• Politics. It’s no secret that I like President Obama, what he wants to accomplish and how. Still, I’ve decided that I’m not cut out for politics, and I’ll try to explain why as succinctly as possible. First, everyone thinks they can run the country (or anything else) better than the person running it. Similarly, in today’s political climate what someone says rarely has any effect on what someone else thinks. People like to be right, myself included. That’s not to say there aren’t respectful listeners or political conversationalists out there, but I think that if there was one true solution to the country’s problems, someone would have found it already. Politics seems to me an infinite argument between two immovable objects. I can’t rationalize participating in such a stressful situation when the outcome is meaningless. So, I’ve decided to keep my opinions to myself and for my own benefit, though it’s often an enormous exercise in self-control, given some of the company that I keep. I’m thankful that some individuals have the strength to argue endlessly with one another because I do not. More personally, I often feel intimidated when in the presence of political discussion because I do not like to argue something without being at least very knowledgeable about it. With the tremendous complexity of most issues, I don’t think I could justifiably argue one way or another. This is one instance where I consider “ignorance is bliss” to be an appropriate statement. Politics is fundamentally a human constructed source of stress and contention. We have decided to attack and defend as if it were a healthy and necessary thing to do. I’m not sure who determined this was a positive course of action for the human race, but I take comfort in admitting that “I know nothing,” an adage spoken by at least one Greek philosopher.
• Fashion. The latest and greatest, at least. Comfortable, inexpensive, practical. That’s it.
• Celebrities. Celebrity worship in particular. Superficial idolatry. I admire certain musicians, actors, artists, etc. for their contributions to the world, not for what they wear, with whom they’re seen, or where they go. I don’t care.
• Organized religion. Similar to politics, no one has the answer. If something happens after I die, awesome. If not, I won’t have to worry about it because I’ll be dead. I like eastern philosophy because it emphasizes me, my mind, and enjoying THIS life NOW, rather than working and hoping for a place that may or may not exist.
• Sports. Golf and martial arts not withstanding. I simply don’t hold the ability to throw a ball in high regard. More importantly, however, I lose no sleep over baskets and goals and touchdowns. No self-devestation when the purple shirts lose. It’s a beautiful thing.

Obviously, some people are going to be aghast over how I can possibly not care about such things. It’s not that they aren’t important, it’s that they’re unimportant to me, and devoting time and energy to them would be wasteful when I could be working/thinking/doing something else that I enjoy. These things quite simply have nothing to do with who I am or whom I strive to be.

I have no direction with this entry, but since I rarely deem my thoughts to be blog worthy, and at least one person would like to see more frequent Lamp Post updates, I decided to start typing.

An ambulance just doppler’d its way past our window. I’ve never heard an ambulance siren with gunfire in the background before.  It’s kind of disconcerting. The shooters didn’t cease fire upon hearing the siren, however, so I assume they are unrelated occurrences. Or the people shooting are villainous.

It’s freezing in my regular office in the Adanti Student Center. I regularly turn the thermostat up above “warm,” and it regularly gets pushed back to “frigid.” I don’t know why.  I need an SCSU hoodie. I’m looking forward to picking one out.

So, the FYE office is located in the Old Student Center, which I think is largely abandoned except for

our temporary headquarters on the first floor.  It’s right across the hall from the bathroom, which is awesome, but the urinals in the men’s bathroom are absurdly uncomfortable. Well, maybe they would be comfortable if you sat in one, but as far as their intended purpose goes, they’re pretty unforgiving. Luckily, the entire building is pretty empty, so it’s actually kind of liberating.

I consolidated my bookmarks into drop down categories in Safari today, which is pretty awesome.  One of my few caveats with Safari is that, to my knowledge, it doesn’t support favicons, so bookmarks on the bookmarks bar take up a lot of space. Grouping them adds an extra step, but helps make it more streamlined.

