Daddeyo, Mamabear, This One's For You

Definition:

Boomerang Kid – a 20-something who returns to the nest after a stint of independent living.

Reasons for the Boomerang:

-Economics
-Divorce
-Safety Net
-Extended Education
-Drug/Alcohol Problems
-Temporary Transitions

Statistics

Census figures show that 56 percent of men and 43 percent of women ages 18 to 24 today live with one or both parents.

How Parents Feel

"It was hard to have her here, because she was used to an independent life, and we were, too, but it was the right thing to do," says Hayden, author of "For Richer, Not Poorer: The Money Book for Couples." "I was the one that said 'Come home, get stable and let's figure this out.'"

“No, they're not slackers happily sponging off the us. Instead, they're caught in a supply-and-demand job undertow created by the aging of the baby boom generation and the increasingly mobile labor force.”

"You have a whole lot invested in them, and psychologically it feels like you spent all this money to have them live in a ghetto. We don't want that."

How to Get Rid of Them

1. Feed them Raman noodles three times a day.
2. Put rattlesnakes in their bed.
3. Tell them they are adopted, and that their real parents Butch and Sunshine are on their way to see them.
4. Sabotage all of their phone calls with, “Our son/daughter is not in right now, and you wouldn’t want to talk to them anyway because he/she is a loser who lives with his parents.
5. Insist on giving them spankings after they have been bad.

(Drastic times calls for drastic measures. Six months with the folks, now almost over.)

(Photo courtesy of US NEWS)

My Ode to Kalamzoo

Yes, there really was a Kalamazoo.
Where a mundane life I amused.
And by my choosing,
My outward ensuing,
Broke the ties and the memories too.

In hindsight I’ll remember,
Your vision most splendor.
And through this dismount,
This romantic recount,
Feel the heat of thy smoldering ember.

To never forget your bounties fare,
Is my vow, my word, my solemn swear.
And into my head,
The chapters there shed,

Does your pictures remain forever to bear.

(for the work and physical pain!)

(for the monumental fun!)

(for those solemn times!)

(for the urban acrobatics!)

(for the forest adventures!...sprite ad not intentional)

(let me give you a kiss, city of cities!)

(for the history and the research!)

(for your easygoing homeless!)

(and your crowds!)

(and your politics!)

(for your anthrogeeks--most noteworthy pals!)

(for your mad scientists!)

(for your bartenders and campus taverns!)

(for your beer most sweet, and your glasses brimming)

(for your revelry and friends!)

Kalamazoo, I thank you.

Thanks Be to Boulder & Autumn Updates

11-29-05

Eat Turkey, Be Happy.

* * *

The first Thanksgiving – celebrated by the English Separatists, Dutch tag alongs, and indigenous hosts – lasted the whole of three days. America, in all her savage pomp, had quelled any pervious attempts at celebration, claiming in her fervor 46 of the 102 colonists in the first two years of settlement. To the delight of tired minds and shrunken stomachs, the harvest of 1621 was a particularly bountiful one, worthy of uncorked spirits, spontaneous smiles, and all manner of whimsical support. With four men sent fouling, and native crops to spare, with victuals a plenty and conversation to speak, all grief was undone as everyone united in the social accord of a damn fine party.

While the series of events preceding my holiday were in no way as calamitous, I too can regard my Thanksgiving as a bountiful success. Set hundreds of miles West of Plymouth Rock, and hundreds of years in the future, my stage was set on the Eastern fringe of the Colorado Rockies, in Boulder, CO.

As a valley steeped in natural marvel, engineered to enchant and entrance the mind, it is no wonder that many have called Boulder home. Among others, the Arapaho, Utes, Cheyennes, and Commanche have swept across its broken floor, along with gold seeking westerners of the industrial centuries. Now a jutting Denver island, comprising 25.37 square miles, Boulder is home to all manner of human diversity, ranging from the conservative cash bound college crop, to the free spirited transcendental activist. A haven for the avant-garde, the bohemian, and for Eastern meditative practitioners, Boulder sings a full spectrum of political blues despite the rightwing policies of the state. A sundry vortex of lifestyles, the town breathes tasteful complexity, and I found great delight in making it my Thanksgiving home.

A couple of years ago, my brother decided to forsake his Michigan roots and move out West, where the horizon has greater boundary, and where the scenery has far greater pull on the heartstrings. Born a natural scientist, a botanist, a ruff edged mountain man with a love for classic rock, there was no better place for him. As always, it was quite enjoyable to visit his haven—to enjoy not only his town but also our shared familial peculiarities. Our time, divided between holiday obligations, family catch up, and running around, was definitely well spent.

Rolling efficiently along in my parents Volkswagen Jetta, we arrived in Boulder around 10:00p.m. on Monday, after a cramped muscle straining 11 hour trip. Colorado Springs, Denver, and Boulder are steadily becoming a fused metropolitan strip, rimming the edge of the mountains like a string of Christmas lights. The guild and shimmer of this line becomes most apparent after dusk, highlighting a suburban sprawl that boorishly illuminates the way. The only view lost in this conversion is the sweeping expanse of the Milky Way, now a faded tintype amidst the chilled autumn sky.

