tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60283206298255857672024-03-05T18:01:53.593-07:00Jam EverywhereChronicling the adventures of a unique flavor of Jam, wherever she may happen to be.Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.comBlogger178125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-43362497832544013282021-11-06T19:45:00.002-06:002021-11-06T19:45:08.108-06:00Things I learned while deleting facebook<p> Deleting all my Facebook activity proved to be a real chore.<br /><br />Facebook has this option, in the Activity Log, where you can ostensibly select "all" activity and hit the "Remove" button. Great win for data privacy, right? Now you can bulk delete Facebook stuff. Awesome.<br /><br />However, that would be too easy, wouldn't it? Truth is, if you're trying to delete more than about 250 posts, Facebook will just throw you a "Something went wrong. Please try again." error message. Over and over and over. It simply cannot handle deleting everything at once. And sometimes it will throw that error message randomly even if you keep it below 250, or the "Remove" button will disappear, and there's no way around it other than logging out of Facebook, logging back in after clearing browsing history (or using a Private window), and trying again.<br /><br />Also, sometimes stuff just... reappears after being deleted. My timeline posts deleted pretty easily, but other things seem to be stickier. After timeline posts, I worked my way through comments, deleting them year by year, 100-200 posts at a time. Some of them did seem to be actually deleted. But these "ghost comments" kept coming back, where it says like, "JamEverywhere commented on a post," or "JamEverywhere replied to a comment," and has a date associated with it, but no link and no content. Just a shell saying, "you cannot erase that you were here. We will not let you." I managed to delete all my "likes" except Adventure Time, stuck in the purgatory of a trash bin I can no longer manually empty. I could delete all my Life Events except one of the high schools I went to for some reason. And on and on it goes.<br /><br />Facebook wants it to <i>seem </i>like deleting all your data is only a click away, but it isn't, and it never was. They won't let go so easily.<br /><br />I also noticed some things about my own use patterns. Early in my use of Facebook--from 2007 through about 2010--I would only make something like 200 comments/posts per year. Less than a post a day... not too bad. This slowly ramps up until 2014, when I'm suddenly looking at 200 posts <i>per month</i>. It's kind of sad to watch. Especially the frantic posting in groups and discussion threads featuring people I'd never met in real life, and never would. It's stark, contrasting it to the early days of Facebook, when the point of the whole thing was to interact with friends you already had and arrange for face-to-face activities or share photos. <br /><br />There's something insidious about social media, and we all know it, right? We've all seen news reports of weird Twitter wars, even if we haven't observed them first-hand. We've heard that body dysmorphia and social anxiety are getting worse in the youth. We've seen our own capacity to do mundane things like wait in line without our phones turn into torture... we've seen the number of books we read per year dwindle from 24 to 12 to 6 to 3 to maybe half of one...<br /><br />Or maybe we haven't. Maybe it's just me.<br /><br />Anyway, I deactivated Facebook today. I left Twitter a long time ago, and I nuked my entire Reddit history a few weeks ago. Now this blog, which I don't even think anyone checks anymore--not even my mom, who always followed the links here that I posted on Facebook--is my only voice on the internet.<br /><br />That's okay; I think it's better that way. Maybe someday even this space will vanish into the aether. But for now, this is what I want. My daily life will be mostly free from social media and internet bullshittery. On the weekends I will indulge in a lil Discord discourse with randos, if I want. I'm reading books again, though. And doing art. And writing in my journal almost every morning.<br /><br />I'm resetting. Back to pre-2007 internet use levels. Wish me luck.</p>Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-69135341077305688412020-05-23T14:49:00.000-06:002020-05-23T15:05:14.511-06:00Sal Telluris<span id="goog_1722739431"></span><span id="goog_1722739432"></span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Three worlds apart, we
sailed on separate winds</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
on crafts we shaped in
antithetic forms</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and gathered different
maybes, might-have-beens</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to weather different
squalls and different storms.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Our sailing taught us
how to yearn and ache</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
although we long held
silence in our eyes.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And while some fifteen
years frothed in our wake</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
we followed separate
stars in separate skies.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But then the deep jade
sea curved ’round her heart</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and flung our ragged
rafts upon this beach:</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and here we find ourselves, back at the start</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
where first we two had
drifted out of reach.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Horizon wraps us in
arms infinite:</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I now know what I
want—and this is it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.08in; direction: ltr; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); }p.western { font-family: "Liberation Serif", "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; }p.cjk { font-family: "TakaoPGothic"; font-size: 12pt; }p.ctl { font-family: "DejaVu Sans"; font-size: 12pt; }</style>Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-49702056491987027922020-02-15T14:45:00.001-07:002020-02-15T14:45:31.018-07:00Cyril and Methodius<div>This is probably the coolest boquet I've ever seen. The large African flower in the center seems like it's from some sort of alien planet.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div>There's no way to predict what memory will make of us, of our choices, of our selves. All we have is now. All we have is each other. And it can be so impossibly painful to hold one's heart open--because the heart does what it does, and one can't control it, not even kind of. But nevertheless. I hope mine never closes.</div>Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-9404541398525593162020-01-22T16:09:00.001-07:002020-02-15T14:46:57.646-07:00BSoDI had been ill ever since arriving in Honolulu.<br>
<br>
First, I was overwhelmed with sadness and fatigue. I'd crossed an ocean to be here, leaving my best friend at home and my brand new boyfriend at the airport. I'd spent two staggered flights mostly awake--unusual, for my hypersomniac self--either outright sobbing or drinking free alcohol and staring out the window at the clouds, thick and tangible below like cotton batting, or maybe like bread dough crusty with way too much flour, or a rolling white forest creased with river valleys and deepening canyons that poured into abyssal blue reservoirs. <br>
<br>
Then, I was overwhelmed by the noise. I had no idea how <i>loud</i> Honolulu was going to be. The noises of traffic rolling by our leaky apartment never ceased; motorcycles and souped-up engines and ear-destroying loud music blasting past at all times, tearing right through the windows we had to keep open in order to keep the apartment ventilated and a tolerable temperature. Construction noises buzzing and rumbling and shrieking into the sky. And sirens... so many sirens...<br>
<br>
Mama took me out grocery shopping after I landed, and we took the bus to Don Quixote, and the sounds of the buses' air brakes pierced my core and rattled every one of my bones. She was talking to me, trying to draw me out of my pained silence, but her stream of words barely registered. I was doing everything I could to keep it together, to keep a neutral expression, to focus on finding groceries in the cacophony. This was not what I was expecting, and I did not prepare myself for it. I'm not sure I could have, even if I had tried.<br>
<br>
The sensory overload instantly spiked my anxiety levels. I worried about everything. I was filled with the idea that this entire venture was a mistake. This venture, this journey, this plan I'd been making for a year, carefully crafting a vision for how I could achieve a healthy future: a mistake. It took me several days to realize that my racing heart, my shaking hands, were caused first by the noise, and that the racing thoughts and fears and worries and anxieties, the wondering if my friends back in Colorado had already forgotten me, were spurred by my physiological condition, rather than the other way around.<br>
<br>
I shut down. I didn't expect it to be like this, and I completely shut down.<br>
<br>
But that is not where my story ends. Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-17633048815960973682020-01-02T02:29:00.003-07:002020-01-02T02:29:58.919-07:00i guess i was writing about depression a long time ago?I was just reorganizing some files and I found a random snippet of something I wrote a long time ago (like at least ten years ago, if not longer).<br />
It was supposed to be some grand speech from a ranger-type character. Instead I think it's a sad and kind of poignant look into something that I've struggled with as long as I can remember.<br />
--<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I can only describe it
as a great emptiness, and when it seizes me I dare not move. I stay
still, and tears roll down my face unbidden; my whole life up till
then seems like nothing worth mention, and where I am going seems a
long way off. It is as though there is nothing worth traveling
toward, nothing I am to accomplish that has any merit, nothing I can
do to chase the emptiness away. So I stand, or I sit, and I stare out
into whatever environment that holds me, and the trees seem
impossibly tall, or the grass impossibly green, or the mountains
impossibly distant, until nothing before me is real anymore and my
mind reels and I despair.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When it holds me
that tightly, my breath catches, and my head throbs, and I lay down
wherever I am and close my eyes and fall asleep, because there is
nothing I can do but sleep. I have no motivation anymore. I have no
objectives or goals or aims—so I sleep. When I wake, it is usually
past, and I am free to be myself again… but I fear that someday I
will fall asleep upon the snow and never wake, and it will take me. I
would choose any death but that.</div>
</blockquote>
<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; direction: ltr; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); }P.western { font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; }P.cjk { font-family: "MS Mincho", "MS 明朝", monospace; font-size: 12pt; }P.ctl { font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; }</style>Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-53533049306407425552019-10-28T23:52:00.001-06:002019-10-28T23:52:38.031-06:00and then i moved to Hawaii<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</a>
</div><div><br></div><div>When I landed in the airport at Honolulu, I found this screen displaying a Windows boot error.</div><div><br></div><div>I don't know what it was supposed to say, or to be. It didn't either. It hung there, nakedly confused, unsure of its purpose, its identity. Failing utterly at whatever task it had once been assigned.</div><div><br></div><div>This sign and I had a lot in common.</div>Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-58961661084806758852019-09-24T14:15:00.000-06:002019-09-24T14:52:29.197-06:0014,000 feet and counting<b>Sunday, 2019/09/22</b> <br />
<br />
The day starts early, as days like this do. It's dark and cold outside and I stumble half-asleep to the car, which smells like coffee and half-finished dreams. I double-check that I've brought all the things: my day pack, my water bottles, my greasy breakfast of potato chip nachos: check, check, check. Last week a sudden spiking fever (poor Dan) prevented us from trying what we're about to try, but now there's nothing in our way. Let's do this.<br />
<br />
Salem's chill playlist soothes us down the highway toward the mountains. Once free of urban and suburban snarl, we begin to ascend, as does the sun. She paints the sky above the Denver skyline with a mess of molten colors. My Dan refuses to look out at the sunrise, however, as there is no guardrail between the edge of the road and the steep, rocky plunge into the dark that gapes between us and the glittering horizon. Heights... aren't his thing. Salem keeps us safely on the road with a white-knuckled grip on the helm.<br />
<br />
When we finally get out of the car at the Summit Lake parking lot, it's something like 06:30 and it is <i>cold</i>. The wind is not our friend today, and bites into us mercilessly. I pull on a down skirt, two layers of gloves, a wool pullover, and a fleece vest. I am glad that I put on leg warmers underneath my hiking pants before we left. I wrap my face as well as I can in my vintage Hufflepuff scarf (badgers repreSENT!). We all get out to go pee and then huddle back in the car to warm up one last time before beginning today's journey. Our goal: to summit Mt. Evans, Salem and my first 14er, and Dan's second. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPgl8eKULeM4CQlazg4mcqWiaMbKtC8y2E-o_5jeXdzozNHWYbxwvbOSQCzuQKDlB4GL-hjgx5ltwNbipDO468ioZNLa5uC_VPwqq8zEywiwJRG6-6xLfVmWuIc2iomG3HoSjM2NYomthr/s1600/70808169_598957823841983_4922005209518964736_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1202" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPgl8eKULeM4CQlazg4mcqWiaMbKtC8y2E-o_5jeXdzozNHWYbxwvbOSQCzuQKDlB4GL-hjgx5ltwNbipDO468ioZNLa5uC_VPwqq8zEywiwJRG6-6xLfVmWuIc2iomG3HoSjM2NYomthr/s640/70808169_598957823841983_4922005209518964736_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Dan, my Salem, and I pose before we begin our climb, bundled up and enjoying a last little bit of warmth in the car.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The wind is cruel to us, flinging sharp shards of cold into our exposed skin with every gust. Dan curses at her, which I'm sure only fuels her onslaught. I am instantly lightheaded, what with my low blood pressure and being unaccustomed to this higher altitude. I move very slowly along the path, focused much more on not stumbling or fainting than on moving quickly. Dan powers on ahead until he finds rocks to shelter from the wind behind and wait for me. Salem starts out ahead of me, waiting from time to time for me to catch up, but halfway through our journey becomes concerned and sticks right behind me, lest I faint and fall. My vision does narrow and swim from time to time, but I don't ever actually black out, thankfully. I move at the pace I need to move at: I am a sloth in real life, and I feel no need to apologize for it.<br />
