I've discovered a new favorite nocturnal hideaway in Bellingham. Actually, it's just outside of town limits, and about a 15 minute drive from our current residence. It's close enough not to demand a significant time commitment to get to and from, but just far enough out of town to be safely out of earshot of the roar of the freeway, blaring train horns, and all sorts of other urban noises that I will never get used to. Perhaps just as importantly, it's also far removed from any bright city light, so I may truly escape into the embrace of darkness.
Following a quiet rural road that follows the northern and eastern edge of the county's largest lake takes me to a wooded trailhead at its end. From there, I have the option of either following a perfectly level path that hugs the edge of the lake for several miles, or climbing a very steep, overgrown, disused logging road as far up into the mountains as I care to venture.
A couple weeks ago, I chose to take the easy shoreline trail carved nicely between the sheer cliffs of the mountain and usually placid lakeside. Oddly, when I had left home, I felt hardly a hint of a breeze, but out here, the wind was coming in strong, lashing the lakeshore with miniature waves. And boy, it felt refreshing, especially in the thick of summer's typically warm, stagnant weather. No less delightful was the sound of the treetops swaying and whispering in the breeze, which is practically an everyday occurrence in Hawaii but something I always miss when I am removed from the island. The stars were visible in much greater numbers than I'm able to see close in town, as well. I came across a nice little waterfall sliding down a series of smooth rock faces, which I was able to scale up to reach the tallest tumble. With the many clusters of lights across the lake no longer in sight, I could have just as well been deep within the wilderness. It was a nice, relaxing stroll.
Last night, I returned to the area and chose the high road, with the hiker's intention of at least finding a good viewpoint, and with the wolf's desire to bask in the rejuvenating luminance of the full moon. Whether the trail was going to take me to anything memorable or noteworthy, some lupine time with the moon was of prime importance. So with a casual pace, I began the steep, steady ascent up the narrow rocky path, pausing to pick and nibble on a few blackberries along the way. The beginning of the trail was set in fairly dense woods, but in between the tall firs and denser underbrush I could still catch glimpses of the moon hovering shyly in the low southern sky. She was a dull rusty color tonight, blanketed with a haze of high cloud cover that up in the Pacific northwest usually signals a change in the weather toward the direction of rain.
The air certainly felt like rain, too. In fact, it was uncomfortably muggy and warmer than usual. It reminded me of wandering around certain parts of the desert southwest in the thick of a summer monsoon. That along with the physical effort of climbing really left me sweating, so off came my damp shirt. Interestingly, only minutes afterward, I was surprised by a brilliant flash of lightning followed by thunder. Whereas I'm certain summer thunderstorms are very common in many other areas, this was the first thunderstorm I've seen in our area all year. I've felt thunderstorm deprived.
If there is only one thing I miss about living in Arizona, it was the regular summer thunderstorms occurring mostly in July and August. Many of them were powerful enough to be humbling and awe-inspiring, and I would go out of my way to experience them and photographically capture their splendor when I could. While living in Flagstaff, I used to love answering the call of an impending storm's crashing thunder, heading out for a walk to somewhere with a decent view to admire it. I would ensure there was some type of shelter nearby, even if it was just a baseball field dugout or a park pavilion, but usually, I would just run around and enjoy most of the torrential rain the passing storm had to offer. And I would never tire of watching the lightning or listening to the thunder. Storms are truly a phenomenal spectacle of natural force and energy, and they really spark something inside of me that makes me feel intensely alive as I experience them. It's no wonder I miss them so. In the middle of the desert, they truly felt like a godsend, a cherished special occurrence, for most of the rest of the year everything was either wilting in the harsh desert sun or freezing in the dead of frigid mountain winter. Storms are what brought the arid landscape to life.
The one I experienced last night was over and done within a few minutes, however. Eventually the trail emerged at a large clearing for three rows of massive electricity pylons, their wires stretching into the distance for visible miles. I followed it for about a mile farther as it contoured up the steep mountain face, weaving between the clearing and the adjacent second-growth forest, until I came across the best viewpoint I was probably going to find. From that vantage point, I could see north clear to the refineries in Ferndale, south all the way to the town of Burlington, and all of the northern half of the lake. Though obscured somewhat by clouds, the view of the many lofty mountain peaks and valleys and illuminated city landmarks so far in the distance was quite mesmerizing. I've always had an affinity for scrambling up mountains and hillsides to get a better look at the lay of the land, especially in the deep of the night. There's no better sort of spot to quietly reflect on my place in the world as I gaze over my domain from high above. I'm glad I found yet another easily accessible place in which to do it.