Speaking of streamlined, I’ve been trying to incorporate more minimalism into my life lately (if not in my writing… sorry ENG-517!) Minimalism, with its connection to various schools of eastern thought, advocates the omission of needless things, translated as “get rid of stuff you don’t need.” It’s kind of tricky, but I like it. For further reading, I recommend Leo Babauta’s new minimalist blog. … also recommended is his acclaimed Zen Habits, featuring advice on productivity, simplicity, health, fitness, family, finances, and happiness. Bookmark it.

Speaking further of streamlined, Google just released Google Chrome 3.0, their snappy web browser that’s barely a year old this month and already on par with Firefox in terms of general awesomeness as well as version numbers (irrelevant as that may be). As a lover of all things Google, I highly recommend it for its speed, stability, and minimalist qualities. Download it.

What else is going on…

Hmmm. Nothing, I guess. Perhaps it’s time for a new segment.

SELECTIONS FROM TEH INTERWEBZ:

Listen to President Obama Call Kanye West a Jackass.

More interrupting Kanye memes.

I consider it a gross miscalculation on Someone’s part, and while I love symmetry as much as the next guy, I can’t help but think that it would have been tremendously more convenient for me to have been born with anywhere between four and eight hands.  I don’t even necessarily need any more arms; just a couple extra sets of hands at the end of each wrist would be superb.

My longing for this bodily upgrade stems from: A) the fact that I HATE carrying things, and B) the fact that I am ALWAYS carrying something.  Part B is particularly true with regard to the trip from my car to my house, in which I could potentially be carrying any combination of a backpack, water bottle, keys, iPod, karate uniform, iPhone, a change of clothes, maybe another pair of shoes, assorted paperwork/mail, and any other arbitrary object that finds its way into my front seat and selfishly demands to be taken inside.  Given that the average pair of slacks only has two functional pockets (the back right being allocated to my wallet and only my wallet, and the back left being entirely unworthy of being given any sort of responsibility), my options are egregiously limited.  The iPhone always goes in the front left pocket, face down, screen against my leg, and the front right is always occupied by chapstick at the very least.  However, the front right pocket also shoulders the burden of housing my keys, pen, and iPod, etc., provided there are no jacket pockets available to provide additional support.  No other objects may go in the iPhone pocket out of concern for the iPhone’s safety, comfort and general well-being.  Full pockets are inhibiting and cumbersome, however, they do increase, although not guarantee, the likelihood of empty hands and therefore may be justified in certain situations.

Unlocking and opening a car door, exiting the vehicle, and closing and locking the door while encumbered like a statistically overweight pack mule saps one’s spirit like little else at 5:30 on a Tuesday afternoon.  We will agree that this is accomplished through sheer force of will and leave it at that.  Still to come, however, is the 15 foot walk from the driver’s side door to the house itself. Mercy.

For this quest, one can assume that the backpack is carried appropriately, acorrding to its namesake, but in my state of combined exhaustion, mounting frustration and impending relief at the day’s conclusion, I often tend to get overzealous and try to pull off the oh-so-casual single strap method of backpack carrying, which constantly backfires, as I seem to lack the broad shoulders capable of pulling off such a suave technique.  This deficiency results in the exquisite moment when the backpack slides off my shoulder and proceeds to hang wonderfully from the crook of my elbow, rendering my right arm essentially useless.  My keys, being in their assigned location in my right pocket, now pose a serious issue because if I reach down to get them, I will be forced to straighten my arm, and the backpack will fall, nay, plummet to the driveway, risking damage to a precious MacBook and little else.

It would be extremely convenient to be able to call upon my left arm for aid in such a physical quandary, but, luckily for all involved, it’s occupied by the carrying of any of the above mentioned items.  The front door fast approaching, I must deftly fish out my keys while avoiding the sacrifice of my backpack. The physics of such a manuever are too far beyond the realm of modern thinking for me to express to you using the medium of the English language, so suffice it to say I succeeded.