<br />
The first part of the ascent is fairly steep, followed by a longer, flatter bit where we are more exposed to the angry wind. Dan complains heartily about the cold and the wind, but presses on nonetheless. I am pretty sure that my right ear has frozen and fallen off somewhere in the scree. Toward the end of this section, Salem photobombs another group's midway-point picture before we take our own. It's kind of great. The photographer jokes that that's definitely the one to add to the family photo album, and Salem and I reflect on how photobombing has become harmless in the days of digital media, where one isn't wasting physical film on unwanted shots.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-ksyrWLVmh_TgcVVeWJc_jP-d0_BTWTWYLWLniKlIyap-Nw3m8RpVBxWfO4xpHdpvTi9tLTAygY3fFAfsanlWgDzUWUSSC7RnAOPP3RyPjk_x-jm1CpFNGOz6OauMOzw1zjGnBRPi95k/s1600/longerflatterbit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-ksyrWLVmh_TgcVVeWJc_jP-d0_BTWTWYLWLniKlIyap-Nw3m8RpVBxWfO4xpHdpvTi9tLTAygY3fFAfsanlWgDzUWUSSC7RnAOPP3RyPjk_x-jm1CpFNGOz6OauMOzw1zjGnBRPi95k/s640/longerflatterbit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We take our own photo vaguely at the halfway point. My Dan is wearing a hat that reminds me of a peanut. There is fresh snow on the ground behind us.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
At some point after this we pass over a mystical threshold into the final part of the journey. Though I can't quite feel my fingers anymore, the warmth from the sun is enough to keep me going.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGetKbCIUURzqe2r9D4qptqmwgmIRx6KgbQBvFpwf3HMBLnuc1Sbsq2ZS5cecDwkWxjUTWGMHA75URCwN4rLakFmjZTwO7dBrebZLdC5iKLnLFBJglw4nzo-qhy6uMr0k6B3Cr1PG3eDl4/s1600/crazy+castle+thing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGetKbCIUURzqe2r9D4qptqmwgmIRx6KgbQBvFpwf3HMBLnuc1Sbsq2ZS5cecDwkWxjUTWGMHA75URCwN4rLakFmjZTwO7dBrebZLdC5iKLnLFBJglw4nzo-qhy6uMr0k6B3Cr1PG3eDl4/s640/crazy+castle+thing.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I pass, in silhouette, through an arcane doorway flanked by two large cairns. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The last part of the hike involves quite a bit of scrambling up tumbled rocks and boulders, often on all fours. It is difficult to pick out the correct path--it is the choose-your-own-adventure section of the hike. We pick our way up the slope to the next cairn, and then to the next cairn after that, and so on. There are sections where Dan, with his fear of heights, hesitates, pulling in deep breaths to steady himself. But he presses on, and I am proud of him. At some point I end up high on a ridge above the trail, and the views are spectacular already. Salem implores me to stay away from steep drops in my lightheaded state. He is being prudent and smart. But, for some reason, all I want to do is stare down into the valley and lean gently into the wind. Perhaps in another life I was equipped with wings--this could explain my lack of fear, dizzy as I am looking down at the curves and rimples of the landscape spread out below us. Some deep part of me is ready to take to the burgeoning sky.<br />
<br />
After quite a bit of scrambling, meandering from cairn to cairn, we turn a corner or crest a rise (or perhaps both?) and can see the closed summit road in the distance--the highest paved road in North America. Which means, of course, that the summit is very close. From here it is just a few more switchbacks to the top. The wind has died down quite a bit by now, overpowered by the strengthening sun. I can feel my face again. I become invigorated by the closeness of our goal, and feel almost buoyant during the final stretch. We join a small crowd lounging at the summit when we reach our final altitude.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijIPfNUlCI8abOL-CT1mSOYnCEW9kzLg5pfDIz-wBDY5wy5DypuHysHw8BRcUVxvVmK2ZUFHDPU_DPu6yeYcOU9zCEY0J3KFhIf_vWK4WCDZDcXRQL5yf43E1K2iA383tcyGT1TbgBqu7H/s1600/71496665_509707899853959_5679472741422465024_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijIPfNUlCI8abOL-CT1mSOYnCEW9kzLg5pfDIz-wBDY5wy5DypuHysHw8BRcUVxvVmK2ZUFHDPU_DPu6yeYcOU9zCEY0J3KFhIf_vWK4WCDZDcXRQL5yf43E1K2iA383tcyGT1TbgBqu7H/s640/71496665_509707899853959_5679472741422465024_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salem takes a picture of me with Summit Lake in the background. Mountains tumble and tarry under a white-blue swath of sky, complicating the steadfast horizon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There are two U.S. Geological Survey summit markers at the top, but only one is legible. I lay down next to it and my companions join me for a photo op.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfFjXUqN-Gxhb3-Rcc3aTbqiBE91HPoGwTQFLryo0FucrArRgUJoBa9GdZVYRYgWLSN6frb7ssbVS7P8eniH78CO-mlIr-6o7x7mpYb8QwbxyDcdKqP7BAUM-G0J4NKTh0GIAGNNFgir1r/s1600/layingatsummit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1204" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfFjXUqN-Gxhb3-Rcc3aTbqiBE91HPoGwTQFLryo0FucrArRgUJoBa9GdZVYRYgWLSN6frb7ssbVS7P8eniH78CO-mlIr-6o7x7mpYb8QwbxyDcdKqP7BAUM-G0J4NKTh0GIAGNNFgir1r/s640/layingatsummit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not that you can read the little bronze medallion in this photo anyway.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The bronze marker displays a slightly different elevation (~7 ft of discrepancy, iirc) from the handmade sign that we have brought with us, because when you google the elevation of Mt. Evans you get, like, three different results. Oh well. Our sign is smeared with pink and green glitter, and therefore it is objectively better than any other sign. Several groups ask to borrow it for their own photos, actually, after we take our own. This warms my heart. Let the people have glitter~<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2t5vCNYK69tKvFPeG_HdeZ0MQgUps8vU3IdsvEY-JZ7krfDFPRVOH2GNFk3Zd_wJA6EdLkLoO-2-zanpnAmNQTbq031Q6sHMM4sJiX6SWFR473dAqGA-leDtzbW_FZZReiJoZL_Pw5VZ6/s1600/signbest3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2t5vCNYK69tKvFPeG_HdeZ0MQgUps8vU3IdsvEY-JZ7krfDFPRVOH2GNFk3Zd_wJA6EdLkLoO-2-zanpnAmNQTbq031Q6sHMM4sJiX6SWFR473dAqGA-leDtzbW_FZZReiJoZL_Pw5VZ6/s640/signbest3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our sign says that Mt. Evans is 14,265 ft high. This is close enough. In this picture Dan looks taller than Salem for some reason, even though Salem has 6 inches on him.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And, because our sign has a slightly higher elevation thereupon than the summit marker, I feel a need to hold it aloft and get a more accurate photo. I also want to be as high up on the summit I can be.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg_-X891PUmN08NUuBtJb5joTaqhKxJdsTKrxsZ3BLh0xAwjPY_9wuAGFczgaMH4fj1_q-gSHIqgit_PPZXVlQUzh_ZHaf5qGG65PyFpOGyPd6fwbSAjq6Flq7Tw55yqj_OE5uul7OmS5I/s1600/signlift.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg_-X891PUmN08NUuBtJb5joTaqhKxJdsTKrxsZ3BLh0xAwjPY_9wuAGFczgaMH4fj1_q-gSHIqgit_PPZXVlQUzh_ZHaf5qGG65PyFpOGyPd6fwbSAjq6Flq7Tw55yqj_OE5uul7OmS5I/s640/signlift.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I look unreasonably cute as I hold our glittery sign aloft to celebrate our victory. Dan stares off into the distance, too cool for school in his fancy sunglasses and peanut hat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
All that's left at this point is the descent. But before we go down all that far, however, we realize that we are being watched...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vJ-2PHyfI1X3zscZr3g6KjGsLCVeBwqXYa4fNbUXI1BdHV05DG0iAFMCOgTSY_AA7I3Wa0IiMxE9nn-6joX4gx9kDd1cp6my-CwUTLfXz5bagIPZ9lPuVgT7fXwaFX8Kc1IhIxFdwTMg/s1600/goat1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vJ-2PHyfI1X3zscZr3g6KjGsLCVeBwqXYa4fNbUXI1BdHV05DG0iAFMCOgTSY_AA7I3Wa0IiMxE9nn-6joX4gx9kDd1cp6my-CwUTLfXz5bagIPZ9lPuVgT7fXwaFX8Kc1IhIxFdwTMg/s640/goat1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A nanny mountain goat stares dispassionately at us from the rocks above.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And that this mysterious sentry is not alone.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYSbAFYiK2RyNqINJhpU4QaWZVMdPsICTu5bzhxZE213w_cSF1VAzU2nctw456aXMrIvf7PCey1SlFOzf6hQ6v8q1jNu5BWeWFeb0TnDAlWqBDRkTbM3linx6H6BSR-XqaYILI7qbFaoi/s1600/babbygoat1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYSbAFYiK2RyNqINJhpU4QaWZVMdPsICTu5bzhxZE213w_cSF1VAzU2nctw456aXMrIvf7PCey1SlFOzf6hQ6v8q1jNu5BWeWFeb0TnDAlWqBDRkTbM3linx6H6BSR-XqaYILI7qbFaoi/s640/babbygoat1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She is accompanied by her adorable kid, who never strays far from her side.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We keep a respectful distance from them as we plan our descent. Rather than scramble down the same way we came, subjecting ourselves to the danger of losing our footing on unstable ground and revisiting the spots that gave Dan pause on the way up, we decide to take the summit road down. It's a longer path (four miles vs. three, iirc), but a stable and gentle descent. And it's closed to traffic at this time of year, meaning we'd only be sharing it with cyclists and other hikers.<br />
<br />
It turns out to be incredibly tedious. The views and the landscape are phenomenal, at least. Half-frozen streams meander through the marshy tundra as the road switchbacks and switchbacks and switchbacks again. I feel like I'm part of the world in a new way, a way that I wasn't before. A few cyclists pass us, tearing up the mountain way too fast for having come so far already, and I shout encouragement at them when they do. My joints and muscles begin to ache and burn: my biceps (for some reason), my knees, my hip flexors, my calves, the stabilizing muscles around my ankles. At some point a man passes us on an electric scooter, and he rings his bell as he passes and we burst out laughing at the absurdity of it.<br />
<br />
We're quieter overall, though, as a group, on the way down than we were on the way up--exhausted, contemplative. The wind is in a fickle mood and whips at us for a while before dying down, gathering her strength, starting again, changing her mind, and continuing on in this vein for the rest of the descent.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Qm8oz8jOQclhofhtKDqE4zGpUyG-urnnTFqW4IxY1yZSl6mKu2OR9JvsqSWAXAlbVRrhyphenhyphenk0h1RPD6VUcMU0SGgUoIBNMBD1VertUcV-6Rk8JvKpDIp_UUXaxoP7mOfLFQ7O9vRkeswaX/s1600/longroadback.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Qm8oz8jOQclhofhtKDqE4zGpUyG-urnnTFqW4IxY1yZSl6mKu2OR9JvsqSWAXAlbVRrhyphenhyphenk0h1RPD6VUcMU0SGgUoIBNMBD1VertUcV-6Rk8JvKpDIp_UUXaxoP7mOfLFQ7O9vRkeswaX/s640/longroadback.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I shelter from the wind behind Dan as we wait at a bend in the road for Salem to catch up. The mountains and the horizon and the sky in the distance play a rhapsody in blue.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Salem's knee begins to act up, and his limp becomes more pronounced the
further down we go. Tedium unites us. But as we turn the final corner
and begin a direct approach to the parking lot, I become mysteriously
full of energy, and feel the need to sing the random songs that come
into my head. At some point I take Salem's pack from him and carry it in
his stead, to take some pressure off his knee.<br />
<br />
And then we are in the car and we are driving home and we did it guys, we did it. We climbed Mt. Evans, and no one got hurt (unless you count Salem's knee), and no one got frostbitten, and no one got struck by lightning, and no one got headbutted off a cliff by a mountain goat. And now Dan grips the seat and cringes and Salem focuses his attention solely on the road ahead and talks about anything other than the terrifying cliffside road on the way back, the one that is now fully lit and we're on the outside edge of, and I hold Dan's hand and stare down into the valley and smile and eat the rest of my trail mix, and it turns out that we don't drive off a cliff either, and that is a victory in itself too.<br />
<br />
There's only one thing left to do: celebrate our victory with some cider. We head to the Stem Cidery in the Riverside North district of Denver and each order a flight of delightful ciders and people-watch and chat and feel accomplished and sore and thoroughly--at least on my part--<i>happy</i>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMtKZ8RubJp8h38bUH4iTU1WQg5yY3D6B7L0jjg9HVqhSK9Ei-l6loG1qqsAojTrrhfGUMTwQWryVPchsuDrYr-kesMqctRDAfCM7KqW4kY8AF18zzZ8kQWwxCpLqwi7keJCVlcRaZXguG/s1600/atstemcidery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMtKZ8RubJp8h38bUH4iTU1WQg5yY3D6B7L0jjg9HVqhSK9Ei-l6loG1qqsAojTrrhfGUMTwQWryVPchsuDrYr-kesMqctRDAfCM7KqW4kY8AF18zzZ8kQWwxCpLqwi7keJCVlcRaZXguG/s640/atstemcidery.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dan contemplates what adjectives to use to describe each cider in his flight on the Untapped app while I shoot a sarcastic look at Salem for some reason. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And that's that, y'all.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-30406719075317470872019-09-10T17:25:00.001-06:002019-09-11T19:52:22.090-06:00flashbulb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQkMf8I89ViOk0g6TOxogigmE4SMbzNcl7AVUsKVlyw6RDg6qY-aMyPzKf03_3S9HWOIkhwDsXX0AgPx2G3qwTjXY7GhAQGsjW0U1GrccKuQ1R3PkZ8IJvg_p1vHMaIXNv-uNw0u14tMux/s1600/DSC02225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQkMf8I89ViOk0g6TOxogigmE4SMbzNcl7AVUsKVlyw6RDg6qY-aMyPzKf03_3S9HWOIkhwDsXX0AgPx2G3qwTjXY7GhAQGsjW0U1GrccKuQ1R3PkZ8IJvg_p1vHMaIXNv-uNw0u14tMux/s640/DSC02225.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
i woke up and<br />
forgot where i was<br />
