There are a LOT of unique trail-running races, and more are created every year. The (Rabbit-Ears) “10k @ 10k” has been being run since at least 1988, when I first ran it. It probably started a few years earlier. The 1988 … Continue reading
Mid June, dorgzeneye went further up Escalante Canyawn than i’ve ever been — above “the Forks.” Below, the dogs of the forest, or, of the high desert … One of the rare straight and open stretches of the road … Continue reading
Just as a character in Pynchon’s Against the Day advocated that the world ended in 1914, I too, had an equivalent epiphany. On December 5, 1971, sitting on a hill outside of Boulder, my perceptions and mind-set ‘aided’ by substances not then legitimized in Colorawdough, I not so much ‘saw’, but felt/intuited the “end,” right then. The faithful, the gross-one-thousand transcendent souls were transported to whatever adjoining but safe realm, and the remainder of us left to forage, continue, dream/night-mare on in a collective illusion.
Sometimes, like today, I almost wake up. Driving to work, as I have done 4.5 times a week for the past 5+ years, I turned left and saw a rock outcrop above the river, superimposed on a checkerboard of alternating cliff-faces and passages in between. It clicked. The mental photograph stuck with me, much as the subsequent hillside of rock mounds and gullies yielded strong evidence (to me) of a not-impossible mathematical solution. It didn’t last long.
A few miles later I considered that myself, as an excuse for a human soul — the same stuff as everybody — might choose not to enmesh with the underlying all-knowing oneness of the fundamental cosmic unity, but continue on in sansara. The whirled of illusion. Pursuing what to the cosmic are petty dalliances, but for the individual, what we may, in our ignorance, conceive to be worthwhile pursuits.
Betty models the Stone (w)Ring of Doom. The (w)Ring can suck in dog heads, and other semi-animate objects.
Later during the commute, my mind shut down entirely. I couldn’t even listen to the blather on the radio. I thought about beer, girlfriends and wives and lovers I’d have in future lifetimes, with only occasional forays into what could I do to advance and promote … happiness for everybody.
(No, I don’t really believe that. I hope … )
So, when the still sea conspires an armor …
& her sullen&aborted currents breed tiny monsters,
♪ TRUE SAILING IS DEAD !
awkward instant, and the 1st animal is jettisoned, legs furiously pumping, their stiff green gallop,
and heads bob up, poise, delicate, pause, consent.
In mute nostril agony, and sealed over !!
(with apologeez to GymMorrisun)
Poor equines. But if you want to buy vintage blue jeans …
Yeah, it only took me 3 (more?) years to finish Against the Day (by T. Pynchon). Heck, remember, it only took FIFTY years for me to become, if not the “Big” man in the Locker Room, well — a Medium-sized one. (Hint: read BMITLR). It has taken umpteen lifetimes to get to whatever point i am in the yooniversal mobius strip. Reminds me … a former friend made a real nice mobius strip, painted, stiff construction paper, a gift to me, of the two polarity-opposite-extreme sayings i once envisioned on one of those ‘quests': HANG ON, & LET GO. Steve Boker. He’s some sort of quasi-mystic whacko-psychology professor at the U of Virginia. He (and enslaved grad students) has written learned? treatises on, among other things, how and why people dance to whatever it is they dance to. I suppose I too, get paid for what may seem like esoteric pursuits…
THAT ROck is a weeurd one, eh? like overlaying gloves cumulatively of many many fingers — of course there is a geologic explanation. It’s a heavy sucker, otherwise we’d-a probably loaded it into the truck, and
Rosco’s “totem animal(s)”. Seems they’re often close, watching me. Many’s the times I’m on a run or bike workout and the shadows sweep overhead, across my path.
Betty adopted Georgia (“JaJa”) in late February. We CAN’T be just a one-dog family!
The Inconvenience (the dirigible which appears and is a frequent part of Against the Day) is constantly having her engineering updated. As a result of advances in relativity theory, light is incorporated as a source of motive power — though … Continue reading
Many years ago (probably more than 20) my family and my sister’s family were soaking in the Ouray Hot Springs Pool on a stormy summer afternoon. I have done a few soaks in that venue over the past 30 or so years, but that afternoon stands out.
No, it doesn’t stand out ’cause of familial accord or anything like that. In fact, my family (and that of my sister and her husband’s slacker trust-fund friend and his dysfunctional family) were not part of the … special-ness.