My brother’s place is a four-bedroom renters house in a rather posh mountain community, set on the first range of hills above Boulder. It was here that I fed myself with some much-needed socialization. I slept on the living room couch, and was blessed every morning to see the golden eastern sunlight stretch over the rock pinnacles outside the window. Thanksgiving day was unveiled in this setting. Various tables were laid out across the kitchen and living room; a multitude of high-class delicacies decorated the countertop. Roommates, and roommates of roommates, and friends of roommates all came to enjoy the festivities. I sampled a large glass of mead, a favored drink of mine brewed with honey in the Beowulf Old Norse tradition. To compliment my brimming glass, I consumed overzealous portions of turkey leg, bacon infused stuffing, Pillsbury extra flaky biscuits, bean casserole, and last but not least pumpkin pie, pumpkin cheesecake, and cherry cheesecake pie. Happy to relive the copious habits of 1621, I felt stuffed. Rather plump but rather good.

These holiday excesses also worked into the nightlife enjoyed both before and after Thanksgiving. With a couple of my brother’s old high school friends in tow, we hit the basement bars of Pearl Street, which is a long corridor of specialty shops and restaurants downtown. A consummate Red Bull and vodka drinker, I took my decadent liquids in stride, playing my hand at a couple rounds of darts at the first bar. After claiming the win with a double bull’s-eye finish, and pouncing around the bar like it was the greatest moment of my life, we headed back out to Pearl to find yet another round of good times. Our next destination, a jumpin’ Salsa bar with a live band, proved to be a rather enlightening experience. Unlike Club, Salsa is actually a dance—a true series of precise movements that must be learned and practiced. Even with a natural rhythm, and a Latin heart of fire, you can’t fake Salsa (although we definitely tried!). I left the place, gooey with sweat, determined to learn some of those hot pepper swing moves in the future.

Other daylight and after dark excursions proved equally fun. My brother and I reminisced about the “good ol’ days” (which to us young people translates to the 1980’s), discussing influential movies such as RAD, and Little Barber Shop of Horrors. We played a couple rounds of disc golf, did some trials bike riding around campus (blowing out a second bike tire and a sprocket), and when pressed with boredom we entertained passerbies with some urban walking (don’t ask). The highpoint of our delinquency came about on Tuesday, when we decided to free climb one of the Iron Flats—a series of sheer rock cliffs rimming the southwest end of Boulder. Most (insert intelligence adjective here) people use ropes and hard rubber climbing shoes to do this. We used tennis shoes, focused handholds, and a firm belief that we were not going to die. Considering that I’m sitting here writing this, I happy to say that all went well.

The rest of the week was similarly first-rate. I did some Christmas shopping, some music trading. I ate more, slept less. I enjoyed the benefits of singlehood by flirting to the extreme. And, to the betterment of my Oklahoma solitude, I hung out with people my own age (sigh, words cannot describe the joy).

Everything worked out just as it should have. My bellies full, my senses filled, and I return, despite the craziness, much more relaxed.

Good times. Good times.

* * *

Autumn turns, colors burn, the season brings its change. Crispy yellow leaves, disembodied from the trees that line our creek bed expose new perennial skeletons. The full blooms of spring and summer, once commanding a greener time, have given way to empty November space. Our views – now twice cast – take in far more distant corners of the Black Rocks property. And with skin now covered, as leaves and temperatures fall, all seems as it should be.

The past few weeks have been busy as ever, with swells of activity hitting me from all sides. The museum is bleeding my volunteer juices dry, sending me off to distant middle schools to lecture on Archaeology, Native American history, and to introduce an art contest project of my working. Having now been featured in the local newspaper a couple of times, I have begun to garner public support and a miniscule score of small town celebrity. This work has been wholly gratifying, and I continue to enjoy the validation of my coworkers and the professional image that it entails.

On the home front I have been busy with various construction projects, bread mix production at the Spring Hill Bakery, and editorial work for a cultural anthropologist.

Commissioned to aid in the development of a book on indigenous Amazonian women, this last endeavor has threatened to short-circuit my humble neural capacitor. Nonetheless, I remain a charged patriot of the cause, reminding myself that such work is only going to make me smarter. The only true negative side effect - of my bemused candle light review - is a diminishment of my creative forces. Kinetic energy bedamned, my journal writing has been put on the back burner, and I doubt I’ll be able to get much penned out by the end of the year.

Look to a holiday update, perhaps, and maybe some writing on Brazil.

Until then…

(Boulder sunfire. Morning view from my brothers place.)

(street walkin')

(Thanksgiving tables)

Dealing with the Darkness: A Renewal

9-27-05

It’s 6:00. I’m sitting in my attic bedroom drinking a Lone Star Beer. The can is excessively patriotic, with stars, long horn skulls, and red-blue-white coloring rimming the side. The slogans “Pure. Texan. Beer.” and “DON”T MESS WITH TEXAS!” scream in bold letters on the surface. I laugh to myself, wondering how a tin can, or a state for that matter, could ever get so cocky.

This last week has been a strange journey for me. I sat in my gloomy attic, days ago, staring at a black handled knife lying by my bedside. I remember everything clearly. The blade was motionless – quiet – with soft details of the room mirrored on its angled face. Though my gaze fell on its stationary form, I saw nothing. My eyes were affixed to far more distant things—lost in the off-putting vicissitudes of an errant mind. My disappointment with life, with human nature, and with the holes within myself had reached a final conclusive point. I had hit the pinnacle, the highest low known as rock bottom. I wanted the world to end, my world, and I wanted the freedom to feel no more.

