My longing to escape the ruckus of mankind has brought me closer to it today as I visited a park near my workplace over the lunch hour. It is a semi-wooded setting with a pond, teeming with ducks and squirrels. It is surrounded on three sides by residential homes and bordered by a major freeway exchange. So this place where I would go to ponder on the beauty of God's creation is blanketed by the neverending deluge of a million roaring tires. Egads! The earth itself throbs when the big trucks jackbreak. Even the air, which should be filled with the earthy smell of decomposing leaves, carries the faint aroma of a nearby fast food resteraunt.
Yet here still beauty survives. Corralled by asphault walking trails and concrete retaining walls, nature waits patiently for mankind to kill itself off, so that it may start anew.
Thursday, November 9, 2006
Friday, October 27, 2006
How Semi-Sweet it was
A notebook jotting from last saturday, written while sitting on a fallen tree somewhere in the middle of the St. Croix state Forest:
Tolkien was not mad when he wrote about trees conversing with one another. Anyone who has spent time in the forest (and has cared to observe) knows that this is an authentic and completely natural occurence.
In the summer they give themselves raucous standing ovations with their emerald gloves, as they sway like drunkards in the warm, narcotic breeze.
In autumn they drop their leaves, each one like a neighborhood watch flyer, creating a communal burglar alarm for the use of all forest residents.
In winter they speak very little, mostly just groans as they rub against each other for warmth.
But in spring they will crack open their buds and don their gloves once more, with all the enthusiasm of a tent-revival crowd about to be born yet again.
I have no idea why, but chocolate always tastes better in the woods.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Get out of town
155 years ago today Henry David Thoreau wrote in his journal:
So it is with journeys of the imagination. The truly remarkable destinations can only be reached by undertaking the journey on your own two feet, "Hoofing it" as I have conditioned my son to refer to it. Mental prostheses such as TV, Movies and Video Games cheapen the value of the excursion and convert the remarkable to mundane as the landscape is paved over for these vehicles of the imagination. The landmarks become familar and are blown past thoughtlessly.
There is a lake that I drive past every morning on my way to work. I would not notice it all except that I sit at a red light across the street from it every morning. That same view of the lake every single day has become like the face of a friend to me, one that reflects the mood of the day's weather. Some days the lake gives me nothing but a blank stare, with overcast grey eyes. Other days a Davinci-like smirk, as though the sunfish are swimming in the shallows and their dorsal fins are tickling her cheekbones.
Today is sunny and brisk, the changing of the leaves showing up just in the tops of the trees, like the inevitable grey that appears in the hair. All of this was reflected in the face of the lake, which stares at me every morning from across the street like a lunatic, unable to recollect that we passed each other by in this same fashion yesterday and the day before that.
I quietly post this from behind my monitor at lunchtime and do not discuss it with my colleagues. They would not understand. As the landscape of the imagination is paved over and only universally-recognized landmarks are allowed to remain, the odd little nooks and crannies are shunned by the herd.
An imaginary relationship with a lake is nothing to brag about around the water cooler, unless you would prefer to be left alone. And even though I blend into the crowd, I still harbor my imagination and my private thoughts like contraband. Because after all, even a secret relationship with a lake is better than no relationship at all.
Such is the case with all forbidden loves of the mind; they come streaming through the mire of every day life in technicolor, mottling the forest floor of your thoughts like a rays of sunlight. So delicate that even the slightest cloud in the sky can iterdict them and leave you in the gloom, waiting impatiently for that next sunbeam to break through so that you may bolt down the trail in pursuit.
"The poet must keep himself unstained and aloof. Let him perambulate the bounds of Imagination's provinces, the realm of faery, and not the insignificant boundaries of towns. The excursions of the imagination are so boundless, the limits of the town so petty."Years ago in some journal I myself observed that some of the best places in the world that you can go to you can only reach via gravel roads. I would add that greater still are those places yet beyond, that can only be reached on foot.
So it is with journeys of the imagination. The truly remarkable destinations can only be reached by undertaking the journey on your own two feet, "Hoofing it" as I have conditioned my son to refer to it. Mental prostheses such as TV, Movies and Video Games cheapen the value of the excursion and convert the remarkable to mundane as the landscape is paved over for these vehicles of the imagination. The landmarks become familar and are blown past thoughtlessly.
There is a lake that I drive past every morning on my way to work. I would not notice it all except that I sit at a red light across the street from it every morning. That same view of the lake every single day has become like the face of a friend to me, one that reflects the mood of the day's weather. Some days the lake gives me nothing but a blank stare, with overcast grey eyes. Other days a Davinci-like smirk, as though the sunfish are swimming in the shallows and their dorsal fins are tickling her cheekbones.