Sweating and inflated with rage at the apparently inherent impossibility of getting inside your own house, the task of unlocking a door while carrying the universe in your arms and on your person is not a welcome one.  Not to mention the tiny fact that a hand charged with unlocking a door is forced to ONLY handle that task and nothing else. That’s fifty percent of my carrying capacity. Gone. And of course the deadbolt is locked because seriously, why wouldn’t it be? I’m glad we have chosen to enact this extra security measure. And oh good, the inside door is locked as well, just to confirm any intruder’s lock picking prowess.

Let us assume I’ve made it inside at this point. Shoes are staying on because if I put everything down to take them off, nothing is coming back up. WHY do we have this third door? At least it doesn’t lock because I don’t want to have to kick my way into my own house, which would upset my living space.  Though struggling and claustrophobic with the weight of my immense baggage, I have to refill my water bottle while I’m in the kitchen because I’m not coming back up here after I go downstairs, regardless of how much water my sleeves or the floor may have to endure. DAMN YOU, basement door. Get out of my path. At the risk of broken ankles, I allow gravity to carry my wracked body down the stairs, its carrying capacity being much greater and more impressive than my own. Upon reaching my desk, in a final move of exasperation, everything is released and crashes to the floor, and I gasp incredulously over why I have so much crap. But at least now the day is done, and I may collapse in peace.

And a final note: no, no I will not make multiple trips. That is absurd. I don’t have the time or the strength for such a ridiculous notion. How about we carry everything together? Then we can make one trip and still be alive to talk about it afterward. If I can’t have more hands of my own, perhaps I can rent some of yours.

Rock and Roll All Nite – Kiss

The first and probably most frequent offender of my ears is, without question, “Rock and Roll All Nite” by the rock band Kiss. I almost struggle to find the words required to express the sheer egregiousness of this song, but I will do the best I can for you, the reader.

AHHH… WANNA ROCK AND ROLL ALL NIIIIIGHT… AND PARTY EVER-Y-DAY!!

Let’s begin with the title, which obviously contains a blatant spelling error. Let me put this rumor to rest: purposely mispelling words does not, will not, and has never made you cool. I’m looking at you, Korn. You’re ruining a delicious vegetable’s good name with your auditory filth.

AHHH… WANNA ROCK AND ROLL ALL NIIIIIGHT… AND PARTY EVER-Y-DAY!!

But this is about Kiss and their horrific grown-men-who-still-think-they’re-19 anthem. According to the omniscience of Wikipedia, Kiss was inspired to write this song upon hearing “Cum On Feel the Noize” by the band Slade… (future installment obviously forthcoming). Listen, Kiss, you are fully grown men, and it’s time to get a job. I’ll call your mom and have her ready a warm wash cloth for you so you can wipe off that ridiculous facepaint. You’re not cool. And I don’t care how long your tongue is, Gene. You’ll not stimulate my vagina, I can tell you that right now. Go suck the syph out of whore #3,734.

AHHH… WANNA ROCK AND ROLL ALL NIIIIIGHT… AND PARTY EVER-Y-DAY!!

The above line is one of the most tortuous of all music lyrics. It just repeats… over… and over… AND OVER. The first time, ok that was mildly catchy. The second time, oh, they’re singing what they just sang again. K, got it. 17th time, wow, I wish I was Marvin Nash from Reservoir Dogs so I could have my ears cut off by a murderous psyhopath, because that sounds like a much more pleasurable alternative than AHHH… WANNA ROCK AND ROLL ALL NIIIIIGHT… AND PARTY EVER-Y-DAY!!

God, I hate that song.

Music: Write a Song – Dave Matthews Band

I’m sorry to say it, but it seems that post-grad depression is a bit of an inevitability.

Summer generally lost its luster for me during my collegiate years, as days of interesting academia coupled with daily memory-making thanks to amazing friends tended to give way to multiple part time jobs and an exhausting quest to make as much money as possible in the three months before my income regressed to a paltry $76 a week.  As bleak as it was, it was usually a fairly manageable situation thanks to thoughts of returning to school, friends and free time.  Now, of course, I’m afforded no such consolation.  Well, I take that back… as I have grad school classes in the fall and presumably new friends to make at SCSU, but it will be difficult for those things to live up to the academic/people experience I’ve had thus far.