Reality is perception, and perception merely a state of mind. For over a year and a half my head had fallen to the wayside, to the baleful end of misery’s field. My perception was colored, seen through shaded blues and blacks—through all of the somber tones of the emotive spectrum. Utterly consumed by my sadness, my internalized negativity, I realized then that depression is such a strange and dangerous thing. It can creep up on you slowly, sometimes without rhyme or reason, from some dark recess or hole. If you remain unaware, neither stalwart nor vigilant, it will pull you under, drowning your lungs to their very last. Or, as in my life, its presence can be instant, like a wraith killing the first-born in the night. You’re suddenly hit with a ton of bricks, and no matter how much weight you shed, a house still levels you from above.

I thought on these things, as I stared at that knife, it’s sharpened edge gleaming back at me with a toothy smile. How simple a thing, I reflected, to carve a hole in the self and watch as the life – red dissipation – flows effortlessly away.

In such moments, just before the making of choice, time seems to slow. You are presented with a split, where paths diverge, each leading to some place into the unknown. Find yourself, lose yourself. Press forward, fall behind. Plug in, or give up. Your choice must be made.

As I stared at that knife, as my time slowed, I came to a realization. I realized that I didn’t want the whole of me to die, just a part. There was a boy inside, a weak-supplicating fool harbored for years as the voice of diffidence. That scared little boy, screaming of anger and bitterness, buried in the fleshy cavity with my soul, was my prison. It was he, fed by the slaughters of my rejection, that pushed me away from happiness. His memories troubled my dreams, his attachment barred my release.

I realized, staring at the knife, that I was tired of his voice. That it was he, not I, who needed to die. And so, with silent acquiescence, I buried that knife. Buried it right into his dark little heart.

Path taken. Choice made.

No longer, I resolved, would the slimy tendrils of acrimony squeeze the joy out of my body. I would break through my cloud of shadows. I would emerge—through calm resignation—into a greener pasture of my life.

Out of the ashes, does the phoenix rise. I stood, looking forward, a new man.

* * *

10-13-05

I had a great time at the museum today. I played, did a little work, and then played some more. In the outer courtyard, just to the east of the main building, a logwood fur-trading fort was constructed back in 1981. The fort was modeled on the Red River garrison (circa 1830’s) built somewhere near Lawton. Now leveled and under the soil, all that remains of the fort is this look alike counterpart, which houses within a square palisade a blacksmiths shop, residential area, trading cabin, and stables.

Today marked the semi-annual event known as the encampment, where k-middle school students come to watch and participate in lectures and historical reenactments in and around the fort. Compared with the daily torrent of kids that would visit my museum back home, our visitation was but a trickle. Perhaps 30 or 40 kids all together. I had the privilege of giving the orientation lecture to arriving groups, discussing with great animation what a museum/artifact is and how the kids could use their imagination to step back through time. As usual, my superiors insisted that I dress in garb and assume a historical persona throughout the day. Fitted with a long tailored blue vest, pants, and dark uncomfortable shoes, I was surprised to win compliments about my appearance, though admittedly I felt rakish and aristocratic wearing the clothes.

I had a couple of great experience gems later that day. The first came just before the last group of kids was about to leave. In the outside kitchen area, just off the main trading cabin, we decided to dole out small pieces of boiled cow tongue for our guests to enjoy (this was apparently a historical delicacy). Having witnessed the self-cleaning habits of a bovine, I was of the mind to shy away from my portion. But with all the courage of a Fear Factor food test appointee, I quickly threw an oozing slimy piece down. It truly wasn’t all that bad – a bit like roast beef I suppose – and I was happy to have eaten it (not happy enough to grab another piece though).

After all of the kids left, I had the pleasure of puffing away on a clay tobacco pipe with Tim, the museums living history interpreter. The pipe was a replica, much like one of the white short-stemmed pieces that you can find at many historic archaeological sites. They are quite ubiquitous, having been a popular respite for the butch mountain men occupying such sites. I’m really not much of a smoker, but I was happy to live the experience and play at a little ‘experimental archaeology’.

By mid afternoon, Tim had taught me how to start a fire with flint and steel, which is very satisfying in a “Me man….ugh….me make fire!” sort of way. We then proceeded to break from our “work” by eating hamburgers in the trade cabin. That was rather strange, eating a messy hamburger with people dressed in garb in a roughneck nineteenth century setting.

The day was very anachronistic, but fun.

* * *

My eyes are open. Wide open. Brilliant shades of possibility now line the streets.

The shades have ascended, the curtains are drawn, and the color has come bursting forth. I see a chair, a car, a passerby—some still, others motion bound, each in their own inimitable hue. Their colors reach out. They beckon, pulling me in to their small corner of the world. With details they blissfully surround, knocking into my company, like raindrops on a moonlit pond. Their waves remind me, through every shared inch, that I am still alive. That I feel them and they feel me too.

Well it’s official. I think that I’m finally ready to exhale. There comes a point when you become too full to internalize any more garbage. You either suck more in, and drown, or use your last bit of energy to blow it all away. I am so sick of falling beneath the surface, feeling desperate and alone, at a loss for the love I used to feel. I miss her greatly, that fallen angel of mine. But I have a new reality now, and I’m finally ready to face up to it.

It seems that wherever you stand on any given issue depends on where you sit. Life is the same way. It’s all about perspective. Do I sit on the boulder of despair, or perch on the summit of delight? Your view inevitably depends on your position. The way you look at the world, the way the world approaches you, all depends on that view. It is inescapable.