the world hung suspended by its aether<br />
spread warm over and of me<br />
in the dark unconscious<br />
spillway of half-decomposed thought<br />
and everything that led <br />
me heavy to this place<br />
gone, forgotten<br />
in a burst of purple cloud<br />
heralding both the beginning and<br />
end of this<br />
journey<br />
i remember stars<br />
and a vast violet marsh<br />
and the colors a sunset <br />
vomits up after <br />
a dark empty tearstained day<br />
and being held<br />
by the very sky<br />
suspended by my aether<br />
only one<br />
only <br />
only.<br />
forgotten in twenty minutes<br />
what thirty years pressed into<br />
me.<br />
i'll see you again<br />
(this i'm<br />
sure about)<br />
when i<br />
sleep</div>
Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-86588901147883961492019-08-22T10:25:00.001-06:002019-08-28T10:55:43.151-06:00ad occidentem<div dir="ltr">
A blur of concrete heat irradiates<br />
The haze of Denver’s dusty morning sky<br />
And though I try my best to meditate,<br />
My pulse keeps quick’ning when I close my eyes…</div>
<div dir="ltr">
The gentle creep of dawn that spread its glow<br />
A thousand miles away now warms my skin;<br />
I catch my breath in tatters, sharp and slow,<br />
to think of what will be from what has been.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
This memory—collapsed beneath the weight<br />
Of three long, leaden weeks—now pulls me near,<br />
And though my past tells me to hesitate,<br />
I’ve long forgotten any taste of fear.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I’ll seek thy solace ere the day is done:<br />
I’ll follow tender heart toward setting sun.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUiANHjE7S5b2cZDgxxODnNB4GD10KFhX-YX-OfpDWXN9lw81W_3MilFLGn0GwWy6ydcpIyob9PKYNa8YMQcLgmudBbmM8Tpy0mvANSDpI08VyWOuQtvcSZR942GXZmy6tKf1icRV6Xxpn/s1600/IMG_20190824_164509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUiANHjE7S5b2cZDgxxODnNB4GD10KFhX-YX-OfpDWXN9lw81W_3MilFLGn0GwWy6ydcpIyob9PKYNa8YMQcLgmudBbmM8Tpy0mvANSDpI08VyWOuQtvcSZR942GXZmy6tKf1icRV6Xxpn/s640/IMG_20190824_164509.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div dir="ltr">
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Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-85008339973316782572018-11-28T20:35:00.002-07:002018-11-28T20:35:49.990-07:00tingesilence reigns oppressively when you are gone.<div>
and yet, to silence this cannot compare.</div>
<div>
i don't know silence--not at all--</div>
<div>
my ears ring always with the sibilance that's </div>
<div>
hanging in the air:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
the sound of what i feel, and what i </div>
<div>
know, and feel i know;</div>
<div>
the sound of cicadas humming on a summer night</div>
<div>
a muggy, sleepless sort of summer night</div>
<div>
a cloudy summer night</div>
<div>
devoid of stars</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-27596015600335792802018-03-18T20:41:00.000-06:002018-03-18T20:41:11.984-06:00Lookout Mountain: take oneSunday, 03/18/2018<br />
<br />
Today Salem and I have decided to go on a bike ride to train for our upcoming bikepacking trip to Glenwood Springs, which we're planning for July. We've done a few jaunts together here and there around town, but haven't done any serious climbing yet... so we are going to tackle Lookout Mountain. I found it on Strava; it is popular with local cyclists, so it seems like a pretty good route to try.<br />
<br />
We go to REI in the morning to buy a bike rack for Salem's car, which he's been meaning to get for a while, and then (after stopping for some coffee and chai at Starbucks) we put it on his car and get our bikes all loaded up. Since we're training for a bikepacking trip, we both bring two rear panniers; I also have my handlebar bag. We don't fill the panniers completely up, but we do put a little bit of weight in them--bike locks, full water bottles, that kind of thing. We'll slowly increase the weight on future rides until we're training with all of our camping gear and everything that we'll be taking with us in July. I tell Salem that the Lookout Mountain route is pretty popular, so we'll probably be passed by a lot of people on fancy road bikes. My excuse for being slower than them will be that I'm carrying a lot of weight on my bike. Yep. Always blame your equipment when you can.<br />
<br />
We park near Crown Hill Lake in Wheat Ridge, then head west on 26th until Simms, move over onto 32nd, and keep to 32nd into Golden. We pass by the Coors factory on our way into town, and there is something ominous about the industrial buildings looming over us. I kinda like it and its spooky tunnel. It smells really bad around back, though--like rotten fruit or something. When we get to Golden proper, we cut straight to 19th, skipping the roads with bike lanes in favor of a more direct route. The sun is hidden behind clouds--which is probably a good thing, because I didn't bring any sunscreen or anything. I've got arm warmers on, but I'm still in shorts; it's not too cold (...........yet). The climb itself starts without much ado over on the southwest side of town.<br />
<br />
Salem stays right on my wheel for the first 2/3 or 3/4 or so of the climb. I set a pace of 5 or 6 mph, sucking periodically on a water bottle full of a homemade sports drink (water, honey, electrolyte salts, and grape juice--it is almost sickeningly sweet, but I need all the energy I can get). I've never gone up this climb before; I think it lasts for something like 4 or 5 miles, so I try to pace myself. It's not a race or anything, after all. The scenery all around us is breathtaking. There's still snow lingering in the shadows of red cliffs, brindle with evergreens. I hope the footage I'm taking with my helmet cam turns out all right.<br />
<br />
The gradient is manageable, though it isn't easy. Strava says it averages about 5% over the course of the climb. It gets steeper when the turns switchback up the mountain, but evens out on the straightaways. We are passed by a few cyclists--all of them riding fancy road bikes, as I predicted. Specialized, Cervelo, Orbea. Someday I'll have a bike like that, too--but for now I'm happy with Bike Rothar. She might be slow, but she's dependable--and dang comfortable to boot, and that's more important to me, anyway.<br />
<br />
At some point, a bull terrier comes running up to me out of nowhere and keeps trying to jump up on me. He's not being vicious, but I have to come to a stop a few times to avoid running over his feet. We don't see his owner anywhere, and can't figure out where he came from. He has a collar on, but no tags, no identification whatsoever. At some point, a motorcycle passes us, and the dog goes chasing after it, leaving us behind. There's a cliff on both sides of the road--rising above us to the right, and dropping below us to the left. The dog is right in the middle of traffic, galloping around blind corners... I think to myself that he's going to be hit by a car and killed. He certainly has no fear of cars, which have to slow and serve around him. He comes back after a while, unable to catch up with the motorcyclist, and chases after Salem's rear wheel. Fortunately, another quarter mile up the road or so, its owners drive past, spot him, and stow him safely in their car. It is a relief to see him rescued.<br />
<br />
I stop once or twice on the way up--to blow my nose, flip my map, etc.--but I try not to linger too long. I want to make it to the top without any serious breaks. Salem passes me and stays ahead for the last 1/3 or 1/4 of the climb. Toward the top, I can tell that he's slowing down to let me catch up. I take advantage of his kindness and sprint (...if you can call it a sprint...) past him so that I can be the first one to the summit.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkm2iu6U11mwtQT4WpeNR9HwUdL-Ax-OYSuz91ec3G_LJupMDz3PWFJa2_-6ltFscL8vekRnNF3HjqBB5mjrcCHx6aR9-1YlVJB1ozEA6iwhZX_5MLzu_lNKrt0kB90d5elBSCDyzw_Eep/s1600/20180318_145324.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkm2iu6U11mwtQT4WpeNR9HwUdL-Ax-OYSuz91ec3G_LJupMDz3PWFJa2_-6ltFscL8vekRnNF3HjqBB5mjrcCHx6aR9-1YlVJB1ozEA6iwhZX_5MLzu_lNKrt0kB90d5elBSCDyzw_Eep/s640/20180318_145324.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salem and I pose for a selfie together at the summit. Salem is snazzy in orange; I am a dork with a Bike Depot jersey and crazy hair.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Once at the summit, we take the required selfies and settle down for a quick lunch by the Buffalo Bill museum. It's really cold and windy up here, so I bundle up in a rain jacket and rain pants. Salem busts out the fancy cycling jacket he splurged on yesterday at REI. (We go to REI a lot...) I've forgotten to bring my full-finger cycling gloves, but am saved by the pair of gloves I accidentally stole from Margy when I last visited her and Dad in Alaska (I'd left them in the pockets of my rain jacket without realizing it). Thanks, Margy--I promise I will return them next time I visit!<br />
<br />
All in all, the ascent lasted somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half (I wasn't paying super close attention). The descent takes, oh, idk, like 15 minutes? It is super fun, though. The speed limit on that road is 20 mph... we go between 25 and 30 most of the way down. I film the whole descent, so we'll see how that turns out, too.<br />
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When we get back into Golden, I take my rain pants and rain jacket off--and instantly regret it, as a cold front kinda rolls in, but I carry on without because I really don't want to stop again. We ride the gently rolling hills back the way we came, and the sky spits rain and sleet at us. Thunder rumbles in the distance. A pretty significant headwind forms, too, making the rest of the ride feel tougher than it otherwise would be. There's a hill, near Simms and 26th, that seems more difficult to surmount, in that moment, than the entirety of Lookout Mountain... but we push through. Salem lingers behind me a bit, due to the headwind (his bike setup is somewhat less aerodynamic than mine), but not by much. When we make it back to his car, it's gotten really cold, and the sky in the distance is a foreboding gray-black. One of Salem's brothers calls us as we head home, making sure we're not on Lookout Mountain anymore. Apparently Golden is now in the middle of a hailstorm, and we only just missed it. How incredibly lucky...!<br />
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We part ways after Salem drops me off, but not before he acquires some cake and protein shakes at a grocery store. (Cake is a very important cycling staple.) The first thing I do when I get back inside is take a long, hot shower to warm up, and then dig into a bowl of vegetable pasta that I made this morning.<br />
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Today was a great day. I'm so glad I have a cycling buddy in Colorado now. In all the terrible winters and emotional turmoil, I'd forgotten how much I love this sport...<br />
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--<br />
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<i>Today's stats</i><br />
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Distance: 27.6 mi<br />
Time: ~2.5 hours<br />
Avg speed: 10.8 mph<br />
Max speed: 30.6 mph<br />
Elevation gain: ~1880 ftJamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-50756241980904735622018-02-20T06:50:00.000-07:002018-02-20T06:52:38.052-07:00What is Hypersomnia? | Jam Everywhere Vlog, Episode 4<div style="text-align: center;">
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Trying my hand at this video blogging thing again.<br />
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[I will be adding real captions to the video (as opposed to the auto-generated ones) and putting a transcript here in a few days.] <br />
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Also, welcome to my written blog, if this is your first time here. Highlights of this blog before this point include:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Before I left Ireland, I did a solo cycle tour around about 3/4 of the Irish coastline; daily blog starts here: <a href="http://jameverywhere.blogspot.com/2012/07/day-one.html">http://jameverywhere.blogspot.com/2012/07/day-one.html</a></li>
<li>In 2013, I cycled across Virginia with some friends and family in an attempt to cycle across America (they made it--I didn't); daily blogs start here: <a href="http://jameverywhere.blogspot.com/2013/05/transamerica-cycle-2013-day-1.html">http://jameverywhere.blogspot.com/2013/05/transamerica-cycle-2013-day-1.html</a> </li>
<li>In August 2017 I took a vacation to Alaska to visit my dad and his wife; blogs of that start here: <a href="http://jameverywhere.blogspot.com/2017/09/alaska-day-2-onward-to-mccarthy.html">http://jameverywhere.blogspot.com/2017/09/alaska-day-2-onward-to-mccarthy.html</a></li>
</ul>
Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-66694120186050662782018-01-21T09:43:00.000-07:002018-01-21T09:44:32.155-07:00Alaska, Penultimate Day -- friendship and Flattop<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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25 August 2017<br />
Friday<br />
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I spend most of the morning puttering around the house, performing small tasks to get ready to leave: packing my bags, drinking tea, finishing up some laundry, eating breakfast, putting things back to rights. In between each task I slip into the garage to spray layers of workable fixative onto my watercolor paintings: last year's Christmas present to Daddy and Margy, "Sourdough Mountain," "Backyard Birch." No matter how many layers I add, I cannot seem to make the postcard water resistant enough. Even though I've already put a stamp on it, I decide to make an envelope for it (using the cover of a magazine advertising the Alaska state fair) to better protect it for its trip to the lower 48. The envelope is in various states of assembly as I wander the house, periodically taking breaks to check for messages from my friend P. or faff about on the internet. I put two stamps on it, just in case--and extra tape. Happy Birthday, Jenn. I love you.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFY0A8PWm7DrEHE2X3RMLZaPWzdcC67iQLt_osNRZmzXh2heKggtaM6vXGq99Jne3k1TaoMLYHZ9ZLpJr2DQSnsboUB160KmKecx3l4yOrHfJ75tGJdeVHigiej-C9IA5HkdLv9tsVE-yz/s1600/17.08+Jenn+B-day+blur.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFY0A8PWm7DrEHE2X3RMLZaPWzdcC67iQLt_osNRZmzXh2heKggtaM6vXGq99Jne3k1TaoMLYHZ9ZLpJr2DQSnsboUB160KmKecx3l4yOrHfJ75tGJdeVHigiej-C9IA5HkdLv9tsVE-yz/s640/17.08+Jenn+B-day+blur.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My painted postcard next to the hand-made envelope for it (with the