At any rate, there’s no sense in dwelling in despair when it is, in fact, summertime, despite the unrelenting deluge brought to us by the gulf stream, which has decided to park itself over Connecticut for the entirety of June.

I want to say something about Big Whiskey & the GrooGrux King: I love this album. While it undoubtedly doesn’t stack up to the perfection of the holy triad of DMB’s first three albums, it is a tremendous step in the right direction, a return to form, and, dare I say, a bit of a tour de force in its own right.  The spirit of LeRoi Moore is well preserved throughout the album’s 13 joyfully somber tracks.

“Grux” is a beautiful opening piece, and it epitomizes LeRoi’s voice as a musician and human being.  ”Shake Me Like a Monkey” will rock your face off, though I must admit I’m a sucker for funky brass and heavy grooves. “Funny the Way It Is” is an uplifting single, and I still enjoy it even though it’s made for radio airplay.  ”Lying In the Hands of God” is one of the real gems on the record.  Lyrically, musically, moodily… it’s gorgeous.  Undoubtedly one of the best songs the band has written in quite a few years.  ”Why I Am,” LeRoi’s anthem, is another grin-inducing rocker, and it feels good to know that “heaven or hell, I’m going there with the GrooGrux King.”

“Dive In” is a bit of a sleeper at first, but it quickly grew on me, and it has wonderful environmental imagery.  This song really exemplifies the “somber joy” that permeates most of the album, as the music is elevating while the lyrics describe a mournful future in an inspiring tone that will make you do a mental double take upon repeated listens.  ”Spaceman” juxtaposes slow-song music with swift, syncopated lyrics, but it actually works quite well.  It contains one or two of the albums occasional lyrical cringes, but it’s a solid and catchy tune nonetheless.  ”Squirm” … oh, how I love “Squirm.”  The dark horse of the album, this song is an eerie monster with slinking and growled lyrics, stormy chants and middle eastern themes, and an epic chorus.  The polar opposite of LitHoG, but equally wonderful and awesome.

“Alligator Pie” pulls of the swampy funk theme where “Louisiana Bayou” (off 2005′s largely abysmal Stand Up) could not.  The lyrics, while not particularly thought-provoking are groovy and fit the bayou theme well. The sudden transitions will likely make some listeners uncomfortable, but once they become familiar and expected they’ll pose no problem.  This song also contains a lovely bridge.  ”Seven” is probably the weakest track on the album, receiving scathing reviews from fans upon being played live before the album was released, but it translated fairly well in the studio.  Again, the horns and music are tight, but the album’s lyrics are at their weakest here.  ”Time Bomb” evokes the ethereal vibes of past masterpieces like “The Dreaming Tree” (off 1998′s epic Before These Crowded Streets) before transitioning into a fairly straightforward rocker.  The slower portions are stronger pieces of music, but, despite a lone lyrical blemish, the song remains a good one.  ”Baby Blue” might as well have come straight off Dave’s 2003 solo album, Some Devil, which is largely a good thing, other than feeling like a Dave solo song on a DMB record.  Gentle and orchestral, and probably the real “slow song” on the record.  ”You & Me” is the true ray of light on an otherwise largely dark album. Though lyrically a bit simplistic, its catchy “we’re in love” chorus ends the experience on a happy note.

Ultimately, I think most fans should be equal parts pleased and relieved with this album… Pleased that it shows the band with renewed strength and enthusiasm, and relieved that a producer has not plastered his name all over the songwriting credits in the liner notes.  Though it’s not without flaws, it is a highly enjoyable “joyfully somber” record, my own fandom not withstanding, and I’m very thankful to have had it during this emotionally tumultuous period of my existence.

….

So, I suppose that was several things about Big Whiskey… but anyway…

Perhaps I should write a book entitled “Regeneration Through Music.”