This has been my goal of late. Climb away from my misery. Leave it all behind. Find some new perch to take in my world, one that is positive and progressive and that will lead me to better places. I am accomplishing this, step by step, through the medium of self-improvement. I am honing in to all of things that I do not like about myself – underdeveloped qualities, overdeveloped sensitivities, off-putting patterns - using all my available energy to evolve as a person.

Turn off negative dialogue; replace with positive dialogue; learn to control all emotional impulses and states; stay one step ahead of the outer environment; cultivate a healthy spirit; learn to see and bring out the best in others; develop a thorough understanding of human behavior and systems; dismantle all actions and learn how to improve them; develop a code of personal ethics; etc.

I suppose that the most basic level, all I want to do is to come to understand the who behind the me. To find out what I want out of life and to pursue that. To attain some basic control over myself and my environment. This is my quest at large, and I am determined to attack it from every angle.

One area, shallow though it may be, that I am determined to first take on is my status as a single male (hey I’m young, what do you expect!). Women, quite obviously, are my greatest conundrum, and I’m determined to figure them out (as much as my puny caveman brain will allow). Forced to now compete in the dog-eat-dog single scene (this was not my choice, must I remind you), I am quite determined to understand what women want, what they desire, or in the very least, what they hunger for. In the past, I thought that I knew a great deal about women. To some extent I did. But what I didn’t know, what unfortunately was never taught to me, is what it means to be a man. Like most of the average frustrated chumps around me, I had no conception of how to keep and retain the attraction of a woman (I do blame, in part, the break up of my marriage to this fact, thus my great desire to understand this). I am therefore set, as time would allow, on a Don Juan education of sorts. I am now reading books on body language, on social dynamics, on human behavior and sexuality. I am learning how to dance, how to dress, how to communicate cool quiet confidence (laugh if you will, but you cannot argue that these are learned traits – skills – that like anything else can be improved with work and time). And most importantly, I am working on my ‘inner game’, learning to not care what anyone else thinks about me, secure in what it means to be who I am.

Essentially, I seek to unravel the formula for success. With women, work, or whatever challenge is put before me. The former challenge just so happens to be that which most consumes my head at this point in life (show me one single straight male of my age who doesn’t feel this way and I will show you a liar).

So, this is what I am determined to seek in my last few months in Oklahoma. In between my work at the museum, the bakery, the homestead, the computer, I will live and breathe self-improvement and self-discovery, disciplining the body and the mind. This will be my new mode, perch, and perspective from which I will see the world. Call me foolish, if you will, but this place feels a whole lot better than the rock I was last on.

(sunset of the darkened soul)

Delicately Balanced: Two Wheels, Two Feet

8-28-05

When danger sings, and sirens call,
Thoroughfares bound through copious way,
Great heart take flight, you dance tonight,
Your freedoms purse is paid.

* * *

Liberated from the tiresome quiet interior of my streamlined car, all senses where heightened, amplified, delicate in their latest advance into irregularity. The drum and sway of the motor vibrated just beneath my legs, purring the song of a coup de tat perilously in my ear. Resting on hardened black rubber and metal, my toes trembled, my body pulsated, and I knew – with fingers clasping that throttle – that I had found a new lover, one that whispered of danger and thrill with all the seductive charm of an Odysseusian siren.

She wasn’t the sexiest of rides, rather clumsy actually—an old Yamaha 920 v-twin Euro built the very year I was born. With her large bulky frame and awkward appearance, she commanded few superlatives, dancing generations apart from the sleek and furious FZ1 crotch rocket that I had tested a week before at my uncle’s house. Despite these disparities, despite her age, she did however command one truth. She was my first.

Our destination that day was far from ambitious. My parents and I drove into Lawton, eager to rev up the bikes that languorously rested in my grandmother’s garage. Our plan was to set out early that day and use the summer sun to explore the local Wichita Mountain Wildlife Refuge. Home to the oldest mountain outcrop in North America, the refuge boasted rock strongholds, standing forests, and all of the aged appeal that a day adventurer could envision. Donning our rakish leathers, we readied our steeds—my parents smiling at the thought of riding their recently purchased insect like BMW’s.

Heading out on the road, into the frenzied mess of L-town, I was instantly struck by an unwelcome feeling of vulnerability, as cars, trucks, and all manner of metal edges moved past me. Motorcycle riding, I came to find, exposes your mortality. Physics tests the physical, road sweeps beneath, and calamity follows along side. It wouldn’t take much, I surmised, to end myself or for someone else to do it for me. And yet riding a bike is so attractive despite the death and the danger. Why is it, I continued to ponder, that people feel most alive – catching hold of life’s most vivid colors – when finality swaggers close by.

We took the highway out of town, charging through the great swaths of wind, on into backcountry dirt roads leading to the refuge. My dad took up the head, swerving past obstacles and pitfalls, surveying the best way for us to follow behind. I kept my helmet visor up for most of the trip, enjoying the wind and the occasional bug to the face, watching predatorial birds fly overhead.

Past various lakes, Jed Johnson tower, the Holy City, Mount Scott—we tired not exploring every navigable elevation and horizon, eventually finding our way to Medicine Park, an active little town east of the refuge. At the Riverside Café, we parked the bikes, opting to sit outside and enjoy a cold Shiner (superb Texas beer) despite the humidity. We took up a table at the far end of the courtyard deck with a fine view of the town’s river, and enjoyed through sips of our beer watching a kid pull tiny fish out of the water just below. The restaurant gained my momentary favor by introducing me to an older bearded gentlemen playing classic rock songs on his guitar, a redundantly titled menu item called Chicken Fried Chicken, and a waitress whose assets sparked my wholly neglected interest. As we ate, I thought on how fun it would be to take an indiscriminate motorcycle trip cross country, with no road plan or true destination in mind. How fun it would be to randomly meet new people and new places, a road warrior enjoying the fruits of unpredictability.