After heading back down to the start of the trail, I took the short stroll down to the lakeshore, just to relax by the water for a little bit. When my paws touched the water, I was amazed by its unexpected warmth. Without much further thought, and being the water dog I've always been, I abandoned all my clothing on the rocky beach and sauntered into the nice, cool water for a refreshing dip. After sweating so damn much, it felt absolutely heavenly. There is also something spiritually nourishing, something that fills me with primal fulfillment, about swimming in the buff in the full moonlight. One of those experiences that is so entirely natural, not to mention instinctual.
Good night, beloved moon.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 6, 2014
A long time coming
I've been a wanderer all my life. Yes, all my life. When I was four or five, I wasn't too interested in staying within the confines of the backyard, so much as venturing deep into the woods to play. I would embark on what seemed to my little self like long, long trips away from home, even though I was supposed to be staying close and within sight of the house. Of course, I was never unsupervised; my loyal black lab and golden retriever were always keen to tag along and serve as guardian and protector. In the summer, we would swim in the pond and catch newts, or in the winter, perhaps do some impromptu ice skating. The few hundred wild acres behind our house was a vast, unexplored world full of wonder and amazement, and I always longed to lose myself within its fascinating reaches. I was never afraid of becoming lost amongst the vast stretches of Oregon woods, or getting caught out in the dark, but I can imagine I made my parents nervous on more than one occasion. When they saw a big black blur with a long pink tongue emerge from the bushes at twilight, however, they knew I would always be right behind.
When I turned six and was suddenly placed into first grade, I did not take kindly whatsoever to the structured, rigidly scheduled environment of school. My teacher eventually had to move me away from the window and have me sit facing toward the wall, for I spent far too much time staring through the glass at the trees outside, daydreaming. Unfortunately, the wall I ended up facing was home to a big, bad clock, with hands that moved slower than a snail over a glue trap. Little did I know that for years after I would see dozens of clocks just like it, and the hands would never move any faster. It seemed the final bell of the day, the freedom ring, never came soon enough. I always found myself fleeing down the schoolhouse hallway to board the bus home, eager to escape my tears of boredom. Nothing was more satisfying than being pounced by my dogs when I finally got home, then dashing back into the forest with them for the remaining hours of the day.
Even at that tender age, the woods represented freedom from the shackles of the excruciating daily routine, from expectations to behave, follow directions, and "get along" with my classmates. I didn't do well with any of those. I certainly never adjusted to the numbing routine and everyday procedures of the day, and I felt no inclination to play with any of my peers, either. In fact, I spent one recess down by the creek in the woods nearby, my innocent little mind not possibly imagining that I could be breaking any sort of rule. In fact, it was contemplated going for a dip. But a teacher found me, roped me back by the arm toward the schoolyard, and told me she was going to have a chat with my parents. I don't recall ever facing any severe punishment for such a transgression. Later on, I did it again. And made sure no one noticed.
So for the first few years of my life, even though my parents moved around among several different houses, I always lived out in the country and had vast amounts of surrounding beautiful acreage to run around and play in. I'm sure that significantly helped shape my character, and my appreciation and need for natural surroundings that persists as strongly as ever to this day. However, when I was all but 7, life changed dramatically, when my parents left the great state of Oregon and moved us far, far away. I was so used to having all the space in the world to roam and explore freely without encountering a single barrier. And then, all of a sudden, we ended up living in a sprawling apartment complex called Banyan Harbor. We all squeezed into a two bedroom unit to fit all four of us. We were in the middle of a city. And I barely knew what to do with myself.
Fortunately, we weren't stuck in some completely ordinary suburban sprawl, or dirty, seedy urban zone. We were, in fact, on the island of Kauai, steps from a beautiful white sand beach lapped by the perpetually warm, turquoise waters of the Pacific. It took me awhile to adjust to the sheer amount of commotion about the area, with the density of human population living there, number of beach visitors walking about, and all the busy affairs of the huge resort sitting just adjacent to the beach. Gone were the days of wandering off into the woods, for there was nothing immediately opposite the ocean but city, city, city. And left on the mainland in friends' care were my beloved canine companions.
But, y'know, I really took to the beach. Early on, I discovered the meaning of a true sunburn, before becoming tan as a local boy. I spent hours in the waves on a near daily basis. I had a sandbox back in Oregon, but it didn't compare to playing in the sand on a beach in Kauai. Eventually, we moved to a rental house in a smaller, quieter town on the island, but still just a few minutes' walk from the beach, one that sprawled uninterrupted for miles. It was there that I was really able to find my solitude again, if only on the vast reaches of unoccupied white sand.
My dad would frequently take us on trips all around the island, showing us wondrous places in paradise that seem dreamlike not only in memory, but no less impressive last time I visited them just a few years ago. When we moved to the Big Island just a couple years later, we lived in increasingly rural places, and we got to go on wondrous adventures all around that island as well.