In other news, I am in love with my new MacBook Pro.  I’m blogging on it right now; the keys are silky smooth beneath my fingers, and the 15″ display is easily the eighth wonder of the world, in addition to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Great Barrier Reef.

Keith and I have been playing actual games of golf, which has been delightfully distracting.  I shot a glorious 97 on a par 60 course the other day. It’s so much more difficult than you could ever imagine.  Play golf. Love golf.

What else is giving me the strength to get out of bed… I should be hearing from SCSU regarding the grad internship soon.  That would be enjoyable news, a new beginning of source as a member of a new Student Life.  New people abound.  Plus an almost respectable income and handled tuition. Seems like it could be a nice new period of my life.

As peeved as I was that I listened to Keith and AT&T instead of my reputable e-sources and bought the iPhone a month ago, rendering me ineligible to get the 3GS for another TWO YEARS unless I want to pay $600 for it, I still love the iPhone 3.0 software. Landscape text is sexual, as is cut/copy/paste.  And it all runs so much smoother too.  Mmmmm… Apple. Play Peggle.

I love music more and more everyday.  I LOVE BASS. I want to play it for a living. On stage having a blast in front of people.  I may have found a drummer, so that’s a start.  It’s amazing how therapeutic a piece of wood with four strings on it can be. The essence of my being is my bass. God, I love that thing.

I also love karate.  I always hesitate to say I do “karate” because, for some reason, that word makes people uncontrollably show you their crane stances, even if they have no idea what a crane stance is.  So, I love martial arts. It feels so good to train and work out again and get sweaty as hell learning how to control your mind and body in various ways. I love learning new material. I want to get my 4th degree so I can wear my red pants! And then I’ll be a rank away from 5th degree! “Master Marvin” just sounds too good to not attain. I’m concerned that my grad school schedule will conflict with my training, particularly if I get the internship, but I suppose there’s no sense in worrying about that now.

Borders is becoming much more fun.  I’m getting to know the staff more, and I’ve actually met some very smile-inducing folk, which is just what I need right now.  My basement apartment is coming along… at some point we’ll find a good deal on a killer HDTV, and it’ll be all hi-def gaming and blu-raying all the time. Nom nom nom.

While the inevitable post-grad depression is very challenging to combat, it seems to be becoming more doable each day.  I feel this sense of coming full circle as I realize that I am home “for good…” back to the same hometown with the usual nostalgic cast of characters and familiar roads and places.  If I have to be somewhere in my life other than my SHU years, home is a pretty good setting with which to create new alternatives.

Well… the four o’clock hour approaches, my iTunes nears the bottom of its playlist, and I’m potentially going to be receiving a call to golf in a matter of hours, so I must bid you a wonderful day or night, and a spirited “get back to whatever it is you’re doing.”

Or you could visit this blog.

Music: You & Me – Dave Matthews Band

In the finale of Boy Meets World’s sixth season, Topanga learns that her parents are getting a divorce, and she subsequently becomes devastated and loses all belief in love to the point of calling off her wedding with Cory.  According to her grief-stricken point of view, there can be no hope for her own relationship if even her parents, formerly the happiest couple in the world, cannot sustain a loving partnership.

What makes Boy Meets World such a fantastic show, particularly in its later seasons, is its handling of such issues and its applicability to our own daily existence.  Though Topanga’s traumatization is resolved over a mere four episodes thanks to some counseling from her mother and the explication that, while “sometimes, love fails,” other times it does NOT, and her parents’ relationship is not indicative of the strength of her relationship with Cory. Well put, Mrs. Lawrence.

Solving such a lack of faith in THIS world, however, is not just a mere matter of waiting four episodes, unfortunately. What are we to do when it seems that every relationship around us dies, and believing in love only seems to be a guarantee for heartache?  Why not just sleep around and attain superfluous STDs?