A few more cool runnings later, we pulled back into Lawton, narrowly escaping a torrential thunderstorm just to the west. Admittedly, the sexy appeal of the bike, the dangerous colors of the road, and the wonderful chance encounters of each local, inexorably hooked my interest, and I knew - as my feet stepped off the pedal - that I was in love with a machine.

Until next time—my hand awaits the curl of that throttle, the jive of motorized thunder, the cliché freedom of the open road.

* * *

Bad day, week, month, year…

I am getting seriously frustrated with life. Beautiful life—with all of its bumblebees and blue skies, its smiling happy people with smiling happy lives. Why not take your ice cream, and your baby showers, and your Santa Claus, and shove it, drain that happiness away, let it all swirl down into one great festering mass of excrement rotting beneath the earth. If I had a chance, life, I’d punch you right in the face. You speak of love, wistful romantic love, sweet endorphin deceptions that cloud and conquer the mind. Your love is a drug, a temporal high, a surge of hope that desecrates the vein feeding optimism to the disillusioned. You are a meaningless chaos of shallow desires, selling cheap tricks of purpose to the passerby. Let go savage garden, merciless master, stay the fuck away from me. Stop licking my wounds with fire, stop burning me houses to the ground. If emptiness is what you want, then I will feel no more.

…sours, darkens, disheartens.

* * *

[Enter man. Freudian couch sits stage right. Psychotherapist lies opposite, pen and paper ready.]

Man: “Wow, I sure am the warm little center that the life of this world crowds around. Please forgive my bitterness, my venting, my trite depression. Maybe I just need a swift kick in the ass, or perhaps a good ol’ fashion brain enema. Maybe I just need to flush all of the unmet expectations and desires fueling my negative rage.”

Therapist: “Tell me about it my son.” [cue fake Austrian accent] “Vwat seems to be da problem?”

“Well, Oklahoma has been my home for almost three months now. It has felt like a lifetime. My new world revolves around work at the Black Rocks, filler jobs when my parents are away, and personal excursions in and out of town. Overall I have kept myself busy, rarely having to fight off boredom or monotony. Most of the week, when my parents are actually around, I help with construction. The building that once was slated to be a shop/garage near the front of our property is now to be the main house and living quarters, and we spend the best part of our hours banging away on that. My labor here is unskilled, my actions mindless, and I end up with the worker bee jobs of ditch digging, wire laying, or cleaning up shop.

When my parents are off gallivanting somewhere else, I fill my neglected schedule with work at a small organic bakery just down the street. It is there, with the volume pumped up on my iPod and a beer or two in hand, that I readily assume the multi-tasking measured intensity of a baker, rolling out granola, cookies, and wheat grain on my assembly line and mill. With all manner of sweet chocolate-laced confections to taste, the job really isn’t all that bad, and is a welcome escape from the physical extremes of my ranch work.

These activities, while fruitful and productive, trap me in an isolated existence akin to social celibacy. After a few days work at the Black Rocks, my body becomes thin and emaciated, my mind languid, and I voraciously hunger for the human contact that will breathe life into me once again. My Tuesday-Thursday routine, developed to meet this need, involves a trip into Lawton from daybreak to well past sunset. In the morning I devote five volunteer internship hours to the Museum of the Great Plains (MGP), working for their archaeological institute, educational department, and as an unofficial member on their grant committee. Unlike my last museum stint, the MGP houses a crew of aged professionals lost to the vicarious whims of my generation (e.g. there is no one there my age). I thus remain, when I leave the museum, professionally fulfilled yet socially detached. To work out my frustrations, I do an eat-veggie-sub, tan-for-ten, work-out-for-hour-and-a-half routine, which will often leave me pumped up enough for a solo descent into the urban night scene.

Now, to my everlasting disappointment, I have come to realize two things about Lawton. It is a very difficult town to make friends in, and twice as difficult a place to meet single women (of any value or character or measure of beauty). Lawton, for the most part, contains three groups of people (of my approximate age). The first are the so-called “army brats”—shiny head Ft. Sill lost boys who I have a difficult time relating to. They often travel in packs, gobbling up any single women that cross their path. They tend to only make friends with those who have a similar haircut, or a vagina, so I’m pretty much out with them. The next group is the college commuter kids. Lawton is home to Cameron University, a small community college sized campus known for its science, business, and language departments. Most of Cameron’s students work or study in Lawton, but play elsewhere, so I have yet to meet any of them.

The last group is the Lawton returnees, or never-lefters—kids that never made it out of Lawton due to personal problems, lack of ambition, or who didn’t quite cut in the real world. I ran into one such girl, an absolute beauty, last week at a bar. I was totally taken aback by her good looks, and was floored by her interest in me; we decided to go out a couple of times. I got her flowers, bought her a few drinks, wrote her a little poetry, and invited her to an OU game. In return for these things she proceeded to flirt with her ex boyfriend in front of me, jump all over another guy when I visited her at the bar, and then kick me to the curb when I confronted her with her bullshit. I might have been a tad bit direct with the girl, but after my last relationship, I refuse to play games with people. Even the shallow ones.