It's quite evident my traveling gypsy parents heavily influenced by own wandering tendencies today. Since finishing university in 2006, I became a very nomadic soul, bouncing around from place to place across the western U.S., just exploring as an adult, perhaps passively searching for a home of true belonging. I slept in the hallway of a friend's house for months at a time, living out of suitcases. To me, that doesn't seem so inappropriate for someone in their 20s who is just out to see and experience the world. In 2009, I flew off to Germany and spent six weeks there with friends, and that ended up being an incredible experience I will never forget.
But I always ended up coming back to Hawaii in the end, and it always felt perfectly right to do so. It always felt so good to be home again. Yet, I always felt like something crucial was missing. I had my paradise and my freedom, beautiful natural surroundings in every direction to lose myself in whenever I needed to. But I still felt much too listless and alone, and eventually the ill feelings drove me to wander away from home time and time again.
In 2010, I ended up moving back to Arizona for the first time since attending community college there 10 years prior, and it sure wasn't for the sake of being in Arizona. It's because my true love was there, and I was willing to make sacrifices just to finally be with her ... and so was she. That's about the time when I finally began to sort out what I really wanted to get out of life, and I knew my mate would always be a key element in the equation.
Now here we are in 2014, no longer in Arizona, thank goodness, but in a much more agreeable mainland location. Squeezed into an apartment in the city, just like my parents did when they dropped everything and moved us to Hawaii, but at least in a fairly nice Pacific northwestern town. She left her family behind in Arizona, and I left mine in Hawaii, and we carved out our little niche here in the extreme tippy tip of northwestern Washington. We happen to really like it up here.
We're nothing close to being settled, however. In fact, my spirit is likely more unsettled than anything. For the first time in my life, though, I am really desiring to finally settle. By which I mean, find a house to call our own that we can turn into something more than just a transitional space, and even work myself into a comfortable career. I suppose we're about the right age to really feel ready for that.
Yet, a nagging suspicion that I've held for quite some time has recently been confirmed. Hawaii is far too much a part of me to stay away for long. I have a certain spiritual connection to the place, of an intensity that few could comprehend, and when I am removed from it, a certain, integral part of myself is missing. A two week vacation back to the island once or twice a year isn't nearly enough compensation. It was incredibly hard to drag myself back here after our two week vacation there in July, and it's become more difficult to envision much of a future anywhere else but there. Hawaii is where my heart resides, and somehow I'm just certain that's where we're going to end up sooner than we think.
Spoiled as I must sound, this place doesn't feel nearly as sacred or alive, and consequently, I don't feel as alive. The absence of that island spirit is almost painful, but I was never so acutely tuned into it as I became just the past few weeks.
I'll always be a wanderer, but I now have a greater sense of where true home is, and will always be, than I ever have before. Not only back on my island, but with the one who is able to truly appreciate it as much as I do. We will settle for nothing less than paradise.
When I turned six and was suddenly placed into first grade, I did not take kindly whatsoever to the structured, rigidly scheduled environment of school. My teacher eventually had to move me away from the window and have me sit facing toward the wall, for I spent far too much time staring through the glass at the trees outside, daydreaming. Unfortunately, the wall I ended up facing was home to a big, bad clock, with hands that moved slower than a snail over a glue trap. Little did I know that for years after I would see dozens of clocks just like it, and the hands would never move any faster. It seemed the final bell of the day, the freedom ring, never came soon enough. I always found myself fleeing down the schoolhouse hallway to board the bus home, eager to escape my tears of boredom. Nothing was more satisfying than being pounced by my dogs when I finally got home, then dashing back into the forest with them for the remaining hours of the day.
Even at that tender age, the woods represented freedom from the shackles of the excruciating daily routine, from expectations to behave, follow directions, and "get along" with my classmates. I didn't do well with any of those. I certainly never adjusted to the numbing routine and everyday procedures of the day, and I felt no inclination to play with any of my peers, either. In fact, I spent one recess down by the creek in the woods nearby, my innocent little mind not possibly imagining that I could be breaking any sort of rule. In fact, it was contemplated going for a dip. But a teacher found me, roped me back by the arm toward the schoolyard, and told me she was going to have a chat with my parents. I don't recall ever facing any severe punishment for such a transgression. Later on, I did it again. And made sure no one noticed.
So for the first few years of my life, even though my parents moved around among several different houses, I always lived out in the country and had vast amounts of surrounding beautiful acreage to run around and play in. I'm sure that significantly helped shape my character, and my appreciation and need for natural surroundings that persists as strongly as ever to this day. However, when I was all but 7, life changed dramatically, when my parents left the great state of Oregon and moved us far, far away. I was so used to having all the space in the world to roam and explore freely without encountering a single barrier. And then, all of a sudden, we ended up living in a sprawling apartment complex called Banyan Harbor. We all squeezed into a two bedroom unit to fit all four of us. We were in the middle of a city. And I barely knew what to do with myself.
