise.
Sure, this is all cheesy, somewhat sentimental, and whatever else it is. But I needed to write something. Forgive me, please.
A long week this past week. I've struggled to try and write what has been going on and except for Tuesday night in the mountains, I've been unable. I think that is why I like this picture of me. It certainly isn't the most flattering picture ever taken of me. But I like it because it shows my face red and splotched and dirty after a long day. My sticker shows clearly and if you look closely at the hat, you'll see some of the marks made by granite shrapnel. But most important, it captured my mood.
Pensive, hurting, lacerated by regret and sorrow, I fell asleep crying most nights. I spent much of the week working by myself, doing the jobs nobody else is capable of (think moving very big rocks) and so it ended up that I had far too much time to think. Working with rock leads to thoughts about rock. Some nights I even dreamed rock moving dreams. Shoes covered with powdered rock left by the carbide drill head, face bleeding from rock shrapnel, even had a few bits of rock stuck in the beard. Rock, rock, rock. I love stone. I feel a bit guilty stepping up to break something that has sat beneath hundreds of thousands of sunsets, seen every rain in this part of the world for the past 10,000 years. I imagine that if Jim is reading this, he is groaning thinking I am about to mention the Vishnu Schist and the Zoroaster Granite. Rest easy Jim, that will be the only mention.
Working with rock teaches patience. Some days, you get the rock. Some days, the rock gets you. Move too fast, be a little to careless, there goes a finger or a toe, smashed, bleeding, and you'll realize how much a finger is like a hot dog in a microwave when you see the finger "guts" hanging out the end. Patience. Whether using fancy hammers or a breaker-drill, breaking rock in a controlled fashion requires resolve, a little strength, and the ability to laugh when things go wrong. Moving a large slab or boulder takes a lever, a basic understanding of leverage, and mental flexibility. A little strength helps, but it isn't absolutely necessary. And that iceberg tip of bedrock that really should have a little (unavailable) high explosive jammed up its ass, takes time, eye protection, sledgehammers, and more resolve and even more time. Singing helps, too. At times this week, I found myself wishing I could learn the stoicism of rock, to bake under the sun for thousands of years without blinking. Mute and yielding only to deep time, slowly dissolving into the earth. I had some of those old feelings, the desire to wander off and to slowly melt into the background noise.
Sure, this is all cheesy, somewhat sentimental, and whatever else it is. But I needed to write something. Forgive me, please.