addresses blurred out for people's privacy, though my sister has moved
from there since then).</td></tr>
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At some point I ask my Grandmother what she thinks about the current political climate, and thoughts spill out of her as if they'd been pent up for a while. I appreciate her honesty, her forthrightness. We do not argue. I try to find the common ground we stand on. Sometimes I wonder if we're talking about the same things. I'm not exactly sure how we can watch the same man speak and have such wildly different impressions of him. But I respect where she is coming from. The conversation peters naturally out.<br />
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At some point she humors me and allows me to read her some of my poetry. I read her <a href="http://jameverywhere.blogspot.com/2017/03/keepsake.html">Keepsake</a>, and she says, "it's a message." She sees it as a story of healing. She seems to approve. I try another one--<a href="http://jameverywhere.blogspot.com/2017/04/celsius.html">Celsius</a>--but she is not sure about it, cannot seem to glean a meaning from it. Poetry isn't really her thing, after all. I try one more, this time a sonnet, composed more recently. She makes a noise halfway between curiosity and approval. I am pleased. There is more in that small noise than some express in paragraphs.<br />
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Early evening and P. arrives with his friend D., fresh from Oregon. It's been a year or two, but our last visit was so short it still feels like eight. It is good to see him. I don't feel estranged from him, despite the mostly-silent years stretching out between us. After all, I am back in town, and he is right there. Everything is different, yet nothing has changed. Friendship with P. is a fundamental physical constant; proximal distance changes only one's experience thereof.<br />
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We head off in his truck to Flattop for a hike. On the way, we pass a road that was named for P.'s family. I wonder what it's like to be so deeply rooted to a place. It it not something I've ever had a personal concept of.<br />
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It is a cloudy, humid Alaskan summer day, and we almost have the most popular hike in Alaska all to ourselves. I try to summarize eight years of my life while we meander up the mountain. Turns out that D. is a PhD-MD; he knows what I am talking about when I ramble on about medications and tests and diagnoses. So much of my story hinges on my August 2016 diagnosis of idiopathic hypersomnia. He is pleasant to talk to--but I am not surprised, because he is P.'s friend. I deduce that they met at science camp. I am halfway right: P. met D. through D.'s wife... whom P. met at science camp.<br />
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D. stops at the top of blueberry hill to sit and soak in the view as P. and I continue to the summit. P. and I talk about so many things--poetry and people and the strange and sad and wonderful pieces that make up our lives. He asks me about my faith, at some point, and I find myself telling him things that I don't know if I've ever told anybody else. Certainly not all at once, honest and lithic and raw. He apologizes to me for a decision somebody else made, years ago. The apology is so sweet and so pure that it dissolves what hurt remained of it. P. has a kindness rooted deeply in him, which better embodies the Love he worships than a dozen bishops with a dozen paterissas and a dozen golden hats.<br />
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If that one injury were the sole cause of my lapse in faith, P.'s apology would have brought me back into the fold in an instant. As it is, I remain an agnostic distance from the God I once believed I knew. I say, if God is merciful, and loving, and kind, then he will suffer me to try and find the truth as best I know how. Yeah, P. says. I think so too.<br />
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We make the summit. The boost in endurance gained from coming down to sea level from Denver makes me feel great. This hike was just what I needed.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJmwpWuQ1MRLw-3tCYCVosVmrPEQJMVumapL2ZTQ2gUCZe8X9_9wlssMlxjKGxXl6ixxX2QrfvRX704JxfgmQGkmbKN18hVMQAXdSZd7i6dqPN1_9JEU6S7LmZB01uiU9Y3kotmoPJKuA/s1600/DSC02849.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJmwpWuQ1MRLw-3tCYCVosVmrPEQJMVumapL2ZTQ2gUCZe8X9_9wlssMlxjKGxXl6ixxX2QrfvRX704JxfgmQGkmbKN18hVMQAXdSZd7i6dqPN1_9JEU6S7LmZB01uiU9Y3kotmoPJKuA/s640/DSC02849.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">P. and Jam taking a selfie with the Chugach range visible behind them.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-i0mY_nPUdcnoJA-eHMnEm5NU1lDo9R0fnaujFunZNb9TAnghnS-S9lBjCaKJZh5tI6H8Zl5oCREDYz31LgeWLkCubL4LZ6oj-dpqbqoQR7bNrz2309f_wor5JKxqzT3JliOW5JtvTEKQ/s1600/DSC02853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="1600" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-i0mY_nPUdcnoJA-eHMnEm5NU1lDo9R0fnaujFunZNb9TAnghnS-S9lBjCaKJZh5tI6H8Zl5oCREDYz31LgeWLkCubL4LZ6oj-dpqbqoQR7bNrz2309f_wor5JKxqzT3JliOW5JtvTEKQ/s640/DSC02853.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A partial panorama view from the summit, including parts of the Chugach range.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-hdezs3pv33HomKzAzrFKp1ygihaT4iEsghKlvdZMqGxmMXg1xGvdfoxOSg90fyMVah0IZ_XQnc1ItUgKe7dIhbT6HWrSvNjquNIGMTKDkeVF5V0huu0eI8pTlNiRlgGezAQM34BYf5i/s1600/DSC02847.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="1600" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-hdezs3pv33HomKzAzrFKp1ygihaT4iEsghKlvdZMqGxmMXg1xGvdfoxOSg90fyMVah0IZ_XQnc1ItUgKe7dIhbT6HWrSvNjquNIGMTKDkeVF5V0huu0eI8pTlNiRlgGezAQM34BYf5i/s640/DSC02847.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another partial panorama view from the summit, including more mountains and a sliver of sea. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtORwukdQcDQ97CXGeibLX-SvT1HnRP7psCT-vMtK3TQ9giEHhSd43rc-gThMMI9cMz1b-OUAquZGsXG8qe1Z2GIv5bxjXMAX0Fvfp_VRsJfgnlAPuPb4baBBECqYePWs0dKOPJ-RFMuC/s1600/DSC02842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="1600" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtORwukdQcDQ97CXGeibLX-SvT1HnRP7psCT-vMtK3TQ9giEHhSd43rc-gThMMI9cMz1b-OUAquZGsXG8qe1Z2GIv5bxjXMAX0Fvfp_VRsJfgnlAPuPb4baBBECqYePWs0dKOPJ-RFMuC/s640/DSC02842.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yet another partial panorama view from the summit, including a view of Anchorage and an oceanic horizon.</td></tr>
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We head back to the house and P. and D. stay a while for dinner, socializing with Margy's friends, with whom they seem to have a lot in common. I am pleased that Margy's friends seem to approve of my friends. I hope they maintain a connection after I'm gone. They all seem like wonderful people. Before P. goes, I give him leftover food and ply him with promises. Next time I'll make it up to Eagle River. Next time I'll set aside more time to see old friends. I look forward to next time. I beg him to tell everyone that I missed--especially my godparents--that I'm sorry I missed them, that I'll make time to see them whenever I come back this way. I hope that there is a deep implication that I love and miss them wrapped up in these promises, as I lack a means to express this sentiment in the moment.<br />
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Everyone slows down as the evening progresses; my dad lingers in a strange sort of half-asleep state, unable to do much more than sit on the couch with half a grin and a handful of silly comments. Folk peel off one-by-one, heading home, heading to bed. I give my grandmother and Margy hugs and tell them goodbye as they head upstairs. I am the last to settle down, to attempt a nap before my early morning flight. I set the alarm on my phone for 02:00. Sleep does not come easily.<br />
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<br />Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-38743499864603200102018-01-20T10:28:00.001-07:002018-01-21T09:34:24.155-07:00Alaska, Day 8 -- museum visit and Backyard Birch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
24 August 2017</div>
Thursday<br />
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I don't have a very long post for today, but I do have some pictures. Yesterday (the 23rd), I didn't do anything particularly interesting, so I'm skipping it.<br />
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Today starts with brunch at the Snow City Cafe with Grandmother and Margy. I get a chai. It's way too sweet for me, but at least it's pretty. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij2RCsjXEV1Lgp99n1F9S5AJ5Hp5FEoHrHGv5RldLVGvvy7R0Y9SyeU77bjVfcU-Ebl0azAw9Tx6eIyg8Xtz_GlPEfKy6dLPfC2Fu7DUB96LDeWpimAvgsfJ-S04x0ptTB3u2GRDmMgEpw/s1600/DSC02814.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij2RCsjXEV1Lgp99n1F9S5AJ5Hp5FEoHrHGv5RldLVGvvy7R0Y9SyeU77bjVfcU-Ebl0azAw9Tx6eIyg8Xtz_GlPEfKy6dLPfC2Fu7DUB96LDeWpimAvgsfJ-S04x0ptTB3u2GRDmMgEpw/s640/DSC02814.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snow city menu, the leather notebook I bought in England (Oxford, iirc) and carry around in case inspiration hits, and a tall glass of hot chai with a flower pattern on the top in cinnamon.</td></tr>
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After this, Margy goes back to work and Grandmother and I head to the Anchorage Museum together. Grandmother is very sweet and buys my ticket. We spend a lot of time in the museum looking at a photo exhibit that depicts contemporary native Alaskan people in the context of their daily lives, next to a little quote from each person. It's fascinating. We spend the time we need to read every caption and study every photo.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-1RmZzRINeP1iAFy9IpTqhDrbMns1bqwHwx5NYqnNVrVoIS6s6oQfi-CICrGx52bavsKxvUWAOFsNjQ1PGUnviz19Z4PBfUh37DM7z9VyLxxiLqj0q5Ti4SCWmfyDWLexPKIocEtZf8IU/s1600/DSC02820.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-1RmZzRINeP1iAFy9IpTqhDrbMns1bqwHwx5NYqnNVrVoIS6s6oQfi-CICrGx52bavsKxvUWAOFsNjQ1PGUnviz19Z4PBfUh37DM7z9VyLxxiLqj0q5Ti4SCWmfyDWLexPKIocEtZf8IU/s640/DSC02820.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the children's section of the museum, there's an infrared camera setup. I think it's funny how my glasses make me look like a jawa in the resulting image, so I snap a pic.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbv864af1SpKlYqHrBP04ARRHHKORPhnGBSMiQ5jJH0J11UYm8Q6F0jDIt-rHc6c_DNPNqYcgmFBJ7XOnrAzEx4L5rz5OdPXVmpmiTnoZ1BCfTr3DJYmOSNHCSzketXBEHJSivZVJ_QKQK/s1600/DSC02822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbv864af1SpKlYqHrBP04ARRHHKORPhnGBSMiQ5jJH0J11UYm8Q6F0jDIt-rHc6c_DNPNqYcgmFBJ7XOnrAzEx4L5rz5OdPXVmpmiTnoZ1BCfTr3DJYmOSNHCSzketXBEHJSivZVJ_QKQK/s640/DSC02822.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite might be the exhibits of native Alaskan artifacts. These masks really capture my imagination, so I can't help but take a photo (without flash, of course!). I can't remember what tribe made them anymore... I think these might be masks from a bunch of different tribes all put together in the same display. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucE4CUiqupTYaJM65dVLmmgbd9ic7IROsnNI4uc1IzjwMhyphenhyphenEvXSRqjr6kIAtzesysVo482rGpsyd11MVkyNB5hu9hiiqn_F9lwTfYlQE-fsfi20QzIVx7TM21C5l45wlnAd78kJKMGDlS/s1600/DSC02824.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucE4CUiqupTYaJM65dVLmmgbd9ic7IROsnNI4uc1IzjwMhyphenhyphenEvXSRqjr6kIAtzesysVo482rGpsyd11MVkyNB5hu9hiiqn_F9lwTfYlQE-fsfi20QzIVx7TM21C5l45wlnAd78kJKMGDlS/s640/DSC02824.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I really enjoy the rainbow of flowers outside the museum, as we walk back toward where we parked.</td></tr>
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After we return home from our museum excursion, I settle down to paint some more with my watercolors. My sister's birthday is coming up soon, so I decide to paint her a postcard as a present. I find inspiration in a trio of birch trees from Dad's backyard. Rather than painting truly <i>en plein air</i>, I sit inside at the kitchen table and look out the window.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYRqxhQaZHrv7-mCYi86ArH-cj7-cXmyUxZIaebedaCksqXwmp-dsAANeOAdzOnHSq58_gWZ6EEwXK7gNpoxjHKExNVjUC_eUXLejMpQBu8JLEUjLYNy7wn4O8pcqXh6DcRXwFvjbgjxW/s1600/DSC02837.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYRqxhQaZHrv7-mCYi86ArH-cj7-cXmyUxZIaebedaCksqXwmp-dsAANeOAdzOnHSq58_gWZ6EEwXK7gNpoxjHKExNVjUC_eUXLejMpQBu8JLEUjLYNy7wn4O8pcqXh6DcRXwFvjbgjxW/s640/DSC02837.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hold up the watercolor painting next to the trees that inspired me. I took several creative liberties, of course, in my version, such as removing houses and cars and fences and so forth.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifPwr8Nh5TxMRzFTUzR3o5hMb6QJL_QJFP4LRgXCQvzR0JMLQr0hYPB7_owLiEUmszcoMMWj_QV3zgD4rpn14AGdQKaUTGSwK65IMQ97KjXnu3MXm9DZ00Vsv1cQI0_cShSmDZSqmyY22D/s1600/17.08+Backyard+Birch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifPwr8Nh5TxMRzFTUzR3o5hMb6QJL_QJFP4LRgXCQvzR0JMLQr0hYPB7_owLiEUmszcoMMWj_QV3zgD4rpn14AGdQKaUTGSwK65IMQ97KjXnu3MXm9DZ00Vsv1cQI0_cShSmDZSqmyY22D/s640/17.08+Backyard+Birch.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A close-up of my watercolor painting, "Backyard Birch," depicting three birch trees, fall foliage in the back, and some raspberry bushes with sparkling berries.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Later that day, I go for a walk with Margy and Dad and the puppy, and we walk right past a huge moose just chillin' in the park. It wouldn't be an Alaska vacation without a close encounter with a moose, I suppose.Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-29875490261561017392018-01-15T15:16:00.005-07:002018-01-15T15:19:45.851-07:00Alaska, Day 6 -- jaunt into townI originally was going to write a blog post for every day I spent in Alaska last August but... well, I mean, it's already January, and I've only got 4/10 days posted, so I really doubt that's going to happen. I do have a couple more written up that I never ended up posting, though, so I'm going to go ahead and post what I have. I'll just have to make another trip at some point for more material.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