Fortunately, we weren't stuck in some completely ordinary suburban sprawl, or dirty, seedy urban zone. We were, in fact, on the island of Kauai, steps from a beautiful white sand beach lapped by the perpetually warm, turquoise waters of the Pacific. It took me awhile to adjust to the sheer amount of commotion about the area, with the density of human population living there, number of beach visitors walking about, and all the busy affairs of the huge resort sitting just adjacent to the beach. Gone were the days of wandering off into the woods, for there was nothing immediately opposite the ocean but city, city, city. And left on the mainland in friends' care were my beloved canine companions.
But, y'know, I really took to the beach. Early on, I discovered the meaning of a true sunburn, before becoming tan as a local boy. I spent hours in the waves on a near daily basis. I had a sandbox back in Oregon, but it didn't compare to playing in the sand on a beach in Kauai. Eventually, we moved to a rental house in a smaller, quieter town on the island, but still just a few minutes' walk from the beach, one that sprawled uninterrupted for miles. It was there that I was really able to find my solitude again, if only on the vast reaches of unoccupied white sand.
My dad would frequently take us on trips all around the island, showing us wondrous places in paradise that seem dreamlike not only in memory, but no less impressive last time I visited them just a few years ago. When we moved to the Big Island just a couple years later, we lived in increasingly rural places, and we got to go on wondrous adventures all around that island as well.
It's quite evident my traveling gypsy parents heavily influenced by own wandering tendencies today. Since finishing university in 2006, I became a very nomadic soul, bouncing around from place to place across the western U.S., just exploring as an adult, perhaps passively searching for a home of true belonging. I slept in the hallway of a friend's house for months at a time, living out of suitcases. To me, that doesn't seem so inappropriate for someone in their 20s who is just out to see and experience the world. In 2009, I flew off to Germany and spent six weeks there with friends, and that ended up being an incredible experience I will never forget.
But I always ended up coming back to Hawaii in the end, and it always felt perfectly right to do so. It always felt so good to be home again. Yet, I always felt like something crucial was missing. I had my paradise and my freedom, beautiful natural surroundings in every direction to lose myself in whenever I needed to. But I still felt much too listless and alone, and eventually the ill feelings drove me to wander away from home time and time again.
In 2010, I ended up moving back to Arizona for the first time since attending community college there 10 years prior, and it sure wasn't for the sake of being in Arizona. It's because my true love was there, and I was willing to make sacrifices just to finally be with her ... and so was she. That's about the time when I finally began to sort out what I really wanted to get out of life, and I knew my mate would always be a key element in the equation.
Now here we are in 2014, no longer in Arizona, thank goodness, but in a much more agreeable mainland location. Squeezed into an apartment in the city, just like my parents did when they dropped everything and moved us to Hawaii, but at least in a fairly nice Pacific northwestern town. She left her family behind in Arizona, and I left mine in Hawaii, and we carved out our little niche here in the extreme tippy tip of northwestern Washington. We happen to really like it up here.
We're nothing close to being settled, however. In fact, my spirit is likely more unsettled than anything. For the first time in my life, though, I am really desiring to finally settle. By which I mean, find a house to call our own that we can turn into something more than just a transitional space, and even work myself into a comfortable career. I suppose we're about the right age to really feel ready for that.
Yet, a nagging suspicion that I've held for quite some time has recently been confirmed. Hawaii is far too much a part of me to stay away for long. I have a certain spiritual connection to the place, of an intensity that few could comprehend, and when I am removed from it, a certain, integral part of myself is missing. A two week vacation back to the island once or twice a year isn't nearly enough compensation. It was incredibly hard to drag myself back here after our two week vacation there in July, and it's become more difficult to envision much of a future anywhere else but there. Hawaii is where my heart resides, and somehow I'm just certain that's where we're going to end up sooner than we think.
Spoiled as I must sound, this place doesn't feel nearly as sacred or alive, and consequently, I don't feel as alive. The absence of that island spirit is almost painful, but I was never so acutely tuned into it as I became just the past few weeks.
I'll always be a wanderer, but I now have a greater sense of where true home is, and will always be, than I ever have before. Not only back on my island, but with the one who is able to truly appreciate it as much as I do. We will settle for nothing less than paradise.
Aug 4, 2014
Summer Affective Disorder
...is a real thing. Before we made the move up to the northern reaches of Washington State, I mentioned it in jest a couple times. We kept hearing about how some people tend to get depressed during the wintertime due to the relative lack of daylight and consistent rain and cloud cover. Of course, I can't imagine ever tiring of such weather that others might consider "gloomy," but I suspected the summer months, renowned in the northwest for reliably abundant sunshine, might negatively affect me.