Today is sunny and brisk, the changing of the leaves showing up just in the tops of the trees, like the inevitable grey that appears in the hair. All of this was reflected in the face of the lake, which stares at me every morning from across the street like a lunatic, unable to recollect that we passed each other by in this same fashion yesterday and the day before that.
I quietly post this from behind my monitor at lunchtime and do not discuss it with my colleagues. They would not understand. As the landscape of the imagination is paved over and only universally-recognized landmarks are allowed to remain, the odd little nooks and crannies are shunned by the herd.
An imaginary relationship with a lake is nothing to brag about around the water cooler, unless you would prefer to be left alone. And even though I blend into the crowd, I still harbor my imagination and my private thoughts like contraband. Because after all, even a secret relationship with a lake is better than no relationship at all.
Such is the case with all forbidden loves of the mind; they come streaming through the mire of every day life in technicolor, mottling the forest floor of your thoughts like a rays of sunlight. So delicate that even the slightest cloud in the sky can iterdict them and leave you in the gloom, waiting impatiently for that next sunbeam to break through so that you may bolt down the trail in pursuit.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
River Hypnosis
The dharma bum posted a nice fly-fishing piece on his blog today. Just reading it left me with river hypnosis, that mild vertigo-like feeling that you get after you've stared at running water for too long. I first experienced it on the rum river in the 90's, skipping spinnerbaits under overhanging trees for smallies from a jonboat. More recently experienced these past two summers an streams in southern MN doing a lot of what the dharma bum described (Especially the part where he 'Indiana-Jonesed' an overhanging branch on a back cast).
His ending point, where he was at the end of his excursion, at the end of his fly fishing for the summer - that we cannot take it with us - Is a universal experience that I think all lovers of the outdoors can personally relate with. In the end, we are just visitors and eventually we have to go home. But the feeling is not unique to fishing - Everyone goes through the same thing at some level whenever they awaken from a particularly nice dream or a meaningful song comes to an end. Fisherman (& their partners) come and go with the seasons, but the land and the stream remain, and the fish that was released or spooked today will be back at his rock tomorrow and life will go on.
I choose to be encouraged by that thought rather than disappointed by it. Allthough that was not always the case.
In my younger years I foolishly considered any time spent on the water (or out in nature in general) to be my own personal experiences, with a beginning to be anticipated and an end to be dreaded. I never realized that my time was just a brief interval in a much larger experience, one that started eons before I was born and will end long after I am dead.
In the end, an "experience" may be the only way that we can rationally describe our finite interactions with things timeless and vast. It's no easy task to shift one's perspective of thinking of an experience as being anything more a minute unit of measurement, describing something that is still going on even now, minutes, days or years later. It's no easy task but it does make for interesting writing.
Music and dreams - Along with any other inspiration to the human spirit - flow like streams in our minds, just as surely as nature goes on around us with or without our participation. The rocks, the silt, the weeds and the fish are all still there, even when our lives take us elsewhere. That's what staring at moving water for hours at a time has taught me.
Bring on ice hole hypnosis!
His ending point, where he was at the end of his excursion, at the end of his fly fishing for the summer - that we cannot take it with us - Is a universal experience that I think all lovers of the outdoors can personally relate with. In the end, we are just visitors and eventually we have to go home. But the feeling is not unique to fishing - Everyone goes through the same thing at some level whenever they awaken from a particularly nice dream or a meaningful song comes to an end. Fisherman (& their partners) come and go with the seasons, but the land and the stream remain, and the fish that was released or spooked today will be back at his rock tomorrow and life will go on.
I choose to be encouraged by that thought rather than disappointed by it. Allthough that was not always the case.
In my younger years I foolishly considered any time spent on the water (or out in nature in general) to be my own personal experiences, with a beginning to be anticipated and an end to be dreaded. I never realized that my time was just a brief interval in a much larger experience, one that started eons before I was born and will end long after I am dead.
In the end, an "experience" may be the only way that we can rationally describe our finite interactions with things timeless and vast. It's no easy task to shift one's perspective of thinking of an experience as being anything more a minute unit of measurement, describing something that is still going on even now, minutes, days or years later. It's no easy task but it does make for interesting writing.
Music and dreams - Along with any other inspiration to the human spirit - flow like streams in our minds, just as surely as nature goes on around us with or without our participation. The rocks, the silt, the weeds and the fish are all still there, even when our lives take us elsewhere. That's what staring at moving water for hours at a time has taught me.
Bring on ice hole hypnosis!
Friday, September 1, 2006
Perfection
A great quote from Henry David Thoreau,
over at The Blog of Henry David Thoreau:
"Is not disease the rule of existence? There is not a lily pad floating on the river but has been riddled by insects. Almost every shrub and tree has its gall, oftentimes esteemed its chief ornament and hardly to be distinguished from the fruit. If misery loves company, misery has company enough. Now, at midsummer, find me a perfect leaf or fruit."