So this where I’m left after almost three months. Lots of work, no real friends, dismally depressed on the love front. My family has been fantastic, housing me, entertaining me, getting my mind off of things. But some days I remain jaded Lion, introspective Lion, disillusioned with life and what it has to offer. I think for now, I’m just going to have to keep my head down, forget about making any “single serving friends” here, and focus instead on what’s to come in Brazil.

Keep expectations low, want not, feel not, and you won’t be let down. Desire no one, trust in nothing.

Good or bad, this is my latest philosophy. Maybe it will help me finish out the week.”

[Therapist raises head from paper looking completely befuddled. Patient smiles.]

[Exit man. Cue the curtain.]

East Oklahoma Ride and More Work

(riding the dragons tale)

(cool mom's ride motorcycles, and their sons follow suit)

(work improves balance)

(work builds muscles)

(work improves coordination)

Okie Rocks Pictures

Here area few pictures from our Pink Rocks Wichita Mountain property, and the Black Rocks terra firma.

(Split Rocks campsite by firelight)

(readying for a Pink Rocks overnighter)

(monumental mother earth)

(West end of Pink Rocks property)

(modern anthropomorphic photosensitive pictograph)

(view from above)

Black Rocks

(tree lined avenue)

(fearless Boomer)

(the dogs uh drivin'!!!)

(Toking the peace pipe. One man's trash is another man's treasure.)

Dreams: Sleeping and Awake

7-30-05

10:11 p.m.

Into the dead of night I lay asleep,
Covered by a soft blanket of stars.
My mind unhinged, my thoughts drawn deep,
I sift through the firm corporal bars.

Quick past the guard of that daylight prison,
I unclasp the key to the mind
Through door unbound, and dispel of reason,
My grounding soon falls far behind.

Up over hills past shadowy thralls,
Through kingdoms of fire and snow.
Of great memories past and great visions tall
My body still lies far below.

Through colors rich and sounds ever deep,
My senses are put to the test.
Inwardly strained, then outwardly flung,
The third eye reaches its crest

Then seeing a path broken only in waves,
A shadowy flower doth grow
And upon eating its seed, it tells me its saved,
Thoughts of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

With dark wings unfurled,
Emergent and free,
What more dreams may come,
Unbidden to me?

* * *

Dreams. Shadowy images that pull on the heartstrings and seek balance of the mind.

Sleep. The mode, the shift through dark interior, the dramatic alteration of daytime thought.

Scientists are beginning to understand that sleep, as the most obvious modification of consciousness, is universal in all creatures. Neuroscientists such as Giulio Tononi seek to prove that, as a behavior, sleep is universal—a fundamental necessity for even the tiniest of organisms. Take the fruit fly for example—a faintly audible floating speck of dust that you know as the flattened black dot at the end of your finger. Does such a pin-brained buzzer need its rest? It turns out that fruit flies have long periods of immobility and decreased arousal threshold for about ten hours every night, during which they become more difficult to rouse with air puffs, light, vibration or heat. Give them caffeine and they stay awake longer, antihistamines and they fall asleep faster. And get this – stick electrodes in their brain and you discover that electrical activity changes when they sleep (this is weird on two accounts: the fact that flies actually have brain waves and the fact that people stick stuff into their brains to determine this). [Particulars gleaned from Discover magazine, “No Rest for Snooze Guru”, August 2005]

So why do we sleep? To divine whispers of the future, to cross the temporal threshold as many ancients believed. Is it to (Giulio again) downscale the synapses and shed the access weight that is deposited as we learn throughout the day. Or is it a way to access that inner counselor, allowing the unconscious mind to disentangle complexities that the waking mind cannot penetrate.

My grandfather told me once that the best way to get a good nights rest is to go to sleep with a clear conscience. For me, this certainly holds true. But I would like to revise the statement. How about, “the best way to get a good nights rest is to never go through a divorce”. Ah yes, a great truth indeed, but you’ll probably never find it in one of those hokey bathroom books.

The frightening thing about dreams is that they become your reality. I am reminded of that scene in The Matrix, when the ever stoic Morpheus directs Neo through his awakening. “Have you ever had a dream Neo that you were so sure was real?” he asks. “What if you were unable to wake from that dream? How would you know the difference between the dream world and the real world?”

Well, the problem is I don’t. And damn near every night I am consumed by nightmare—the same revolving door sequence with the same copycat antagonist. Every night, despite my desperate attempt to fashion some sense of a new life, I dream about her.

The setting is different but the situation always the same. I am there, hands clasped together and fingers tightly bound. She is there, back straight, lofty indignation furrowing her brow. I plead and profess my love, she smiles and turns away. I am left with an overwhelming sense of loss and loneliness, like an empty tin can kicked by a crowd of boys. The worst part about this dream is its intransigence, for as morning comes the feelings remain. I awake not feeling whole or rested, but beaten and depressed. And it usually takes me a good two hours to overcome this dejected stupor.

So I return to the question. Why sleep? What does it do for me? It’s certainly not divining things of the future, nor providing insight into the past. Quite the opposite of Giulo’s hypothesis, I feel as if I’m gathering weight, not shedding it. Sleep seems to amplify, not dispel my pain.

So what, I ask, is its use.

All I have to say is…

Sleep. Dreams. Hurumph and Guffaw!

And…

Drat! It’s time for bed.

