mountaineer essay
I might update a lot these next few days just to share some of the writing I'm doing. It may or may not end up getting done, but hell. Here's a starter.
First, we have
every alley in america
has a name that no one knows
signs do not announce their purpose
numbers do not reveal their plan
but the rain in the dumpster drips out a heartbeat
and the asphalt holds its breath
if you an asked an alley, what is your purpose?
do you think it would answer 'parking'?
do you think it would tell you 'trash disposal',
or 'a space between too many houses?'
i think the alley would smile coyly
and redirect your question
an alley asks you,
do humans store oxygen?
do they carry germs for a living?
is it true that they're meant to be cosmic fillers
between too many atoms of carbon?
answer an alley correctly
and you will be given a name that nobody knows
and share in the bright green laughter
that spills forth life where the asphalt shrugs
next time you are in an alley,
you will find flowers cuddling dumpsters and snuggling trash:
pick not a blossom but a piece of garbage
and learn what it is to be rich
Next, we have a kind of funny but true story I wrote for the Mountain Ear, the Mountaineers club newsletter that features photos, info, and biweekly stories.
It was obvious from the way he looked at me that the doctor did not quite trust me. He smiled at me from time to time and even once came in to visit, asking a number of questions about where we had come from and what we were doing. I told him my brother and I had come down from Columbus to boulder at Horse Pens 40, Alabama, and he told me had had not heard of it but that he had always loved to camp. He then made a vague comment about “adventures” and how we seemed like the type of young people who had them a lot.
A good while passed and I impatiently checked messages on my cell phone every few minutes. I frequently left my brother asleep on the hospital bed to go out to the lobby, leaving a series of increasingly impatient messages with the Mountaineers. Little did I know that even on top of a mountain phone signals don’t always carry, or that people think you’re crazy when they overhear you saying, “Oh well, I bet you guys are still on the rocks.”
It was the curious doctor from earlier who cued me in on this weirdness. He came up to me again when my brother was sleeping and dropped his voice ever so slightly, making sure that it was just loud enough to be heard over the background hum of the ER.
“Are you guys... in trouble?” he asked me carefully.
I looked at him blankly. “What?”
“Do you need money? Have you maybe got nowhere to go?”’
Oh. I took a good look at myself.
There I sat smelling like bonfire, dressed like a girl who’d been camping for days. On my feet were Chacos and wool socks and on my head was a mismatched hat I had not taken off, but rather wore folded absurdly so my ears could breathe but my unwashed hair could stay mostly hidden. I also wore torn jeans over green Capilene pants, a small orange sweatshirt over too many layers, and grimy climbing tape on my rosy fingers. Complete the picture with my brother’s backpack full of Nalgenes and extra clothing, and you have the spitting image of a homeless kid caring for her runaway brother.
I somehow managed to keep a straight face and reassure the doctor that we were okay. I reminded him gently that we were just having trouble getting a hold of our campmates. My case became strained when another hour passed and no one had called me back yet, but finally my brother just in time for the Mountaineers’ magic arrival. Apparently they came out of worry because all of our calls had been dropped (D’OH!) We ended the night by alarming a pharmacist whose back door we accidentally tried to get into, and then by disgruntling a Ruby Tuesday’s waitress who probably disliked so many scruffy-looking hooligans wielding oversized steak knives.
This story ends with reassurances. Firstly, my brother is now recovering from that compression injury to his back. Secondly, it has been confirmed that neither of us is in fact homeless, but thirdly... whoever pushed him off that boulder is a story for another publication. If you take one lesson away from this true story, let it be this: next time you’re in a state that lost the War of Northern Aggression, never assume that Nalgenes and Chacos will be recognized as a sign of class.
First, we have
every alley in america
has a name that no one knows
signs do not announce their purpose
numbers do not reveal their plan
but the rain in the dumpster drips out a heartbeat
and the asphalt holds its breath
if you an asked an alley, what is your purpose?
do you think it would answer 'parking'?
do you think it would tell you 'trash disposal',
or 'a space between too many houses?'
i think the alley would smile coyly
and redirect your question
an alley asks you,
do humans store oxygen?
do they carry germs for a living?
is it true that they're meant to be cosmic fillers
between too many atoms of carbon?
answer an alley correctly
and you will be given a name that nobody knows
and share in the bright green laughter
that spills forth life where the asphalt shrugs
next time you are in an alley,
you will find flowers cuddling dumpsters and snuggling trash:
pick not a blossom but a piece of garbage
and learn what it is to be rich
Next, we have a kind of funny but true story I wrote for the Mountain Ear, the Mountaineers club newsletter that features photos, info, and biweekly stories.
It was obvious from the way he looked at me that the doctor did not quite trust me. He smiled at me from time to time and even once came in to visit, asking a number of questions about where we had come from and what we were doing. I told him my brother and I had come down from Columbus to boulder at Horse Pens 40, Alabama, and he told me had had not heard of it but that he had always loved to camp. He then made a vague comment about “adventures” and how we seemed like the type of young people who had them a lot.
A good while passed and I impatiently checked messages on my cell phone every few minutes. I frequently left my brother asleep on the hospital bed to go out to the lobby, leaving a series of increasingly impatient messages with the Mountaineers. Little did I know that even on top of a mountain phone signals don’t always carry, or that people think you’re crazy when they overhear you saying, “Oh well, I bet you guys are still on the rocks.”
It was the curious doctor from earlier who cued me in on this weirdness. He came up to me again when my brother was sleeping and dropped his voice ever so slightly, making sure that it was just loud enough to be heard over the background hum of the ER.
“Are you guys... in trouble?” he asked me carefully.
I looked at him blankly. “What?”
“Do you need money? Have you maybe got nowhere to go?”’
Oh. I took a good look at myself.
There I sat smelling like bonfire, dressed like a girl who’d been camping for days. On my feet were Chacos and wool socks and on my head was a mismatched hat I had not taken off, but rather wore folded absurdly so my ears could breathe but my unwashed hair could stay mostly hidden. I also wore torn jeans over green Capilene pants, a small orange sweatshirt over too many layers, and grimy climbing tape on my rosy fingers. Complete the picture with my brother’s backpack full of Nalgenes and extra clothing, and you have the spitting image of a homeless kid caring for her runaway brother.
I somehow managed to keep a straight face and reassure the doctor that we were okay. I reminded him gently that we were just having trouble getting a hold of our campmates. My case became strained when another hour passed and no one had called me back yet, but finally my brother just in time for the Mountaineers’ magic arrival. Apparently they came out of worry because all of our calls had been dropped (D’OH!) We ended the night by alarming a pharmacist whose back door we accidentally tried to get into, and then by disgruntling a Ruby Tuesday’s waitress who probably disliked so many scruffy-looking hooligans wielding oversized steak knives.
This story ends with reassurances. Firstly, my brother is now recovering from that compression injury to his back. Secondly, it has been confirmed that neither of us is in fact homeless, but thirdly... whoever pushed him off that boulder is a story for another publication. If you take one lesson away from this true story, let it be this: next time you’re in a state that lost the War of Northern Aggression, never assume that Nalgenes and Chacos will be recognized as a sign of class.