I have no idea. Who doesn’t love promiscuous sex? Sounds like a great deal. No strings, no risk of getting hurt. Maybe it’s better to just live in FEAR as a cynical, mistrusting person incapable of love than it is to risk finding happiness or pain. Is being middle-of-the-road and just ok better than experiencing the really high highs and the really low lows? Maybe only Carrie Bradshaw knows the real answer, but I really think that it’s better to take the risk and potentially be happy than it is to be scared all the time and just close yourself off to the world.

All this coming from someone who innately does NOT enjoy taking risks, of course.  Sweet irony.  Just because thousands of people are unhappy doesn’t mean I can’t be or you can’t be, don’t you think? I see no point in worrying about everyone else’s relationship and trying to force some connection that states that their unhappiness is contagious. I think you have to worry about yourself and your own beliefs first. If those beliefs are hopelessly negative and pessimistic, then have fun with them I suppose, but the only thing we’ve got control over is what goes on in our own heads. Not our moms’ or our dads’ or Cory’s or Topanga’s heads. Just ours.  So, in theory, if you can take care of your own faith in love, then you shouldn’t have anything to worry about. And how are you supposed to attract someone who has an unwavering belief in love if you don’t have one yourself? I wouldn’t imagine that LOVE people are attracted to BLAH people, unless of course they see the potential for LOVE within a BLAH person, though that must be quite an epic challenge. But if it’s worth it, it’s worth it, isn’t it?

So anyway, I suppose it would be a simple choice… for me at any rate. Why be miserable when you could be happy? It would be so much easier to be happy. So much easier to get up in the morning, so much easier to deal with things, so much easier to extend love to the people around you if you were to take care of your faith in love and really cultivate it. Sounds like a much more enlightened way to be. You could theoretically claim that you’re being more “realistic” by not believing in love, but I think it would be much more rewarding and comforting to believe that love can flourish. It is realistic to not ignore the rising divorce entirely, but I don’t think it’s realistic to stubbornly refuse to believe that you have to become part of that statistic. Don’t you have control over that? Free will or what have you? Why choose to be miserable just because the rest of the world seems to be? I would find it much more rewarding to be a beam of light in an otherwise “bleak” existence, but maybe that’s just because I think the rules don’t apply to me, I’m special, and I’m not going to be a depressing statistic like the rest of the world.

I don’t see the point in being afraid and letting the supposedly cold cruel world beat the crap out of you. We have complete control over how we handle our experience here and how we deal with what’s going on around us.  Why not choose to have a great day? Especially if you have someone that’s willing to have a great day with you and willing to make sure that your tomorrow is great too?

There is a beautiful girl whom you probably know who is giving me a chance to make up for a lot of things that I did very incorrectly for a very long time. It’s funny how one heart can be so sure of what it wants, and another can be so completely disoriented to the point of causing pain to someone who only sought to make you feel happy and fulfilled. It’s even more interesting that these two hearts can switch places entirely, and that it can actually come too late. It’s very distressing and very confusing and very painful when the heart cannot have what it wants, especially when it took an incredibly long time for it to figure out what that want was. But I suppose things have a way of having a purpose, even when it seems highly unlikely at the time.
How do you pretend like you just met someone you’ve known for years? How do you pretend like your feelings for that person are only just coming into being? How do you act? What do you say?
I am grateful for the opportunity to leave the past where it belongs, but I cannot forget the errors that were made that caused a new chapter to be the only conceivable chance for happiness. I have awakened with a heightened sense of self and a cautious sense of hope. Can we be better than we once were? That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?Growth. It will be painfully slow and emotionally taxing, but goal is attainable if the heart is willing.
Love conquers all, says Disney(?), especially when there is a beautiful girl involved. I hope so. Maybe the other side of the bed will be warm again someday.

4am always yields overly dramatic stuff.

——

The Path to Squirrelhood

The trail would be significantly sheltered by the canopy, at any rate, as the end of May had given way to the beginning of June, and the increasingly warmer and longer days had infused the trees with a fresh enthusiasm for providing shade, as well as for swaying in the breeze.  There was a convenient amount of wind this morning, enough to dry the sweat from a forehead, but not enough to chase after a hat.