Well, that has certainly turned out to be the case. I'm afraid July and August have proven to be a fairly undesirable time to be up here in the Pacific Northwest. The 16 hours per day of uninterrupted sunshine and uncomfortable heat has really taken its toll on many levels. The constant sun for such an unreasonable length of time combined with the summer heat just ends up draining my life force, whether I'm working or trying to play. Of course, thousands of sun worshiping tourists from around the country would beg to differ. They love to flock up here during the hottest, sunniest time of the year, and flood the campgrounds and popular attractions with their RVs and various forms of expensive toys. I've discovered that this is the northwest's biggest flaw- the summertime is just too "nice," by most people's standards, so too many of them visit from afar this time of the year and think to themselves, "ah, this is just perfect, maybe we should move here." And at the very least, they just infest certain places to the extent that they are just no longer desirable places to visit at all, until the return of autumn.
But the one thing that saves most of the PNW from degenerating into another overpopulated, completely spoiled extension of California is the general climate. Most of the year, clouds are in great abundance, and showers are common. Winters tend to be particularly wet, with a barrage of storms smacking into the Washington coast from the west. Thus, Washington has a remarkably overblown reputation for being cold, wet, and dreary most of the year, which seems to be the perfect picture of misery if you're a typical sun loving norm. Since most people are so prone to thinking in terms of black and white, they think, "uhhh, duhhh, clouds = rain. No sun, rain all the time." So not only does the healthy amount of rainfall and frequent cloud cover keep western Washington green, lush, and beautiful, it also discourages people from moving here and developers from coming in and ruining everything to the extent that they would in "sunshine states."
When we visited western Washington during March and October of previous years, I really fell for its beauty, and very pleasant climate. Of course, that was in the spring and fall, where it rarely felt too cold and certainly never too hot. The variability of the weather from day to day, and even thoughout a single day, reminded me greatly of my upbringing in Hawaii, where the weather is always changing. That's what I'm used to, and that's what I love. While roaming about the Seattle area, I was always impressed by all the cloud formations we saw looming over the mountain ranges or out towards the islands at sea. I consider the presence of cloudscapes a definitive element of this place's character and an integral part of its beauty. When they are completely absent, allowing the relentless summer sun to beat down mercilessly all day long, the atmosphere of magic and mystery really fades from the picture, replaced by a headache from all the blinding light and nausea from the heat. If I had first visited this place in the middle of August, I probably never would have fallen in love in the first place. Perhaps it's best I hadn't.
Of course, when I try to explain any of that to average humans, it goes right over their simple little heads. Still, I'm sure I'm not alone in this feeling. I'm sure there are many other northwesterners nearby hiding in their dark dens as well, silently praying for summertime to come to an abrupt end so they may feel at home again. I'm waiting for all the noisome, boisterous crowds to disperse as the clouds make their triumphant return, so I may comfortably don my usual jeans and light jacket attire and enjoy the mostly secluded outdoors again, wholeheartedly welcoming the return of the Pacific Northwest I actually know and love. The dim, damp, dreary Kingdom of Twilight. Oh, fuck yes.
Make no mistake, I'm fully aware that August is far worse in most other parts of the country, in terms of heat, humidity, and generally miserable conditions. Just gives me even more reason to loathe it. Fuck August.
Well, that has certainly turned out to be the case. I'm afraid July and August have proven to be a fairly undesirable time to be up here in the Pacific Northwest. The 16 hours per day of uninterrupted sunshine and uncomfortable heat has really taken its toll on many levels. The constant sun for such an unreasonable length of time combined with the summer heat just ends up draining my life force, whether I'm working or trying to play. Of course, thousands of sun worshiping tourists from around the country would beg to differ. They love to flock up here during the hottest, sunniest time of the year, and flood the campgrounds and popular attractions with their RVs and various forms of expensive toys. I've discovered that this is the northwest's biggest flaw- the summertime is just too "nice," by most people's standards, so too many of them visit from afar this time of the year and think to themselves, "ah, this is just perfect, maybe we should move here." And at the very least, they just infest certain places to the extent that they are just no longer desirable places to visit at all, until the return of autumn.
But the one thing that saves most of the PNW from degenerating into another overpopulated, completely spoiled extension of California is the general climate. Most of the year, clouds are in great abundance, and showers are common. Winters tend to be particularly wet, with a barrage of storms smacking into the Washington coast from the west. Thus, Washington has a remarkably overblown reputation for being cold, wet, and dreary most of the year, which seems to be the perfect picture of misery if you're a typical sun loving norm. Since most people are so prone to thinking in terms of black and white, they think, "uhhh, duhhh, clouds = rain. No sun, rain all the time." So not only does the healthy amount of rainfall and frequent cloud cover keep western Washington green, lush, and beautiful, it also discourages people from moving here and developers from coming in and ruining everything to the extent that they would in "sunshine states."