* * *

8-10-05

Dreams. Vain pursuits of a restless mind, a futile chase after the never more raven who smiles and sneers at the doorstep. Brazil has become my waking dream, a remote but elusive vision that whispers of better things to come. Alas, taking on the countenance of that vile bird, the dream keeps disappearing—just as I capture the sweet lines of possibility mirrored in its face.

My dream of spending a year in Brazil has begun to asphyxiate under the weight of misaligned bureaucracy. In response to the overzealous protective measures of American border agents, Brazilian officials have introduced strict entry requirements for US citizens. All extensions considered, tourist visas allow for only six months of unmolested passage—nowhere near the time I need to acquire Portuguese fluency. Visas that allow for extended visits, such as those issued to students, volunteers, and researchers, require application paperwork/dictates of untold proportion. Hindered by these constraints, the organization that I was slated to volunteer for is now suggesting that I come for only three months, shattering my hope for effective assimilation and philanthropy.

With the date of my departure swiftly approaching, I now must consider shortening my trip or finding some other volunteer opportunity to pursue. But time is limited, and the pressure is mounting. Confound the bird, that sly apparition, all I want is to experience Brazil, to give back, to learn. I hope that my dreams do solidify, and irrespective of the red tape, I can find a way. Perhaps I'll have to go on a tourist visa, come briefly back to the US, then travel back to Brazil for another six months. I'm not sure how to go about it at this point.

Such great ponderings are byproducts of a relaxed brain, a brain with all of the excessive amusements of vacation. Desiring to escape the Oklahoma heat, I took the last week and a half off, heading out to Norman Oklahoma, where my cousin resides, and then to New Mexico. Norman is home to the University of Oklahoma, home to the crazed football enthusiasm of Sooner fans. The entire town is decked out in crimson and cream tribal colors. Flags, stickers, t-shirts, hats, all prominent empty spaces, be them human or architectural, display the unwavering allegiance of Sooner fans to their football warrior gods. I explored the campus, town, and helped my cousin move into her new apartment, ever impressed and bemused by the local zeal.

Seeking out fugida (escape), we eventually left the sweeping plains of Oklahoma behind, heading out across the open vistas of Texas. Two irritatingly expensive gas stops, one Sonic refueling, and a hundred iPod songs later, we reached the Moreno valley, home to lush forests, grandiose mountains, and a thousand of my childhood memories. Our cabin is nestled in a pine bark community known as Idlewild, hoisted 8700 feet into the sky. Idlewild lies just above a circular track known as the Enchanted Circle—a curvy mountain path that passes through Angel Fire, Eagle's Nest, Red River, and the artsy pueblo town of my birth, Taos. It is here, in these beautiful forested environs that family and friends have sought the getaway activities of card playing, four-wheeler riding, hiking, and camping. For the initiated - the smell of the Ponderosa pines, the dance of Aspen leaves, the ethereal sunsets – it remains a place of magic.

As always, I have kept pretty busy up here. Obligatory pitch (family card game) playing has been pursued, I took a couple of adrenaline induced rides on the Suzuki, tried my hand at some fishing (utter failure on that account), and did a few rather frightful rounds on our dilapidated swing (20ft platform drop over rocky hill). More noteworthy experiences include recarving my name on the 2000 Gaiden cross (a wood monument that resides on a hill above our cabin), swimming in the Rio Grande, playing disc golf at Sepipu ski resort, and making pizza dinner ala' Aaron for the fam. I've had my usual daily highs and lows, falling at times into depressive vegetative states, writing dark broken-man poetry in the inner sanctums of the cabin. But all considered, my sanity has been maintained, and I return to Oklahoma ready for more work, ready for more adventure.

* * *

8-15-05

Here’s a funny little tale, one adventurous anecdote, that occurred on my trip back to Okie paradise….

In a convertible yellow Saab, turbo charged like its bumblebee counterpart, my cousin and I sped across the freeways of northern Texas, hoping to arrive at Oklahoma City later that day. The drive was uncommonly wet and cool, interspersed with thick and temperamental rain showers that obstructed through deluge our narrow windowed view. With ample horses and nothing in tow, we made good time, passing swiftly by the mind-numbing tedium of the Texas plains. Josh sat the day out in the pilot seat, while I lazily entertained myself with reading and sleep.

Deeply enthralled by Brazil – a massive fictional narrative on the countries history – I barely noticed when a great shuffling noise issued from the back of the car. Vibrations soon followed, shaking me off the page and out of my mental stupor.

“What the hell!” I said under my breath.

Josh gripped the wheel tightly, easing the car quickly off the road.

“Tire” he replied brusquely, worry lining his face.

On his way out to New Mexico, Josh had heard a strange noise from the wheel well, as if something had violently struck the tire, but seeing no signs of damage once stopped, the noise was dismissed. Clearly the poltergeist had come back for a haunting.

Slowly the car eased off the road, crunching gravel and grass as it came to a stop. Having never experienced the loss of control and destructive surge of a tire break, I was quick to jump out of the car, happy for firm footing and the secure ground of the roadside. Head bent inquisitively, I inspected the flared mess that was the tire—black rubber smoked heatedly, and rubber bits lined the ground.

“It’s toast” I muttered, immediately gripped by the annoyance of the delay.

“You have a spare?”

“Yeah” said Josh, opening the trunk and pulling out a small donut sized wheel.