22 August 2017</div>
Tuesday<br />
<br />
Today I decide to take dad's mountain bike into town. My primary goal for this excursion is to make it to Blaire's Art Supply Store to get some fixative spray for the watercolor of Sourdough Mountain that I promised to Grandmother. Most of the dirt I rubbed into it while painting has come off by now, but I'm gonna try to save what's left of it with the spray. Grandmother slips me a little cash, as I head into the garage, to help me buy it. She didn't need to do that, but I accept it gratefully nonetheless.<br />
<br />
I have to cobble together supplies from what I can find in the garage--I
end up using bungee cords to strap a day-pack to the bike's rear rack,
and filling an empty Dr. Pepper bottle with water for the trip. I spend a lot of the morning searching (in vain) for a tire pump. While gathering supplies, I keep going back into the house to look at the google maps directions again, in an attempt to memorize them before leaving the safety of GPS behind. Finally loaded up with raincoat, bike lock, notebook, pen, wallet, compass, a letter and a postcard I want to mail to friends back home, the aforementioned water bottle, printed google maps directions, two mandarin oranges, two boiled eggs, and two of those squeezy pouches of fruit and yogurt that I like to carry around when cycling, I head off.<br />
<br />
First I try to patronize a bike shop google said was down the street--but though I find what I think is the shop, I can't find an entry door. I give up and head to a gas station instead to fill the tires there as best I can, lucky that the tubes happen to use schrader valves.<br />
<br />
I know I'm supposed to turn onto Old Seward Highway, but I forget if it was a right or a left. Good thing I looked at the map a few times before I headed out, so I know that town is north of me. I use my compass to pick the correct direction. In Denver, the mountains on the horizon are always to the west--it is difficult to orient myself here, where going west takes one toward the sea.<br />
<br />
I start out cycling in the road. I am used to Colorado, where riding on the sidewalk is not only dangerous, but illegal. People keep passing too close and honking at me here, even though I am as far right as possible. Eventually I give up and move onto the sidewalk. The sidewalks are paved with the same material as the roads; they seem to seamlessly transition from sidewalk to off-road multi-use path and back to sidewalk again. Riding on them is not so bad, even though crossing driveways and side-streets always makes me nervous. Anchorage is much more spread out than other places, though, so there is more distance between crossings, which makes it a little less obnoxious having to stop and yield at each one.<br />
<br />
I blast past my first turn, of course. I've left my glasses at home, in favor of using sunglasses, so it takes me a little more effort to read street signs. I'm something like 40 blocks past the turn I needed when I realize the street numbers are decreasing and not increasing. I turn around and start to backtrack to correct the mistake, but decide that I don't really want to go that much farther out of my way if I can help it. Instead, I take an exploratory ramble through some side streets until I find a way to C street, then head north from there. After that it is a pleasant jaunt through lush, wet, forested parks and past quiet industrial areas and hotels until I reach my next turns, which I do not miss...!<br />
<br />
The art store is cute, and has a cafe inside. I take a look around everything first, finding myself as tempted as usual when browsing this kind of place. I do pick up a field watercolor journal for future <i>en plein air</i> endeavors, but am able to talk myself out of buying a plethora of things I don't actually need. I find the fixatives and pick out a workable matte spray--partially because it specifically lists "watercolor" in its usage instructions, partially because it is small (I don't need a lot), but mostly because the brand name is my family's name, and I find this amusing. I then ask the barista for directions to a post office while she's ringing up my purchases. She gives me some convoluted directions to a place about 3 miles away that she'd looked up on google maps. I take the address she writes down for me, but when I head out I think I see a UPS store in the distance, so I wander on foot for a block or two, hoping to find some place that sells stamps and a blue post office box without having to go too much farther into town.<br />
<br />
I try to reach the UPS store I saw, but after detouring around a construction site and a long gray building, I come across a Carr's, so I go in there to get a book of stamps and an additional snack. I ask them where the nearest post office is, and they point me to one right across the street--no more than two or three blocks from the art supply store. Not sure how google maps missed that one.<br />
<br />
After mailing my cards, I drop into a bookstore called Title Wave, which I find on the other side of the long gray building. I wander the shelves, trying to find whatever I'm in the mood for today. Since I don't have my glasses on, I need to be a little more deliberate than usual--browsing for too long would give me a massive headache. I ultimately decide on poetry. When the poetry section yields nothing new or interesting, I wander over to the Alaska-specific section. One of the books I crack open here falls immediately open to a poem about Kennecott, and I think, well, this might be some kind of sign--but the poem itself turns out to be awful. The rhyme is forced and trite, the meter terrible--I can't stomach more than a few lines of it. The other poems in that book are equally horrid. I put it back and peruse a few trailside chapbooks before finally settling on an anthology called <i>Alaskan Art & Writing</i>, copyright August 1981, number 21/22 of the quarterly <i>Northward Journal</i>. It's a poem called <a href="http://jameverywhere.blogspot.com/2017/08/the-poem-that-sold-me-book.html">"Splitting Wood" by Ann Chandonnet</a> that sells it to me: page 55. I like most of what I read therein and pick it up for $4.95 (no sales tax?) and head back home.<br />
<br />
The ride back home is much nicer--more off-road path, less curbside sidewalk. I don't miss my turn onto 104th this time. It is small--barely an alley over some train tracks--so I understand why I missed it the first time. After I pass the gas station where I fill my tires, though, I get lost... can't find the turn into the right neighborhood. I go back and forth over a decently steep hill before I finally have to call dad and get directions. Turns out I'd been second-guessing myself too much after my other mishaps of the day--I couldn't find the turn because I wasn't going far enough down the road. But wandering through neighborhood streets and climbing and re-climbing the hill is more exercise, which I really needed, and it feels good, though I'm getting hungry. When I finally make it home safe, there is spicy sausage and cabbage to eat, and all my errands have been done. All in all a successful day.<br />
<br />
<i>epilogue/bike review</i> <br />
<br />
Dad picked up the mountain bike for about $100, and it shows, though my complaints are not too bad: handlebars need adjustment, chain needs grease, gears need adjustment, too. Well, and the saddle is awfully uncomfortable, but that's more of a personal preference thing--I found the perfect saddle for me in Dublin years and years ago, and haven't found a better one since. I'm glad I only rode about 20 miles today; I'm too spoiled to the comfort of my Surly Long Haul Trucker, Bike Rothar. I'm not sure I would've enjoyed much more than that.<br />
<br />
<br />Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-54813171215422883172017-10-09T19:37:00.001-06:002017-10-09T22:33:45.674-06:00Alaska, Day 4 -- ghosts of Kennicott<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
20 August 2017</div>
Sunday<br>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A white 14-passenger van trundles along from McCarthy, navigating washed-out road with thankless aplomb. Grandmother sits up front; the puppy occupies the doorwell. I sit somewhere in the middle. Tall banks of dirt rise and fall alongside us, gnarled with ferns and evergreen roots. I eavesdrop on my fellow passengers, who talk about where they came from, where they're going, what their absent friends are up to, who's seen which episode of<i> Game of Thrones</i> last.<br>
<br>
We are headed into Kennicott, a town abandoned when its mines became unprofitable in 1938. Named for the Kennecott glacier to the west--some accident of history to blame for the degenerate vowel--this town has spent more time abandoned than inhabited, it would seem. Though the Forest Service has been restoring some of its old buildings, and putting on tours for tourists (like us), the spirit of this place is still one of quiet and strangely dignified decay.<br>
<br>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh5bdeOrwDtbuocaTI087m5OljvRJKyaF-VTkYVd0OsY0tiYGLPi9zTM44XaZmOIz6y_nDGYvYixZ2oWRzwTcINLoHIUxTBWYcyaIJOrMJfZKxVjGLN0FSbWutAWDWhUZ9PaolNuES4Sit/s1600/DSC02570.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="1600" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh5bdeOrwDtbuocaTI087m5OljvRJKyaF-VTkYVd0OsY0tiYGLPi9zTM44XaZmOIz6y_nDGYvYixZ2oWRzwTcINLoHIUxTBWYcyaIJOrMJfZKxVjGLN0FSbWutAWDWhUZ9PaolNuES4Sit/s640/DSC02570.JPG" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To
the left, the debris fields of the Kennecott glacier. To the right, the
ghost town of Kennicott. Grandmother, in her bright orange coat, looks
out at the mountains.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
We meander through the town, browsing local shops and scattered buildings, restored to miniature museums. Grandmother and I watch a video about the ore processing plant we are preparing to tour while Dad and Margy keep the puppy occupied outside. We wander through the general store, flipping through blown-up copies of vintage photographs and random surviving forms and manifests. I learn that when this town was first established, the Kennecott glacier loomed over it, squeezing its development into one claustrophobic corridor. Decades of ice melt is what opened up its west flank.<br>
<br>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqciuuUiNFLF1Ixx4fxMIce9EAu4TVULIYWRwa-g4UFIISNGl_sR1tYLRy-OIt99nL37ueIM7EBYWZrHZczI57f3zU5FH9JGYsCqA9NA96rRlxUTrcmI7ozg7alM97asNKBTlo1XCCWig8/s1600/DSC02538.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqciuuUiNFLF1Ixx4fxMIce9EAu4TVULIYWRwa-g4UFIISNGl_sR1tYLRy-OIt99nL37ueIM7EBYWZrHZczI57f3zU5FH9JGYsCqA9NA96rRlxUTrcmI7ozg7alM97asNKBTlo1XCCWig8/s640/DSC02538.JPG" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Margy explains something, via gesture, to Grandmother as we look out over the mountains from the balcony/deck behind a coffee shop.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjruR7KfXS8QX9JeCULc6HexQiaGRPT4vbxnohcGLrvhqDRohUGXnZLgb7UpEdeVjN0pta7bS-BoBuBdHuvjn-XSbQjBalcEJO_xc91mNDZgskY0fEpRvYOePVb9JfELdHmk5G3W9pGtzWZ/s1600/DSC02537.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjruR7KfXS8QX9JeCULc6HexQiaGRPT4vbxnohcGLrvhqDRohUGXnZLgb7UpEdeVjN0pta7bS-BoBuBdHuvjn-XSbQjBalcEJO_xc91mNDZgskY0fEpRvYOePVb9JfELdHmk5G3W9pGtzWZ/s640/DSC02537.JPG" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kennicott's west flank. In between us and a ridge of snow-capped mountains lies a vast gray expanse of dirt and stone, layered atop a hidden, surreal landscape of glacial ice.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
Someday I hope to hike the glacier, but today we've come to tour the town. And the centerpiece of the tour is the ore processing plant. (The mines themselves are an arduous, full-day hike away, and long-since closed, besides.) Margy stays behind with the puppy while Dad and Grandmother and I join our scheduled tour. It is a bit of a hike to the start of the tour--not for me, necessarily, but certainly for Grandmother (working with half a lung less than the rest of us), and an elderly gentleman with a bad leg. Dad slows and unassumingly takes up the rear, ready to aid in case of a fall. I stay toward the back also, scanning the gravel for chaff left by the mines: scattered stones streaked with iridescent shades of green, and blue--colored thus by copper-rich minerals, malachite and azurite. I pocket one or two particularly pretty stones, each about the size of my thumbnail. I feel a strong, barely-conscious urge to wash my hands after considering what heavy metals and other elements comprise the dust that I've been sifting through.<br>
<br>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsn7MMmqyWLzcbH-XerYWpqxUMh70TXb6gRGC0GEQrR5bxrvSQIqeXY8xwlcqpBSmgNyn0qDPY6Bo7SHTxuMI7_qHZ5T0jv8X7GrnFMvqi4TdIZQ4snPtq4hk9K9Vib2qmb6bNVO6c2JoK/s1600/DSC02566.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsn7MMmqyWLzcbH-XerYWpqxUMh70TXb6gRGC0GEQrR5bxrvSQIqeXY8xwlcqpBSmgNyn0qDPY6Bo7SHTxuMI7_qHZ5T0jv8X7GrnFMvqi4TdIZQ4snPtq4hk9K9Vib2qmb6bNVO6c2JoK/s640/DSC02566.JPG" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crumbling, red, 14-storey ore processing plant looms over Kennicott. Most Kennicott iconography depicts this building, from some angle or another.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-J5qwXAlTyljLi3Cy0fCv0RHju3eYdDpRN0ikl6571fSsJWt0yRblkctKkmXBn2rfbJGg_H1f0YVjtKvnH4J8rYKO7WmLqtWSJZJrAE7ty2e97OiBXnrlyVLg6VnHdEWV2_pAG9QGKBf8/s1600/DSC02612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-J5qwXAlTyljLi3Cy0fCv0RHju3eYdDpRN0ikl6571fSsJWt0yRblkctKkmXBn2rfbJGg_H1f0YVjtKvnH4J8rYKO7WmLqtWSJZJrAE7ty2e97OiBXnrlyVLg6VnHdEWV2_pAG9QGKBf8/s640/DSC02612.JPG" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the ore processing facility from the top, where the tour enters.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkTG_RfUNOqaGSdz63N1yBzVecCXI2jnAOTbR4mrPUgXIe4m5gUisRt8dbBYCyMzQ46Dj605j5qciGdN_F-tZxVJIEMLJ22fmxN8BAclucPdpfGcnYBoMDVPe4RZghIFyeU82v-FLHJ3vH/s1600/DSC02621.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkTG_RfUNOqaGSdz63N1yBzVecCXI2jnAOTbR4mrPUgXIe4m5gUisRt8dbBYCyMzQ46Dj605j5qciGdN_F-tZxVJIEMLJ22fmxN8BAclucPdpfGcnYBoMDVPe4RZghIFyeU82v-FLHJ3vH/s640/DSC02621.JPG" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slightly blurry selfie of me in one of the hard hats provided by the tour, layered over my Army surplus jeep cap. I am not sure how to categorize the expression on my face.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