When we visited western Washington during March and October of previous years, I really fell for its beauty, and very pleasant climate. Of course, that was in the spring and fall, where it rarely felt too cold and certainly never too hot. The variability of the weather from day to day, and even thoughout a single day, reminded me greatly of my upbringing in Hawaii, where the weather is always changing. That's what I'm used to, and that's what I love. While roaming about the Seattle area, I was always impressed by all the cloud formations we saw looming over the mountain ranges or out towards the islands at sea. I consider the presence of cloudscapes a definitive element of this place's character and an integral part of its beauty. When they are completely absent, allowing the relentless summer sun to beat down mercilessly all day long, the atmosphere of magic and mystery really fades from the picture, replaced by a headache from all the blinding light and nausea from the heat. If I had first visited this place in the middle of August, I probably never would have fallen in love in the first place. Perhaps it's best I hadn't.
Of course, when I try to explain any of that to average humans, it goes right over their simple little heads. Still, I'm sure I'm not alone in this feeling. I'm sure there are many other northwesterners nearby hiding in their dark dens as well, silently praying for summertime to come to an abrupt end so they may feel at home again. I'm waiting for all the noisome, boisterous crowds to disperse as the clouds make their triumphant return, so I may comfortably don my usual jeans and light jacket attire and enjoy the mostly secluded outdoors again, wholeheartedly welcoming the return of the Pacific Northwest I actually know and love. The dim, damp, dreary Kingdom of Twilight. Oh, fuck yes.
Make no mistake, I'm fully aware that August is far worse in most other parts of the country, in terms of heat, humidity, and generally miserable conditions. Just gives me even more reason to loathe it. Fuck August.
Half a decade's worth of dust later.
Over five years have passed since my last entry in here. It feels a bit peculiar that, in spite of all the drastic changes that have transpired in that amount of time, this little achival keepsake of my life has stood frozen in time. Patiently waiting to be rediscovered and dusted off like an old video game cartridge that sifted to the bottom of the stack, ready to be played again.
I'm glad it hasn't gone anywhere, even as I've been all over the place. After all these years of inactivity, it could have fallen victim to a mass pruning by the blogger gods, hackers or spammers, or some other cause of certain death. But it's comforting to finally revisit a familiar dark haven of my own creation, one that still contains such personal significance, and find that it's still very much intact and undisturbed.
I am especially grateful considering how disinterested in the online realm I have become, particularly in the social aspect. My favorite discussion forums I grew up with are either long gone or on the verge of dying. My writing was once very prolific on Livejournal, but only one person I know still uses it, so even contributing to that feels like an especially pointless endeavor. I've got me a tumblr, but it, too, is hard for me to take seriously. I've never had any desire to join in the social networking craze; in fact, it's only made me want to socially regress toward the halcyon days of yore when I and everyone around me was perfectly content to never be tethered to a cell phone.
Besides, so few can even be bothered to send an e-mail or a letter these days, or sometimes even respond to a note, or a text that says something along the lines of "hey, I'm still alive, are you?" The general lapse in communication even amongst old friends has been largely disappointing, even though I'm sure my greatly diminished internet presence may have something to do with it. But, my phone number and e-mail have been exactly the same for years, so I'm still trying to come to terms with the scarcity of others, how much is real and how much is imagined, and whether I should ever take any of it personally or if it's just happening to most of us.
Actually, I've been craving for a quiet, cozy space to write like I used to, expressing thoughts and ideas in proper English with greater than 140 characters per post. I would very much like to publish using my allegedly antiquated desktop computing device and similarly old-fashioned indifference toward likes, feeds, and followers. Yet, at this point, I'm beyond starting over from scratch with another new blog, and just writing paragraphs into word files and saving them isn't as satisfying, for some reason.
So in a way, this very blog of mine and my photo gallery feel like the last surviving online holdouts that bear any real meaning for me. I feel strongly compelled to cease neglecting either of them. Just as I end up with thousands of new photographs I've taken every year, I also have novels worth of material I could write about, mostly life experiences, observations, and musings. It's just a matter of setting aside the time and getting back into the habit of writing many of them down as I used to do.
Here's hoping. Toodles.
I'm glad it hasn't gone anywhere, even as I've been all over the place. After all these years of inactivity, it could have fallen victim to a mass pruning by the blogger gods, hackers or spammers, or some other cause of certain death. But it's comforting to finally revisit a familiar dark haven of my own creation, one that still contains such personal significance, and find that it's still very much intact and undisturbed.
I am especially grateful considering how disinterested in the online realm I have become, particularly in the social aspect. My favorite discussion forums I grew up with are either long gone or on the verge of dying. My writing was once very prolific on Livejournal, but only one person I know still uses it, so even contributing to that feels like an especially pointless endeavor. I've got me a tumblr, but it, too, is hard for me to take seriously. I've never had any desire to join in the social networking craze; in fact, it's only made me want to socially regress toward the halcyon days of yore when I and everyone around me was perfectly content to never be tethered to a cell phone.