This quote led me to think of our society's opulence, how we have become perfectionists who dig through the fruit bins looking for the unblemished specimens while spotted fruit gets moved to the side and ultimately is thrown out. All this goes on in our nation on a daily basis while a part of the larger world starves. To meet our demand and to get our dollars the food growers have responded by increasing the use of pesticides, preservatives and artificial fertilizers (Insert Joni Mitchell lyrics here).
I'm part of that system and most likely you are too. I only bring this up because I have been wracking my brain around finding my own way out of the system, to get my family to the point where we can choose what level we will participate in the economy. We are doing quite well for ourselves but I continue to have the uncomfortable awareness that if prices were to skyrocket without a signifigant change in our income or God forbid there was a downturn in our income due to layoff or illness, we would fold up. Not right away, not even in six months (at current market rates), but savings can only last for a finite period and even that is uncertain if you introduce a scenario where the dollar plummets in value.
The gold standard is worthless if nobody is interested in buying any gold. What carries intrinsic value that would survive a market crash? Corn on the stalk, potatoes in the ground and animals in the field.
There are plenty of blogs out there with a lot of people trying to find their own paths away from dependence on the market based economy. This one, my blog, isn't really one of them. It's pretty much an over glorified cat blog. But nevertheless I will continue to document this attempt of mine to shift my paradigm (In between posting pictures of flowers).
inconsistent, obscure and hebephrenic.
That's my promise to you.
PS - That's a really nice service that some poor soul is doing, over at that Thoreau blog. You should really go check it out. I wish that blogging existed back in the days of the founding fathers up through civil war time. I bet Franklin would have cranked out 3-5 posts a day.
over at The Blog of Henry David Thoreau:
"Is not disease the rule of existence? There is not a lily pad floating on the river but has been riddled by insects. Almost every shrub and tree has its gall, oftentimes esteemed its chief ornament and hardly to be distinguished from the fruit. If misery loves company, misery has company enough. Now, at midsummer, find me a perfect leaf or fruit."
This quote led me to think of our society's opulence, how we have become perfectionists who dig through the fruit bins looking for the unblemished specimens while spotted fruit gets moved to the side and ultimately is thrown out. All this goes on in our nation on a daily basis while a part of the larger world starves. To meet our demand and to get our dollars the food growers have responded by increasing the use of pesticides, preservatives and artificial fertilizers (Insert Joni Mitchell lyrics here).
I'm part of that system and most likely you are too. I only bring this up because I have been wracking my brain around finding my own way out of the system, to get my family to the point where we can choose what level we will participate in the economy. We are doing quite well for ourselves but I continue to have the uncomfortable awareness that if prices were to skyrocket without a signifigant change in our income or God forbid there was a downturn in our income due to layoff or illness, we would fold up. Not right away, not even in six months (at current market rates), but savings can only last for a finite period and even that is uncertain if you introduce a scenario where the dollar plummets in value.
The gold standard is worthless if nobody is interested in buying any gold. What carries intrinsic value that would survive a market crash? Corn on the stalk, potatoes in the ground and animals in the field.
There are plenty of blogs out there with a lot of people trying to find their own paths away from dependence on the market based economy. This one, my blog, isn't really one of them. It's pretty much an over glorified cat blog. But nevertheless I will continue to document this attempt of mine to shift my paradigm (In between posting pictures of flowers).
inconsistent, obscure and hebephrenic.
That's my promise to you.
PS - That's a really nice service that some poor soul is doing, over at that Thoreau blog. You should really go check it out. I wish that blogging existed back in the days of the founding fathers up through civil war time. I bet Franklin would have cranked out 3-5 posts a day.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Speeding Ticket
Note to all Twin Cities motorists who travel 694:
Watch your speed, because the 5-0 are using lasers.
This morning:
78 in a 60, first ticket in nearly 7 years. Unexpected expense, conflict within the household and now my budget for the fall trip is otherwise spoken for, as in there isn't going to be one for me this year.
Crap.
Watch your speed, because the 5-0 are using lasers.
This morning:
78 in a 60, first ticket in nearly 7 years. Unexpected expense, conflict within the household and now my budget for the fall trip is otherwise spoken for, as in there isn't going to be one for me this year.
Crap.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
"What'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest..."
-Bob Dylan
I went fishing this past Saturday and this is what I saw.
Click on photos to enlarge (Open in new windows)
The Big River.
Roadside photo, taken between Winona and Wabasha.
The sun, setting over a Farm.
Taken from a moving vehicle somewhere between
Red Wing and Miesville
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest..."
-Bob Dylan
I went fishing this past Saturday and this is what I saw.
Click on photos to enlarge (Open in new windows)
My kind of sign.
Storm Clouds looming to the North...
...but balmy skies to the south.
The catch of the day.
I got this rainbow trout with a black Wooly Bugger.