<br>
Our tour guide is younger than I am. Though he is engaging to listen to, I drift in and out of paying attention. I am more focused on snapping photos of everything I can, from every angle. I use up a whole battery and have to switch to my final spare. Most of the photos turn out to be terrible--dark, blurry, indistinct, whatever. But I enjoy taking them. I enjoy hanging back from the group; I enjoy the excuse to stand in certain places, walk off a ways, look under or go on the other side of things. One other person in the group seems equally preoccupied in taking photos... but awkwardly with an iPad, for some reason. The gentleman with a bad leg is also an armchair scholar, and the tour, more often than not, is less a lecture and more a conversation between the guide and him.<br>
<br>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSHKvWL4-KCruE6FGTwAekufu-5OAoqgn6b5_74qdtMhFDrfDV621ZyfvNF1Y3Pbv3_UAmTevx0kVTKQllhuH7aVwDoOwgJhnIoGxK_7NXH_6XySvkq5GnQKMzxjV5w9uNV5jJ__PMxL3/s1600/DSC02673.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSHKvWL4-KCruE6FGTwAekufu-5OAoqgn6b5_74qdtMhFDrfDV621ZyfvNF1Y3Pbv3_UAmTevx0kVTKQllhuH7aVwDoOwgJhnIoGxK_7NXH_6XySvkq5GnQKMzxjV5w9uNV5jJ__PMxL3/s640/DSC02673.JPG" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hold two samples of copper ore--on the left, the colorful, shiny, 80% pure ore they found in the area mines; on the right, a dull, adulterated sample of what your typical copper mine produces.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26La8Qf3-NuwmgtSC575XskmYNTt18df5l4sQf_Gok0NdIsqwZj_yEO_TaV6QJStJkG9F0OFntLOQNS6JUxqNPUnE5xNeaflj8Ws4BzlQI6rIP32ndi3m6sBKXX3YuIP0LEIpnaHO8orm/s1600/DSC02695.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26La8Qf3-NuwmgtSC575XskmYNTt18df5l4sQf_Gok0NdIsqwZj_yEO_TaV6QJStJkG9F0OFntLOQNS6JUxqNPUnE5xNeaflj8Ws4BzlQI6rIP32ndi3m6sBKXX3YuIP0LEIpnaHO8orm/s640/DSC02695.JPG" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A workbench area inside the processing plant. A row of empty window-frames lets in summer sunlight.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
It seems like the type of place that ghosts hang around in. I can't decide if the ghosts would be angry or just... tired. Tired and homesick and cold.<br>
<br>
We part ways with the tour after exiting the processing plant, 14-storeys down ad hoc ladders and stairs constructed by afterthought. The tour continues further into town, but Grandmother and Dad hurry back to catch the five o'clock van back into McCarthy, and I follow.<br>
<br>
I think a meal commenced after this. A conversation long in coming. A series of small but significant revelations. Pregnant silences. A truce.<br>
<br>
Some time later that evening, after the sun should have set (but didn't), I wander off to try my hand at painting <i>en plein air</i>. I sit on a large rock by McCarthy creek and look out toward a mountain and... come up with something. <br>
<br>
I refill my water pen in the creek as needed, and try to get used to how watercolors behave in the saturated Alaskan air--as opposed to the thirsty air of Colorado. At some point I accidentally flip the painting into the dirt... but kind of like the texture that the accidental grit affords it. I paint until I lose my light, and I paint some more after that, until I realize that the light has faded to where continuing to paint will make it worse, not better.<br>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63RD2drRTITKs9v_iqSKNwHKTofBj2M_1_Z7ZlfE6_7mBEepuhIB5RF0u60Q1AHBWItqjtvUiq2rMSiotW3AvGNeyPoSkwtMIKyZ8vMyEbsSTVKkF62B0rO-X-4vJIK2NqqlmhgCkq7zJ/s1600/DSC02770.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63RD2drRTITKs9v_iqSKNwHKTofBj2M_1_Z7ZlfE6_7mBEepuhIB5RF0u60Q1AHBWItqjtvUiq2rMSiotW3AvGNeyPoSkwtMIKyZ8vMyEbsSTVKkF62B0rO-X-4vJIK2NqqlmhgCkq7zJ/s640/DSC02770.JPG" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, sitting on a rock in my purple gore-tex, reenacting my painting the next morning now that I have Dad handy to take photos for me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMsuRQKuGlW3cOlluwvLJHOAKxEFdrevjDg_GezitmcHbPhwNcnbcf6CwKOEl1qm4bXnYhnOuivLi4kMmEejJCwbo-u4dWyT8WYX5wj4CLT72QMoB13bOIzrn4v8-Fpapug11DAvYvuFd/s1600/DSC02776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMsuRQKuGlW3cOlluwvLJHOAKxEFdrevjDg_GezitmcHbPhwNcnbcf6CwKOEl1qm4bXnYhnOuivLi4kMmEejJCwbo-u4dWyT8WYX5wj4CLT72QMoB13bOIzrn4v8-Fpapug11DAvYvuFd/s640/DSC02776.JPG" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My final watercolor piece, resting against the rock I was sitting on, along with my watercolor tray and the watercolor pen I was using.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh72XyWC0AWTt2TiEnJQ4be5Uk6sxD9ceZB5lXMCX-Ujo5QRWq_Uv7rZIEC2qTkXmQkUz1V077ghr9GMGw_VKH9sdEZmUBYp9KL_2s3wC_qt8YQHKYB1PRQvPLa_awRZSJImJEWtZyUKJdw/s1600/DSC02779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh72XyWC0AWTt2TiEnJQ4be5Uk6sxD9ceZB5lXMCX-Ujo5QRWq_Uv7rZIEC2qTkXmQkUz1V077ghr9GMGw_VKH9sdEZmUBYp9KL_2s3wC_qt8YQHKYB1PRQvPLa_awRZSJImJEWtZyUKJdw/s640/DSC02779.JPG" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me holding up my watercolor piece the next day, lining it up with the landscape that I'd painted.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
(Later I show my painting to N., and he identifies it as Sourdough peak. I'm
proud of myself, that I was able to paint something he recognized just
by looking. After all, when it comes to watercolors, I'm still pretty
much making it up as I go along.)<br>
<br>
The light is gone when I slip back into Ma Johnson's, and Grandmother is asleep. I move quietly to avoid disturbing her, resting my painting on the beside table, putting my stuff away, and gathering supplies for a shower without turning on the light. Only after I've thoroughly warmed my hands and feet and core with hot water am I able to slide into bed and drift to sleep. </div>
Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-54557170214771075072017-09-26T22:02:00.001-06:002017-10-04T13:19:01.170-06:00Alaska, Day 3 -- in media McCarthy19 August 2017<br />
Saturday<br />
<br />
Today, I decide not to take any medicine. This allows me to drink a little alcohol--at lunch, a very dry English cider with a skull on the bottle; at dinner, a hopped cider from the Square Mile Cider Company (my favorite cider of all time). I spend the day in languorous trance: limbs heavy, thoughts muddled, movement slow. It is not uncomfortable, but it is not exactly pleasant, either. It is how I used to move through the world... before I found a medication that worked. Strange how "normal" is not, in fact, a constant after all.<br />
<br />
There is nothing in particular planned today. Margy and I start the morning with chai from the Potato. It is pleasant: complex, and not too sweet. We wander up and down the muddy roads. We breathe McCarthy in. I make sure not to go anywhere without my camera swinging from my shoulder.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0m_kCqOrqjmdFePutSoc8J_OTNzUoZHXPRjqu6aE2MwWY-9Jlj62ZeQma0U2z6gCHGDlGLnUpHrmi5bpTWA_AXbvU9APeRKNh20Bu7pqI8Rd5KVo50qKG2-mI9h39t-R3NDeqw8wfh3P/s1600/DSC02406.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0m_kCqOrqjmdFePutSoc8J_OTNzUoZHXPRjqu6aE2MwWY-9Jlj62ZeQma0U2z6gCHGDlGLnUpHrmi5bpTWA_AXbvU9APeRKNh20Bu7pqI8Rd5KVo50qKG2-mI9h39t-R3NDeqw8wfh3P/s640/DSC02406.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandmother stands next to a gate wrought from artifacts and junk. It makes no architectural sense, and I enjoy it very much.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsKxP6atrjYFWUP84Hey6DSk9ZDfk4xFqfzPH_-CJ65JCshK3eDbRPqaCbi0nXJvJluVhWrxE8BMP226q5LBmJEAZrGKCDmC_rltiSQYN5wPvTeSUKX7GFr6fntUME5Z6AY6m_WgkutriM/s1600/DSC02460.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsKxP6atrjYFWUP84Hey6DSk9ZDfk4xFqfzPH_-CJ65JCshK3eDbRPqaCbi0nXJvJluVhWrxE8BMP226q5LBmJEAZrGKCDmC_rltiSQYN5wPvTeSUKX7GFr6fntUME5Z6AY6m_WgkutriM/s640/DSC02460.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Close up of copper ore held in place by rusty screws. It is part of the gate. Something about it makes me feel as though magic might be real.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZXzUr4AvytTl70f1AyLsxYrLcNf62uG2k_l9DCQZ2KS8sj-nbmt_eVKaLU9lrwNns4FdP4k0Q9KSo41U-dtoTVcM2kYBHMgEClyBBRN0XF0iiqeAsRAYs-kxvYiAfxYqa3-k1Bd79xovu/s1600/DSC02461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZXzUr4AvytTl70f1AyLsxYrLcNf62uG2k_l9DCQZ2KS8sj-nbmt_eVKaLU9lrwNns4FdP4k0Q9KSo41U-dtoTVcM2kYBHMgEClyBBRN0XF0iiqeAsRAYs-kxvYiAfxYqa3-k1Bd79xovu/s640/DSC02461.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Close up of another part of the gate. It is the metal skeleton of an antique child's bike, suspended in decaying metal circle.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGyBHlG155UfQIPYtCQzO3CwFeW5SKqMBBHXv-h2JR6AcXzs9avtA6shPIrdQVygF2LTgRvxLTOVaYsWWxwuRjfPU2AZHWDDtcJ6mDHecNF-NtZmoJKbalUmaAzc76irQaK0XHimVu8G1T/s1600/DSC02408.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGyBHlG155UfQIPYtCQzO3CwFeW5SKqMBBHXv-h2JR6AcXzs9avtA6shPIrdQVygF2LTgRvxLTOVaYsWWxwuRjfPU2AZHWDDtcJ6mDHecNF-NtZmoJKbalUmaAzc76irQaK0XHimVu8G1T/s640/DSC02408.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A red building. "McCarthy General Store" in spindly black font. A cow skull, for some reason. The store has a sign on the door that simply says, "shut." I don't think this place has been used in quite some time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9wIuEA7GQVpnKctpTPGFy8MCsb6Eh4-I-r86YE-YZM38rRIdZk07MyZuSvjSLiFg2Xy6Tp-ni2Iq6iXJYns2OtiL6upfGbdHQA4rjxvQ-iei9GxETnGtdUo6nRimLhGMJDd9GfO7set1z/s1600/DSC02414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9wIuEA7GQVpnKctpTPGFy8MCsb6Eh4-I-r86YE-YZM38rRIdZk07MyZuSvjSLiFg2Xy6Tp-ni2Iq6iXJYns2OtiL6upfGbdHQA4rjxvQ-iei9GxETnGtdUo6nRimLhGMJDd9GfO7set1z/s640/DSC02414.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rusted remains of a typewriter or cash register, slimy with moss and rain. Antique junk like this is everywhere you look in this little town, rotting away wherever it was left.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuaypf2J6izfcj0OG-RRCsQDBHd3lKUaPIzMjzGw2zrd3JzuRz1lGQjcE5q4IBEijhlS5f2C-E8oGcisxpIItYAcrDHKu8q0nma6ZEHWacj99C-Q_eDbWLO7iKDtZVqHryxYDteh4pUv58/s1600/DSC02422.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuaypf2J6izfcj0OG-RRCsQDBHd3lKUaPIzMjzGw2zrd3JzuRz1lGQjcE5q4IBEijhlS5f2C-E8oGcisxpIItYAcrDHKu8q0nma6ZEHWacj99C-Q_eDbWLO7iKDtZVqHryxYDteh4pUv58/s640/DSC02422.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red cabin behind some kind of... wall?... constructed from (what I think are) angular fuel cans.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9R5m-dI-FxxO1SsRYkdFZCt4_V8v_teQHF7LzxBcdUch6Q2H833hAzJPmWtym3AgJq014G9bND2U5tFvVkYtS2x50f13r9EPbr8ajjWr2Yk5ZJw9nMxoWckHhsuXEEFlMzUafljdF5V7x/s1600/DSC02437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9R5m-dI-FxxO1SsRYkdFZCt4_V8v_teQHF7LzxBcdUch6Q2H833hAzJPmWtym3AgJq014G9bND2U5tFvVkYtS2x50f13r9EPbr8ajjWr2Yk5ZJw9nMxoWckHhsuXEEFlMzUafljdF5V7x/s640/DSC02437.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mountain looms over antique yellow building.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
At some point we rendezvous with N., who takes us on a tour of the old hardware store building. Upstairs, the rooms-cum-offices are littered with reminders of school trips and internships and art projects that once took place there. I find a wall of haiku. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNMaSBJ3_dltkZSeKiYLtxy5veMPnC9Ho-v-_4ho1x1JCIfLpm2GfTznFJwp51yd84itifjI70M9m1ofklrNG0FHqifXYQ2UV2MW7aZE5bAP7Rl0jtR6_JXGziep2wJ4he-Ag3uhtqCoO_/s1600/DSC02470.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNMaSBJ3_dltkZSeKiYLtxy5veMPnC9Ho-v-_4ho1x1JCIfLpm2GfTznFJwp51yd84itifjI70M9m1ofklrNG0FHqifXYQ2UV2MW7aZE5bAP7Rl0jtR6_JXGziep2wJ4he-Ag3uhtqCoO_/s640/DSC02470.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moisture-warped poster containing several ink sketches of flowers and a haphazard smattering of three-line poems--English haiku/senryuu.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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I absorb all of them. I'm in a pensive sort of mood. They aren't the best poems I've ever read, nor are they particularly skillful examples of haiku/senryuu. Nevertheless, they make a connection. I pick my three favorite and snap closer pictures of them to remember them later. I don't know the authors' names, or I would attribute them correctly... but, nevertheless, here they are:</div>
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-----</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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I see the fly land</div>
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And swat it with ease and grace</div>
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He did nothing wrong</div>
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----- </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The ice looked hollow</div>
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standing on infinity</div>
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the whole earth melting</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
melting ice</div>
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sculpts</div>
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its own body</div>