Besides, so few can even be bothered to send an e-mail or a letter these days, or sometimes even respond to a note, or a text that says something along the lines of "hey, I'm still alive, are you?" The general lapse in communication even amongst old friends has been largely disappointing, even though I'm sure my greatly diminished internet presence may have something to do with it. But, my phone number and e-mail have been exactly the same for years, so I'm still trying to come to terms with the scarcity of others, how much is real and how much is imagined, and whether I should ever take any of it personally or if it's just happening to most of us.
Actually, I've been craving for a quiet, cozy space to write like I used to, expressing thoughts and ideas in proper English with greater than 140 characters per post. I would very much like to publish using my allegedly antiquated desktop computing device and similarly old-fashioned indifference toward likes, feeds, and followers. Yet, at this point, I'm beyond starting over from scratch with another new blog, and just writing paragraphs into word files and saving them isn't as satisfying, for some reason.
So in a way, this very blog of mine and my photo gallery feel like the last surviving online holdouts that bear any real meaning for me. I feel strongly compelled to cease neglecting either of them. Just as I end up with thousands of new photographs I've taken every year, I also have novels worth of material I could write about, mostly life experiences, observations, and musings. It's just a matter of setting aside the time and getting back into the habit of writing many of them down as I used to do.
Here's hoping. Toodles.
Jun 27, 2009
the cretins cloning and feeding
Let me just clear something up right now: I don't hate humans.
As a matter of fact, I enjoy human inventions such as baseball, video games, and the craft of taking carefully composed and deliberate still images of places I've been, and there are quite a few humans in particular who have earned my admiration. The problem is that there are too many people and not enough room for all their stupid bullshit, not to mention the unreasonably excessive amount of offspring many of them choose to have. Humanity as a species would be done a favor if more individuals thought of how many resources the average human being consumes and its impact on the planet that sustains us before squeezing out little shits left and right as if counting little pigges on their toes. I love how the media just flocks to Octomom, as if littering the planet with her larvae is something worthy of the attention of anyone besides the humane society. Personally, stories like that makes me wish for a pandemic that does nothing to the population but leave 90 percent of it sterile. We'd all get along much better with each other and everything else if there was only one-tenth of us.
As a matter of fact, I enjoy human inventions such as baseball, video games, and the craft of taking carefully composed and deliberate still images of places I've been, and there are quite a few humans in particular who have earned my admiration. The problem is that there are too many people and not enough room for all their stupid bullshit, not to mention the unreasonably excessive amount of offspring many of them choose to have. Humanity as a species would be done a favor if more individuals thought of how many resources the average human being consumes and its impact on the planet that sustains us before squeezing out little shits left and right as if counting little pigges on their toes. I love how the media just flocks to Octomom, as if littering the planet with her larvae is something worthy of the attention of anyone besides the humane society. Personally, stories like that makes me wish for a pandemic that does nothing to the population but leave 90 percent of it sterile. We'd all get along much better with each other and everything else if there was only one-tenth of us.
Jun 9, 2009
Geology rocks and space matters.
I received news that Gemini Observatory is shutting down for the entire month of July for telescope mirror resurfacing. I guess it's an annual tradition, since they did the same last year. Keck has one laser run in the month, but it's only six days long, and I would be given merely a fraction of those days to work. Looks like it would be the ideal month to jump on a plane and escape from the utter monotony and familial tension for a few weeks, since I wouldn't be missing out on hardly anything around here.
Another observatory, Subaru, is just starting to work out the kinks in their adaptive optics system. Ever since the 'Big One' of '06 destroyed their sensitive laser, they've been trying to g6et it going again. Whenever they do start operating the laser again, that could translate to more work available throughout the months.
It is also looking more likely that the Thirty Meter Telescope will be sited on the summit of Mauna Kea, right near the other observatories. This behemoth would take awhile to build, but it would introduce a significant amount of jobs both through the construction phase and in the form of research and maintenance positions. Of course, there are the usual native Hawaiian activists trying to fight it from defiling their sacred mountain, but the EIS draft suggests they won't have much to justify their argument. I can understand their point of view, but it's not as if they would be razing sacred temples or denuding hundreds of acres of pristine forest. The summit is hardly anything more than a huge pile of brown volcanic rocks, and I'm sure the ancient spirits residing at the summit can co-exist with another research facility occupying such a minuscule portion of their vast territory. If not, well, they'll just have to take over and scare all the astronomers back to sea level.
Mauna Kea is dormant, not extinct. Perhaps it could erupt again in my lifetime, but not nearly as likely as the neighboring volcano Mauna Loa. For now, it is at once the past of this island's creation and the future of astral discovery.