Maybe keeping him wasn't the most sporting thing to do, but he sure tasted good cooked fresh, stuffed with herbs and blanched in butter & lemon juice.
The Big River.
Roadside photo, taken between Winona and Wabasha.
The sun, setting over a Farm.
Taken from a moving vehicle somewhere between
Red Wing and Miesville
A cool cloud formation.
Also taken from a moving vehicle somewhere between
Red Wing and Miesville.
The sun, setting over a corn field.
I pulled over to get this shot. Taken North of Miesville
(Home of the Miesville Mudhens).
The sun's last gasp.
Taken from a moving vehicle North of Cottage Grove.
Monday, July 24, 2006
One Minute of Silence
Pictures and a post about my saturday fishing trip are still forthcoming. In the meantime, please enjoy my version of a show about nothing:
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Better Late than Never
I'm finally going fishing for the first time this summer.
It happens Saturday - come rain, shine, hell or high water.
It happens Saturday - come rain, shine, hell or high water.
Monday, June 5, 2006
The BWCA gets Wikified
The Dharma Bum has started a wiki site for the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. The wiki site "...is meant to serve as a resource for anyone who wants to learn more about the area, about camping and canoeing there, etc."
Go check it out:
http://www.bwcawiki.org
Go check it out:
http://www.bwcawiki.org
Tuesday, May 2, 2006
In the midst of Life
There is a busy road near my house that cuts through a wetland, and at 7 in the morning it is congested with me and all of my neighbors from the surrounding developments as we race from our homes to our workplaces. The posted speed is 50, which means that everyone goes about 65.
This morning I was in the left lane when the car in front of me came to an abrupt halt. I had to stand on my brakes to avoid hitting him - I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach as I heard the screeching brakes behind me and I waited for the impact. It never came, because thankfully the drivers behind me were alert. The car in front of me slowly started rolling forward, and I saw that he had come to a stop on top of a group of ducklings. The mother hopped up on the median and turned back to look at her brood. It was too dangerous for me to even think about staying stopped in the road, or getting out to check for survivors. I too rolled forward, over the crumpled bodies of her young.
It doesn't take a lot to change your entire perspective for the day. As I continued on to the babysitter I looked over my shoulder at my own 'duckling,' in his carseat, so helpless and at the mercy of his parents. I voiced a prayer of thanks that we were spared from an accident.
That hen led her ducklings into a slaughter because she could not understand the danger that she was walking them into. Thankfully for me there is a higher wisdom to lean on in my own life, and the undertakings that come with it. I just need to remind myself daily to lean on that wisdom, rather than my own understandings. I prayed for myself and my wife for more wisdom & foresight, so that our son might never have to bear the consequences of a lapse in our judgement in such a terrible fashion as those ducklings had.
It seems to be a little perverse to suggest that the deaths of those baby mallards achieved some sort of meaning because some fat white suburbanite who played an active role in their demise was reminded to put his trust in God. But then again, are there many things more perverse than a meaningless death?
This morning I was in the left lane when the car in front of me came to an abrupt halt. I had to stand on my brakes to avoid hitting him - I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach as I heard the screeching brakes behind me and I waited for the impact. It never came, because thankfully the drivers behind me were alert. The car in front of me slowly started rolling forward, and I saw that he had come to a stop on top of a group of ducklings. The mother hopped up on the median and turned back to look at her brood. It was too dangerous for me to even think about staying stopped in the road, or getting out to check for survivors. I too rolled forward, over the crumpled bodies of her young.
It doesn't take a lot to change your entire perspective for the day. As I continued on to the babysitter I looked over my shoulder at my own 'duckling,' in his carseat, so helpless and at the mercy of his parents. I voiced a prayer of thanks that we were spared from an accident.
That hen led her ducklings into a slaughter because she could not understand the danger that she was walking them into. Thankfully for me there is a higher wisdom to lean on in my own life, and the undertakings that come with it. I just need to remind myself daily to lean on that wisdom, rather than my own understandings. I prayed for myself and my wife for more wisdom & foresight, so that our son might never have to bear the consequences of a lapse in our judgement in such a terrible fashion as those ducklings had.
It seems to be a little perverse to suggest that the deaths of those baby mallards achieved some sort of meaning because some fat white suburbanite who played an active role in their demise was reminded to put his trust in God. But then again, are there many things more perverse than a meaningless death?
Friday, April 28, 2006
A Scare
Instead of posting pictures on Joshua's birthday I spent my time trying to recover 3 years worth of photos off my PC's Hard drive. My Board and CPU are over 7 years old, the hard drive is at least 5. The computer just started randomly freezing. I was lucky enough to be able to move the hard drive to the wife's machine as a slave and suck up all those files. But for the time being I am without my image editing software.
Time to take advantage of the Laptop's CD burner and do me some archiving....
Time to take advantage of the Laptop's CD burner and do me some archiving....
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