He set the tire down, looking equally annoyed, and I rummaged in the trunk for the cheap metal jack that would prop up the car. Despite my focus and resignation, I was – with the first fell swoooosh – wholly mortified by the successive beats of wind swept up by the passing semis. All it takes is one driver, I thought, one unintended moment of shuteye to totally obliterate me into nonexistence. I learned quickly, however, that fear can sometimes motivate focus, for with haste we were back on the road – with our crispy cream addition – headed toward the closest city of adequate size. We were dismayed to find that, to our misfortune, the only such town was Amarillo, some 50 miles behind us. Our hard luck was compounded by the fact that we were only moving at 40 M.P.H., that most shops would be closed by the time we got there, and that the following day was Sunday! Everyone would be fixed and resting, including ourselves. With sinking hearts and bitter words, we turned around and began the steady dismal track back to town.

Now, this is where it starts to get weird. Not ten minutes after we set off on our backwards track, a large sign loomed ever impressively ahead on the right side of the road.

“WE FIX UGLY TIRES, 24HRS A DAY, NEXT RIGHT” it stated with blaring resonance.

“Holy S**t!” I yelled, surprised at the discovery. “Check that out!”

Josh took one look at the sign, noticing its faded jerry-rig appearance. “I don’t know” he replied. “Maybe we should head towards Amarillo.”

“What!? This could totally be our golden ticket out of here, lets check it out!” I returned with outward enthusiasm.

With that, we headed slowly off the road, off the exit indicated by the sign. The road T-ed off, disappearing to the left under the highway and on into endless Texas field. To the right, the pavement turned to dirt, leading up to a shabby large metal structure. We passed a water tower that leaned markedly off kilter with the words “Britten tower” painted bold faced at the top. Rounding the corner, we could see the metal structure more clearly—“AUTO DIESEL SERVICE” decorating the exterior. The building was visibly old, falling part, with an office two-pained window area on the east side and two 20ft open faced doors to the middle and west. Broken rusting cars surrounded the area, green plain stretched as far as the eye could see beyond.

Immediately I noticed a man starring at us, leaning against the office windows. He ran hurriedly inside—a large black chow with devilish eyes following closely behind. Stopping the car, Josh turned and looked at me apprehensively. I shrugged, shook my head, and exited the Saab—trepidations silent tendrils creeping into my brain.

“Uhh, Hello?” I yell stepping towards the large middle door.

“Helllllooooo?” I reply to myself, hoping someone other than myself would answer.

Suddenly, with the speed of an older sibling stepping around a corner for a good scare, a man appeared, hurriedly closing the distance between us. His hair was dark blonde and matted to his forehead—a thick beard lengthening his tanned face. Clothed in a green collared shirt, dirtied blue pants, and sneakers, the man stood tall – thickly built – with tattoos randomly placed about his body. His appearance was ruff—obviously someone who had worked or played too hard.

His hand slowly rose as he approached. Taken aback, I flinched, bracing myself for an unwelcome embrace.

“Howdy” came a gruff voice. “What can I do for you?”

“Uhhh…well…uhh…black…round…thing…tire…yes, tire!” I say timidly, suddenly remembering what I was doing there. “We had a flat a few miles up the way. You fix car flats?” The hundreds of tires filling the building spoke for him, but I thought I’d ask anyway.

“Sure do, no problem, you’re the only customer I’ve had today, too cold for the semi tires to blow. Get my tires from Wal-Mart, real cheap, from rich teenagers who get a flat and change all the tires on their car.”

With this I relaxed, happy to have found this strange dude in the middle of nowhere, and happy to learn that he wasn’t going to kill me. Wasting no time, the guy began rummaging through his tire pile, pointing to less worn tires, throwing rejects out of the way.

“Nice dog” I sad, somewhat perturbed by the animals appearance by our car.

“Yeah, good dog.” He replied.
”What’s his name?”

“Black dog” he said matter of factly. I laughed at the obvious choice of name.

As the seconds wore on, the strangeness of the place, of the man, and our luck in landing here became ever so interesting to me.

“Dog was beaten, abused, hit with boards. I found him that way, so I beat the sh**t out of the owner, and then took the dog. Dude had mental problems, but no one should…should…”

“…Project their problems on others.” I said finishing his sentence.

“Exactly!” he replied. “I got mental problems, but no one should do that! I’m a printer by trade, learned if from my dad. Been workin’ here six months, hoping to make my way to Corpus Christi, catch a ride from all the truckers been helpin’ out.”

I chuckled to myself, amused at this wonderfully colorful character standing before me.

The man worked as he chatted. In short order, the Saab – once broken and disheveled – was as good as new.

Looking up from his work, happy with the completion, the man smiled.

“Twenty bucks” he said facing us. Josh and I look at each other.

“Twenty bucks?” we said questioningly, wondering what the catch was.

“Yeah, twenty, and take an extra tire.”

Elated by this wonderfully cheap turn of events I turned and asked his name.

“Steve” he replied.

“Well Steve, it’s been nice doing business with you.” I said with a smile.

And with that we got in the car, a Saab with new shoes, enjoying the weirdness of it all, enjoying the way it worked out so perfectly – for twenty friggin’ dollars – enjoying the sunset as we headed east toward Oklahoma City.

Thanks Steve.

Break from the Home Front

(Yes, this is actually where I live in Oklahoma. It doesn't exactly have the square footage that my last apartment did, but keep in mind that the picture doesn't show the ballroom and double marble stair case just below. Impressive, no?)

(Norman Sooner madness. I visited just before going to New Mexico.)

(Who comes up with this stuff, really!)

(Recarving my name into a mountain cross, just above our NM cabin.)

(view towards Angel Fire)