Another observatory, Subaru, is just starting to work out the kinks in their adaptive optics system. Ever since the 'Big One' of '06 destroyed their sensitive laser, they've been trying to g6et it going again. Whenever they do start operating the laser again, that could translate to more work available throughout the months.
It is also looking more likely that the Thirty Meter Telescope will be sited on the summit of Mauna Kea, right near the other observatories. This behemoth would take awhile to build, but it would introduce a significant amount of jobs both through the construction phase and in the form of research and maintenance positions. Of course, there are the usual native Hawaiian activists trying to fight it from defiling their sacred mountain, but the EIS draft suggests they won't have much to justify their argument. I can understand their point of view, but it's not as if they would be razing sacred temples or denuding hundreds of acres of pristine forest. The summit is hardly anything more than a huge pile of brown volcanic rocks, and I'm sure the ancient spirits residing at the summit can co-exist with another research facility occupying such a minuscule portion of their vast territory. If not, well, they'll just have to take over and scare all the astronomers back to sea level.
Mauna Kea is dormant, not extinct. Perhaps it could erupt again in my lifetime, but not nearly as likely as the neighboring volcano Mauna Loa. For now, it is at once the past of this island's creation and the future of astral discovery.
May 8, 2009
Everything grows here
Last night I decided to trek around my immediate neighborhood on foot. It's a complete ghost town for most of the night, but the advantage is no cars and their night vision-killing headlights to worry about. Just utter tranquility and solitude in a beautiful tropical mountainscape, as green and lush as ever thanks to all the rain that fell throughout the winter. I made my way up the ironwood tree-lined road until I reached the irrigation canal which leads several miles into deeper wilderness. Followed it through a densely forested gulch, across a wooden flume, and over someone's backyard or two in a sneaky manner. Explored a plant nursery for a bit, took a self-guided tour through a mostly empty and incredibly expansive greenhouse, and headed down another heavily wooded road leading down into the valley and rejoining the canal. Since a long underground tunnel linked where I had gotten to with the flume I had crossed, and the water flowing through it was only up to my knees, I opted to just switch on my flashlight and follow the tunnel back.
I definitely savored the evening, though. Nature's air-conditioning was on and the breeze through the trees was pleasant. Not only felt pleasant, but sounded euphonious in the treetops as a gently cascading waterfall. The fallen pine-like leaves of the ironwood trees richly carpeted the ground, making it entirely conducive for wandering around shoeless. And of course the moon was shining brightly through an atmosphere of orographic clouds racing by several hundred feet above me, at times completely obscuring the sky and painting a ceiling of luminous silver. My idea of paradise.
Even after living here so long, I still don't take the scenery for granted. The drive to work is simply amazing. Over a mountain of green grassy hills and cloud forests, through a misty mountain town with rustic charm and an ever purifying crisp wind, giving way to a region of mostly barren cattle pastures of brown grass and sad-looking wilted trees (with which a little imagination could easily resemble somewhere in bumfuck Texas). Then up through fog-drenched upperlands which more resembles Ireland, with farm houses perched on hills of lush green, over a crest into upper elevation desert with a "lovely" Army base accentuating the worthless wasteland, then scaling above the clouds to a lifeless tundra landscape over 13,000 feet above sea level, where distant mountain summits appear as islands peering up from a sea of clouds. Watching the full moon rise above that celestial ocean at twilight was a spectacular sight, as were the wisps of clouds rising off the summit at sunset, a bright fiery orange that appeared as if someone had over-saturated them using Photoshop.
I definitely savored the evening, though. Nature's air-conditioning was on and the breeze through the trees was pleasant. Not only felt pleasant, but sounded euphonious in the treetops as a gently cascading waterfall. The fallen pine-like leaves of the ironwood trees richly carpeted the ground, making it entirely conducive for wandering around shoeless. And of course the moon was shining brightly through an atmosphere of orographic clouds racing by several hundred feet above me, at times completely obscuring the sky and painting a ceiling of luminous silver. My idea of paradise.
Even after living here so long, I still don't take the scenery for granted. The drive to work is simply amazing. Over a mountain of green grassy hills and cloud forests, through a misty mountain town with rustic charm and an ever purifying crisp wind, giving way to a region of mostly barren cattle pastures of brown grass and sad-looking wilted trees (with which a little imagination could easily resemble somewhere in bumfuck Texas). Then up through fog-drenched upperlands which more resembles Ireland, with farm houses perched on hills of lush green, over a crest into upper elevation desert with a "lovely" Army base accentuating the worthless wasteland, then scaling above the clouds to a lifeless tundra landscape over 13,000 feet above sea level, where distant mountain summits appear as islands peering up from a sea of clouds. Watching the full moon rise above that celestial ocean at twilight was a spectacular sight, as were the wisps of clouds rising off the summit at sunset, a bright fiery orange that appeared as if someone had over-saturated them using Photoshop.
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