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Later, we go on a walk. The puppy cannot do without one--and neither can I. We walk further down the creek we'd started exploring yesterday. We find moose tracks and bear tracks. I am looking closely at the multicolored stones that line the creekbed, and I lag behind Margy and Dog and Dad.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUbrssqQ7QpNZ_MvWrTlQ9hRiXfM-bx7lyDxa1cWYE0VJgfaLiCWN1mnHyWrYOSnuRYM1YlUz9BIKz2vsx8YrgJRgsFTRjkzJPthH8bACFOL1ylw7VYA2V_R7NWLEG7ZWRyBP1rzAzZ7zA/s1600/DSC02509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUbrssqQ7QpNZ_MvWrTlQ9hRiXfM-bx7lyDxa1cWYE0VJgfaLiCWN1mnHyWrYOSnuRYM1YlUz9BIKz2vsx8YrgJRgsFTRjkzJPthH8bACFOL1ylw7VYA2V_R7NWLEG7ZWRyBP1rzAzZ7zA/s640/DSC02509.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bear tracks. Puppy paw for size reference. They are not particularly large, for bear tracks... which is probably for the best...</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzdL6BTxCTyR2NYRJi90xw-nRuYLQsKt337amWc0-Ts3QiBOdpC0sLIVKjxyftCj39C3bY6xY8gTTumvRlRETzoxtSGjygoWC-FgJ3q11T5iLPv7E-0L1OKp9nofHeyCLITgJKSDv8MJw/s1600/DSC02492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzdL6BTxCTyR2NYRJi90xw-nRuYLQsKt337amWc0-Ts3QiBOdpC0sLIVKjxyftCj39C3bY6xY8gTTumvRlRETzoxtSGjygoWC-FgJ3q11T5iLPv7E-0L1OKp9nofHeyCLITgJKSDv8MJw/s640/DSC02492.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stones of McCarthy creek.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I am carrying, in my pocket, a piece of volcanic rock. I took it from a parking lot on the Big Island of Hawai'i (a parking lot, mind you, and NOT from Volcano National Park, which would have been illegal--not to mention disrespectful). It burns in my pocket with the wrath and fire that wrought it, half an ocean away.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://psmag.com/social-justice/will-get-you">They say taking volcanic rock from the islands is bad luck</a>. They say Pele will curse anyone who carries pieces of her away. Tourists mail thousands of pounds of rock and sand back to the islands every year to try and break the curses they didn't believe in until, well, they did. Some say a disgruntled park ranger started the rumor--others that it is considered disrespectful by the native culture. I find it hard to believe that no minerals would find their way off the islands in export, blessed in transit by the priests of capitalism... and can't see how my acquisition would differ in principle. But it doesn't matter. What matters is I carry the stone in my pocket, and it remembers nothing but fire.<br />
<br />
My eye catches on a smooth gray stone, streaked white with quartz. I am compelled to pick it up. Basalt, I think: forged in fire, just like the chunk of scoria I am carrying. But this stone remembers more than that. It remembers glacial ice, and river-water, and rain, and snow. It is calm. It soothes.<br />
<br />
An oval impression remains in the soil I plucked it from. I press the piece of Hawaiian scoria into it--a perfect fit. I invite Pele to make her acquaintance with whatever Athabaskan spirits might still dwell here, appealing to pantheons that do not exist to release myself from curses I don't believe in.<br />
<br />
I pocket the new stone. A fair trade.<br />
<br />
The day winds down slowly, twilight lingering long after night would have fallen, were we further south. I wind down slowly with it, and fade to sleep as darkness falls.Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-73576339339580798202017-09-22T15:29:00.002-06:002017-10-05T00:12:20.201-06:00Alaska, Day 2 -- onward to McCarthy18 August 2017<br />
Friday <br />
<br />
I remember little of yesterday--Thursday--having taken no medicine, and spent the day in a somnolent haze, napping on planes and while idling at gates. I brought several weeks' of Sunday newspapers that I hadn't read yet, digesting them a section at a time, scattering them in recycling bins throughout DEN, SEA, ANC. I met up with Grandmother in Seattle, me with my flip phone and outdated papers--her with an iPad, a smartphone, tethered to outlets by charging cords. I met a darling puppy and toured my dad's new house.<br />
<br />
Today, though, is Friday, and we are headed to McCarthy. We get going a little after noon, having had a leisurely breakfast (well, from my perspective; Dad would probably call it "time-wasting") and running several errands first. I snack on random things from Carr's as we quickly plunge into wet and isolated woods, leaving civilization behind, making our way east. Oh, there are scraps of it left here and there as we drive--we stop at these to potty, to stretch our legs, to buy snacks and drinks and slices of pie. I buy cards at a gas station of surprisingly high quality, filled with local art and gems and fancy foods mixed in with more typical sugar, grease, and chintzy tourist fare.<br />
<br />
At another stop, I sip low-quality green tea and wander around a room filled with taxidermied creatures--some posed as if still breathing; some stretched out across the wall as rugs; most reduced to heads, staring at nothing with plastic eyes. There is a white wolf on the wall, larger than both bears that hang outstretched across from it. Its paws dwarf theirs; its face is frozen in forever-snarl. I imagine that this anger stems from disappointment in itself: for being caught and killed by hairless apes without the decency to challenge, first, with eye contact.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrGsPMrvwHICH1diGbOCTOTLV-t-1E657G95PwhyphenhyphenWFort6V4eEaSaiG284Kvh2IQtdyDV0xypc2wWORt2rXkwJoDH83gfodcQxmZRwbbrE4O3i0ZdzMsXJDwAlrmoDc_VqKbG-s787Ikqc/s1600/DSC02314.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrGsPMrvwHICH1diGbOCTOTLV-t-1E657G95PwhyphenhyphenWFort6V4eEaSaiG284Kvh2IQtdyDV0xypc2wWORt2rXkwJoDH83gfodcQxmZRwbbrE4O3i0ZdzMsXJDwAlrmoDc_VqKbG-s787Ikqc/s640/DSC02314.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The white wolf's paw, next to mine, for reference.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The landscape fascinates for the entire ride. It takes over seven hours, but doesn't feel like that much at all. Blunt, oft anemic trees stud the landscape, black and thin and needling. Long, cold lakes fill holes that glaciers scraped into the earth twelve thousand years ago. Mountains stand sentry, swathed in mist and rain. At some point, we come across a crest of purple cliffs, and decide their color must be due to some sort of copper-containing minerals therein. Dad calls them "pome-granite" because of course he does.<br />
<br />
Much of the conversation over the last few miles concerns how the road is not nearly as bad this time as it was the last time Dad and Margy went this way. Grandmother closes her eyes as we cross a railroad bridge over a deep canyon. At our next stop, I scurry back to take a selfie there, for some reason.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSlaZz-FmGpOr_3naWyutMqBE-dxXE6xAOzqg992NRlF6tVEqkTC_80N6hsJhTxJqp0SW-e4_q47H6ngGjL06zHf3YilYLlWhaJSVuykc1yVzEvHUV3vyshUWhTM0pWiJwYAYizEicTuW/s1600/DSC02332.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSlaZz-FmGpOr_3naWyutMqBE-dxXE6xAOzqg992NRlF6tVEqkTC_80N6hsJhTxJqp0SW-e4_q47H6ngGjL06zHf3YilYLlWhaJSVuykc1yVzEvHUV3vyshUWhTM0pWiJwYAYizEicTuW/s640/DSC02332.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in my army surplus hat and red-wool poncho proving that I'm not afraid of heights. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
(And here is a video version of the selfie, haha.)<br />
<br />
At the end of the road to McCarthy, Dad pays for parking and we haul our things over the footbridge toward town: the only access allowed to those who are not local. A friend of Dad and Margy (let's call him N.) swings by with a jury-rigged truck to help carry our things--and Grandmother--into town. Dad, Margy, the puppy and I decide to walk the last few miles, trailing along behind them. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5d8qcaPJatDE9urwWhWnIenCrscHu2pY2LGKG36rz6Z-wyN1_uV-VVVKjcmIM0RdqtRXYfYkki4SB8g5iUyJoxUgRUkj8aQ6ijtw6fdGDcb6upNsiZuCXDIBNOELks2sRoaX2pP9EHhi/s1600/DSC02337.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5d8qcaPJatDE9urwWhWnIenCrscHu2pY2LGKG36rz6Z-wyN1_uV-VVVKjcmIM0RdqtRXYfYkki4SB8g5iUyJoxUgRUkj8aQ6ijtw6fdGDcb6upNsiZuCXDIBNOELks2sRoaX2pP9EHhi/s640/DSC02337.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad, Margy, and the puppy walking across the footbridge into McCarthy.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We set up our stay in Ma Johnson's hotel, a charming little place with bathrooms down the hall, robes and slippers and tiny slips of lavender soap sitting on the beds in offering. Dad and Grandmother and Margy and N. go to eat at the Potato, and though I join them at first, I get antsy after a while and leave to wander around and snap photos and daydream and think.<br />
<br />
At some point, I come across a drunk local trying to pick a fight with tourists, shouting obscenities and homophobic comments at strangers heretofore unknown to him. They speedwalk up and down the street, trying to avoid him. There are three of them, and one of him, but that doesn't seem to faze him at all. I wonder what his addled wits saw that made him hate these unassuming men so wholly and uncontrollably. They seem nice enough to me. His aggression escalates, disproportionate to his ability to follow through. He makes a sharp, wet sound when thrown to the ground, stymied before he can land a single blow.<br />
<br />
Strangely, he seems to let go of his vendetta after this. You can't go in there, his friends tell him, standing between him and the bar the tourists ducked into. He apologizes, tries to explain himself. He is very drunk. It makes as much sense as one would expect. Go home, they tell him. Go home. He tucks in his tail and turns around, walking past me, muddy and muttering. It's times like these I'm glad I tend to be mostly invisible to passersby. <br />
<br />
Later, Dad, Margy, the puppy, and I go for a walk. We try to take a bridge out of town and further into the woods, but we startle a black bear as soon as we step beyond the trees. I suppose it wouldn't be an Alaska trip without some sort of bear sighting. It is small and cagey and flees as soon as we start shouting at it, but we still turn around and head back over the bridge. We walk up and down the other side of the creek, instead.<br />
<br />
The flush of water carries the cold down from the icy mountaintops and glacial fields to the north and pulls it quietly through the town. The mud here is a simple and unassuming fact, like the trees, or the sky.<br />
<br />
It is cold and gray and brown and I am certainly enjoying myself.Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-65963638885097821142017-08-30T14:16:00.001-06:002017-08-30T14:18:02.744-06:00the poem that sold me the bookby Chandonnet, Ann. "Splitting Wood." <i>Northward Journal: A Quarterly of Northern Arts</i>, Alaskan Art & Writing, Number 21/22, August 1981, 55.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
<i>Splitting Wood</i><br />
<br />
Anger's impossible<br />
after splitting wood.<br />
Bile flows out along the human trunk,<br />
the arms, and ax handle<br />
into the cleavages of birch and spruce,<br />
into the neatly stacked cords<br />
and the pleasing litter of chips<br />
upon the snow.<br />
<br />
The more lengths split,<br />
the more I become whole:<br />
joints cease their clatter;<br />
rifts slide shut.<br />
<br />
Lacking shoulders,<br />
I turn scientific,<br />
teasing the lengths<br />
atop the block<br />
until they come level.<br />
Then my little force<br />
runs straight down the grain.<br />
<br />
The bore holes of twigs<br />
are clean as laser burns.<br />
Swelling branches spawn massive roils,<br />
marbled end papers.<br />
Force is balked by these conjunctions.<br />
Wood splits just to them<br />
and no further...<br />
like roads deadending<br />
at skewed headlands.<br />
<br />
On the pile reclines a straight young arm;<br />
beneath, a knotty fist of aged wood,<br />
liver spots of decay staining its pale grain.<br />
Some knotfree layers separate<br />
clean as onion rings,<br />
revealing breast-sleek silk.<br />
<br />
Few things concentrate and empty the body so,<br />
both engage and free.<br />
Blows echo from the trees around;<br />
a scrap of inner bark<br />
glows pink as a conch. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>ANN CHANDONNET</b></span><br />
<br />
<br />Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-8947761763629425652017-07-11T08:48:00.001-06:002017-08-30T13:49:11.446-06:00multo mane<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">vox Turturis audita est<br />et Solem et Testudinem <br />sensim experrectus sunt<br />autem hoc caelum <br />calidissimum<br />non mutat, et<br />non mutaverit</span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">--</span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g"><b>Early Morning </b></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g"><br /></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">the voice of the Turtledove is heard</span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">and both the Sun and the Tortoise</span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">gently awaken</span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">but this atmosphere</span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">so incredibly</span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">warm</span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">does not move, and</span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">will not move </span></span>Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-80383211892282683242017-04-05T18:24:00.000-06:002017-08-30T13:49:20.446-06:00CelsiusBoughs bend under the weight<br />
of spring-time snow,<br />
hanging wetly over the sidewalk<br />
in my way.<br />
By afternoon, the snow melts<br />
into a contracted rain.<br />
The trees unburden themselves.<br />
As I walk, my heart<br />
seethes with ambition;<br />
my stomach churns impossibilities.<br />
Hours move silent as the sky<br />
and I,<br />
in this white twilight,<br />
observe the icy buds and blooms<br />
in watery shades of pink, and green,<br />
and try to think of a word<br />
that means "Spring," but isn't,<br />
and try to compose a self<br />
verdant, vernal, viridescent:<br />
born between seasons, between stories,<br />
uniting barren Winter with fecund Spring<br />
in branches, hanging over the sidewalk,<br />
in my way,<br />
heavy with blossoms<br />
and snow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumk2mSrg_6GoZbD0UZwzu-PjP70ubAk525NypYSum9P6S9vEA-kzfvbgGtnFRwEhNTAiWrXRn042fldjQSMBtGT2Aw_5-b3QmgCj2ug0hwf0tB5Xl9Ij-2Ai0KE03c1IUSdEqPkuAZYMf/s1600/IMG_20170404_095502841.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumk2mSrg_6GoZbD0UZwzu-PjP70ubAk525NypYSum9P6S9vEA-kzfvbgGtnFRwEhNTAiWrXRn042fldjQSMBtGT2Aw_5-b3QmgCj2ug0hwf0tB5Xl9Ij-2Ai0KE03c1IUSdEqPkuAZYMf/s640/IMG_20170404_095502841.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-84631860218421713102017-03-26T22:39:00.000-06:002017-03-26T22:44:53.418-06:00just a silly thing I spent way too long onA post from someone's tumblr has been circulating on facebook--and, while it's a cute idea in theory, I think it kinda failed in the execution. Source is here: <a href="http://phony-time-traveler.tumblr.com/post/158270493442/jk-rowling-suddenly-light-started-shining">http://phony-time-traveler.tumblr.com/post/158270493442/jk-rowling-suddenly-light-started-shining</a> (quoted below)<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<ul class="conversation">
<li class="chat-odd"><span class="label">JK Rowling:</span> Suddenly, light started shining through the window!</li>