Like I said, it was mid-summer, and mid-summer in the high mountains runs the weather gamut from bone-dry parchingly hot to glimpses of the inevitable return of winter. And this afternoon had hints of the later. Ominous menacing glowering thunderheads of impending doom over the jagged mountain-tops. Perfect time to be in a 100-degree-plus body of water. And there was a volleyball game.
My sibling’s and my respective families preferred that day to cluster, or huddle, in the hottest pool at Ouray Hot Springs. Which is what I like to do — but back then I liked a mix of activity interspersed with interludes of hard-core slothfulness. And so
I rolled over the concrete wall between the hottest part of the pool and the much-cooler section where the volleyball game was in progress. No invitation necessary — it seemed anybody who wanted to participate was welcome. You know, you can tell, this was not a group of people from just one family, or same town, or same club. It was obvious — the vibe transcended such limitations.
At one end of the playing area were four or so teenagers from Saudi Arabia. Three middle-aged slightly corpulent ladies from Germany were on the other side of the net. A couple from Canada. An intense fellow from France — who had to swim off every 5 or 10 minutes for another cigarette. And Americans of an age range from 10 to older than me, from many parts of the country and not just caucasian ethnocentricity. Possibly the best player out there was a woman of African ancestry who must have been a college athlete (in some sport other than volleyball). And the worst player was a Asian Californian who had to have been the consummate computer geek — how else could you explain such enthusiasm coupled with an almost complete lack of athletic aptitude?
After one somewhat lopsided game, I suggested that the one Saudi who apparently took this game seriously switch sides. And the one German woman who displayed more than a slight athletic ability also go to the other side of the net, replacing (?) the other side’s best player.
Games were much closer after that. We’d play to 21, most everyone was cold and scrambled over the wall to the hot pool … after a few minutes a couple or three teenagers would start lobbing the ball back-and-forth and everyone who had been playing before would be out there and the next game started.
With swirling storm clouds hiding the tops of the peaks, the occasional sun peaking through patches of brilliant blue sky, we’d enthusiastically play each point — high fives on the winning-point side (frequent high-fives for a valiant losing effort), good-natured derogatory punches for a futile dive, there was camaraderie all around.
I have joined in (or occasionally started) pick-up volleyball games from time to time since the early 1970’s. Why, I (and everyone else involved) had a heckuva lotta fun in Hana, island of Maui, Hawaii in 1988 or so. My family stopped at a beach, kids were young, doing beach stuff. I saw a single fellow down by the ocean at a net, just tapping and hitting a ball up into the air. I wandered on over, soon we were casually hitting it over the net, before long another couple guys joined in, I think we ended up at four per side. Many games. Group dunks in the drink when we got hot. ‘Twas a good time.
So was this. I didn’t dwell on the international relations aspect of this experience at the time, but heck. This was great. Everyone focused on fun, laughing, jumping, splashing, interacting … from a half-dozen countries and from four racial backgrounds.
If this could serendipitously happen in, of all places, Ouray Colorado, how wonderful it would be if volleyball games like this occurred all over the world, all the time.
Villas la Paz, ConchalCostaRica.com In a sense, I have been searching for La Paz (español for “peace”) all my life. Haven’t we all? Oh, and perhaps I have been searching for the Villas de la Paz for many years. Innocence? Oh, yes. … Continue reading
This past February, we spent two days in the vicinity of Volcan Rincon de la Vieja National Park in Costa Rica. Highly recommended. An interesting, educational, somewhat nearby interlude from what would have been a ‘strictly’ beachside sojourn. Costa Rica … Continue reading
COASTA to Welcome WREEKA ! When I arranged a family trip to Costa Rica almost a year ago, I made the assumption that there was just one International airport in the country — the capitol, San Jose. With the 20-20 … Continue reading
I don’t, and won’t claim to be an expert on vida-de-la-playa, especialmente en Costa Rica, but heck, I spent more time barefoot with the sand between my toes last month than … oh, for at least the past five years, … Continue reading
Nublados en Paraìso Pobre Rosco. Los buitres o busardos miren el todo el tiempo. Voy intentar a decir un relato, un relato-adentro-un-relato. Sì, tuve algun divertido en nuestro viaje extranjero. Pero, no estuvo la verdad por todo la familia. Betty … Continue reading