<li class="chat-even"><span class="label">J.R.R. Tolkien:</span>
The window, which hanged on the wall, softly letting its curtains dance
around the room, suddenly brought a bright light into the house.</li>
<li class="chat-odd"><span class="label">Douglass Adams:</span>
Quite unexpectedly, light shined through the window in the room, which
was less surprising when you think about the fact that's what windows
are for.</li>
<li class="chat-odd"><span class="label">Lemony Snicket:</span> Light shined through the window abruptly. abruptly, usually means unexpected, or sudden. For instance, if your
mother picked you up from school after telling you twice about doing
that, it would not be abruptly. However, if someone were to tell you
your house burned down and your parents were dead without telling you to
sit down first, it would very much be called, abruptly.</li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
My primary issue with the above is the preponderance of grammatical errors and poor diction--while the four authors had divergent styles, they all had a very good grasp of grammar and mechanics. To me the most egregious error (ascribed to Tolkien) is confusing the words "hung" and "hanged"...<br />
<br />
So, rather than simply complaining, I decided to give it a go myself. Here's my stab at more or less the same thing...<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
<b>JK Rowling</b>: Then, through the window, came a sudden blaze of light.<br />
<br />
<b>JRR Tolkien</b>: There came a light through the window: it was unexpected, a torrent of ethereal gold pouring through the glass, as though the warmth of fair Lothlorien had followed them hither, spreading open its gilded arms to beckon them away from their rising despair.<br />
<br />
<b>Douglas Adams</b>: Suddenly, light shone through the window--or, rather, it would have done, had the window survived the series of shockwaves proceeding said shining light. Although some might argue that photons passing through a pile of shattered window fragments is more or less the same thing, and that is ultimately what happened.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Lemony Snicket</b>: Light poured through the window suddenly. Or, to be precise, this seemed sudden to the Baudelaires. For something to seem sudden, it would have to surprise you, or to have been somehow unexpected, meaning you did not see signs warning that it was coming. A flash of lightning would seem sudden to most people, but might be completely expected by a researcher conducting an electrical experiment. You may think that your friend's decision to move to France and study the mating habits of the Greater Scaup was sudden--but to your friend it was the natural conclusion of many hours spent considering the possibility. When my beloved Beatrice broke off our engagement, to me it seemed sudden. But the time she spent writing a two-hundred-page treatise on why we should not marry would suggest that this decision was, from her perspective, anything but sudden.Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-78569415767850077502017-03-20T19:59:00.003-06:002017-08-30T13:49:30.588-06:00keepsaketoday i watched two<br />
little crabs<br />
no bigger than a grain of sand<br />
scuttle white and camouflaged<br />
across my palm<br />
only their furtive sideways skittering<br />
setting them apart<br />
from fragments of coral and<br />
silicon crumbs<br />
(i only saw their tiny<br />
legs once i had leaned in<br />
close enough).<br />
today i filled my hands<br />
with little shells<br />
black and white and brown and<br />
seemingly the same<br />
until<br />
each resident creature gathered<br />
up the courage to come out<br />
exploring the strange new surface<br />
of my skin<br />
revealing snail or<br />
hermit crab.<br />
and then i told my dad that i<br />
would write a poem about it.<br />
that i would capture these<br />
littoral microcosms<br />
these days rolling beneath<br />
emphatic surf--<br />
seeking--seeming--seeing--<br />
liquid earth flying into roiling sea<br />
twilit walks up an overgrown hill<br />
wind tugging at branches heavy<br />
with chameleons<br />
bright hibiscus blooms<br />
color-classified<br />
by bright nineteen-month-old.<br />
i told him i would write<br />
about the feeling<br />
of salt in my hair<br />
of the entire sea stretched out<br />
beneath me<br />
of summery sunny sweetness<br />
distilled into a morning<br />
bowl of fruit<br />
of looking up at stars<br />
spattered across improbable skies<br />
even the shyest among them<br />
bright enough to see.<br />
i told him i would prove<br />
(despite<br />
fidgeting silences<br />
hot miles crossed on blistered feet<br />
staggering<br />
sleep-drunk<br />
mornings)<br />
that i could write a poem<br />
about two white crabs so small<br />
i almost didn't see them.<br />
i suppose<br />
i always meant<br />
to prove that<br />
darkness isn't the only thing<br />
i know how to write about.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-58199276369115789462017-01-25T15:06:00.000-07:002017-01-25T15:07:11.758-07:00My ACA story<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }A:link { }</style>
<br />
To whom it may concern:
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My name is Jam, and it is very likely
that Obamacare saved my life.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The initial provisions of the
Affordable Care Act began to kick in right when I otherwise would
have aged out of my dad's insurance. The timing was perfect: my dad
started to pay a small premium month to keep me covered until I
turned 26, and I wasn't left with a gap in coverage. If the ACA
hadn't come into play, my original plan was to go without
insurance—after all, I was a young, reasonably healthy college
student (or so I thought), and I couldn't afford to pay monthly
premiums anyway. The healthcare available through my university, as
far as I knew, only covered catastrophic care and visits to the
on-campus doctors and nurses, and not referrals to specialists or
extended testing.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Cut to my senior year. I've been
struggling since high school with being constantly tired and
headachey, but I attribute this to lifestyle choices and poor sleep,
and power through it. During my senior year, however, things start to
go downhill. I begin rapidly losing weight. I can't eat solid food
without terrible pain. I am constantly hungry, but full after eating
one bite. My throat is bathed in acid 24/7. I suffer like this for
almost a year, subsisting entirely on Ensure shakes and barely
pulling through some of my classes. It is a gastroenterologist, paid
for by my dad's insurance, who ends up diagnosing me with celiac
disease. There's no way to know how long I would have persevered with
antacids and protein shakes and no diagnosis if I didn't have medical
coverage. I shudder to think that undiagnosed celiac disease can lead
to severe anemia, permanent loss of digestive function, and even
intestinal cancers.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Fast forward to winter, 2014. By this
point I've had to quit at least one job due to extreme fatigue and
depression. I've powered through several temp jobs and am trying my
best to keep the one I have right now. I can't keep up with my
40-hour-per-week schedule, however. All I can think about, all day,
is sleeping. I try to get on some medication for depression, but the
side effect of sedation pushes me over the edge. I come within a
hair's breadth of attempting suicide. I call a crisis hotline for
help. The police take me to the emergency room, and I end up in a
psychiatric hospital for six days. My memory is hazy until I detox
from the benzodiazepines, but I remember one guy stabbing himself in
the leg with a dull pencil when they tried to discharge him. He knew
he wasn't ready to go. The pencil went at least an inch and half into
the muscle of his thigh. His insurance wouldn't pay for more than 72
hours. I was still on my dad's insurance, and all six of my days were
covered, minus a co-pay that my parents could split between the two
of them.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After I turn 26 and age out of my
dad's insurance, I get on the Medicaid Buy-In for Working Adults with
Disabilities in my state—which, if I understand correctly, could only be
created via funding from the ACA. My fatigue is increasing, week
after week. I cut my working hours to 32 per week. I have to quit
that job and seek out another one that will let me work 20 hours a
week. I have to cut those hours to 15. To 10. I have to quit working
completely. I drop into regular Medicaid, which I qualify for only
due to the ACA expansion. It's January 2016. I'm having trouble
getting to the grocery store to buy food. I'm having trouble cooking
my own gluten-free meals. I can barely do laundry or sweep my own
floor. I go to the emergency room because I'm so tired it feels like
I'm dying. I'm sleeping up to 18 hours a day, and for the other 6 I
wish I were sleeping. They find nothing immediately life-threatening,
and counsel me to follow up with my primary care.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm able to schedule a sleep study
with National Jewish Health, paid for with Medicaid. By the time I go
to the sleep study, I've had to move back in with my mom because I
can't afford rent. I'm working again, but only 10 hours per week, and
even then sometimes I have to call in sick. I'm incredibly fortunate
to be working for an organization that lets me set my own schedule,
even at the last minute.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When the sleep study results come
back, I get an actual diagnosis: idiopathic hypersomnia. I start to
read about it and it explains my entire life from when I was about 16
years old. It's a very mysterious and rare condition, but is believed
to be a cousin to narcolepsy. Having this condition is like having
tranquilizers constantly in your blood. Waking up in the morning is
like fighting through a bottle of Xanax to keep your eyes open.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The good news: there's medication for
that--paid for with Medicaid. It takes a few months to find a good one and adjust the dose,
but I go from maybe 10 hours of work a week on a good week to a solid
15 to 20 every week. I can feed myself again, do some cleaning, run
errands on my days off. I still can't work a 40 hour workweek—the
medication is not a perfect cure-all—but I have hope again. The fog
of depression that's been following me around since high school
lifts. I don't want to die in the mornings anymore. I don't
constantly think about giving up. I no longer obsess about cutting
myself, burning myself, hurting myself just enough to release
adrenaline, to keep me feeling more awake—even just 15 more
minutes. Taking my medication feels like magic. So this is what it's
like to get through a day without desperately needing a nap. So this
is what it's like to actually want to get up and do something. So
this is what it's like to feel awake.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As the current administration begins
the process of dismantling the ACA, I've been researching my options.
My current income from working part time and picking up odd jobs, in
a good month, is around $1000. The out-of-pocket costs of my current
medication, at my current dose, would be about $300 to $600 dollars
per month. And that's not including necessary office visits to talk
about side effects, adjust dosages, and check in to obtain more
prescriptions. Without medication, I would completely lose my
ability to work, and would have to rely on the kindness of friends
and family in order to stay alive—or on government disability
payments, although that's not looking good, since they already denied me the last time I deteriorated. I know that my parents won't let
me starve or live out on the streets, but it's more than just being
able to work. What kind of quality of life is it to sleep for 18
hours a day and stumble around in a stupor for the rest of it? How
could I possibly keep my depression from coming back? Without access
to regular therapy, what hope would I have to keep myself from
falling back into the type of suicidal pit that almost claimed my
life two years ago?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At this point in time I have five
pre-existing conditions: autism spectrum disorder, celiac disease,
recurrent depression (severe), idiopathic hypersomnia, and polycystic
ovary syndrome. Without the provisions of the ACA that protect people
like me with pre-existing conditions, where am I going to get
coverage? What kind of medications, therapies, doctor's visits, am I
going to be able to afford on $1000 a month? If I'm shunted into a
state-run “high risk pool,” what kind of premiums and co-pays
will I be able to afford?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Not to mention, the “idiopathic”
part of idiopathic hypersomnia means, “without known cause.”
There is a biological reason that I have the symptoms that I have,
even if it's unknown now. Cutting off my healthcare at the root means
I'll never have a chance to figure out that ultimate, original,
causal diagnosis, which for all I know might even have a cure.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
All I want is to have a reasonable
quality of life. I want to work for decent hours and decent wages. I
want to take pride in my occupation and in my education. I want to go
out with friends and family and enjoy their company. I want to have
the energy for my art, for my writing, for long-distance cycling, for
camping, for practicing new languages, for learning new things.
Without medication and therapy—without healthcare, I have very
little to look forward to, and very much to dread.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I hope that my story helps shed light
on how important the ACA has been to people. I believe that
affordable, accessible healthcare is a human right, and should be
given to all citizens of our nation.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Thank you for your time.</div>
Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6028320629825585767.post-27679019877851895632017-01-03T20:59:00.001-07:002017-08-30T13:49:42.860-06:00Senryuu<div dir="ltr">
Bits of old brown paper crack<br />
Under my fingers--memories splintered<br />
On a blue fitted sheet</div>
Jamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15873732007356699331noreply@blogger.com0