The air, as such, was cool, though not enough to inspire a chill or a shiver.  A light fog had managed to stick around despite the rising morning sun, and it gave the familiar entrance to the trail a refreshing sense of mystery and intrigue.

This atmosphere instilled within the traveler a renewed feeling of anticipation.  The trail was the same trail he had hiked many times before, yet this morning had been feeling like a particularly good morning, and he laced up his boots a little faster than usual.  Hiking boots always made him feel particularly audacious, and while the trail was nothing overly arduous, he still felt confident knowing his ankles were supported and protected in the event of the occasional misstep.

He left through the garage, closing the door gently so as not to awaken his wife and risk being roped into an assortment of household chores.  He walked past his car, testing the door to make sure it was locked, as he always did, and trying not to think about the myriad of problems the vehicle had decided to amass all at once.  Luckily, the trail was made for walking, not for driving.

The path curved almost immediately around a large bend, and the man’s house and resulting responsibilities quickly faded out of view as he settled into his hiking rhythm.  His long strides carried him easily over the well-worn path, and he wondered if a log cabin in the woods would require as much upkeep and come bundled with so many duties.  The ground felt good beneath his feet, even through the thick soles of his trusty hiking boots, and he enjoyed the steady sound of his feet hitting the earth in the otherwise peaceful wood.

The corners of his mouth perked up as the lively yet polite discussions of birds reached his ears, providing a suitable soundtrack for his morning excursion.  He wondered what the topic of conversation was this morning, and he decided it was considerably less stressful than the usual morning banter around the coffee machine in the break room of his office.

His enthusiasm resulted in a quickened pace, and before too long the first beads of sweat began to seep from his temples.  Though not much time had passed, the sun had managed to burn off the remaining fog as it climbed higher in the sky, and the collar of his shirt had already begun to soak up the initial drops of perspiration that tumbled down his face and neck.  Finding a well shaded patch along the trail, he set his pack down and pulled out the canteen, which had followed his lead by sweating in the warmth of the sun.  He took a swig, and the water cooled his core, replacing that which had escaped his pores.  He took a second gulp, holding the liquid in his mouth for a moment, allowing it to ease the dryness creeping into his throat.  He replaced the canteen, breathed deeply in the shade of the trees, and pressed on.

Further on down the trail stood a tree that was perfectly suited for climbing.  The man had climbed it many times before, but it never lost its entertainment value, and today would be no exception.  He slung his pack down against the base of the tree and reached for his usual handholds, testing his weight, as he always did, before hoisting himself up the trunk.  The bark provided an excellent grip for his hands and feet, and he easily made his way up to the branch that forked and provided a prime piece of natural furniture.  He nestled himself in the fork and leaned back against the limb, gazing skyward and glimpsing the blue sky and white clouds through the dense green ceiling.

The birds were still conversing, and while he was closer to their level, none inhabited this particular tree.  He wondered about to what their conversation had progressed, and he thought it must be nice to only be concerned with talking and singing about whatever it is birds talk and sing about.  The weather, perhaps, or the condition of thermals.  Maybe the quality of worms.

Speaking of which, one bird had abandoned its confabulatory duties and appeared on the ground a few feet from the man’s pack.  It flitted across the path, hopping distances that would obviously be too impractical to fly, much as one would not drive to the residence of a next door neighbor.  The man watched the bird skim across the ground and was surprised to see it pluck a worm from the earth in a scene that he had really only witnessed in postcards and cartoons.  The worm seemed determined to hang onto the earth, and the man allowed himself a laugh, a foreign sound amidst the ambience of the forest, as it finally snapped free of the ground and hit the bird in the beak.

There was a moment where the man felt sorry for the worm, as it surely had been minding its own business eating dirt, as all worms do.  The man was struck with the odd notion of trying to save the worm, but the thought of rescuing a worm from the beak of a bird seemed a bit absurd after half a moment.  Not to mention that this would seriously inconvenience the bird.  Rather, it seemed a better idea to allow their relationship to play out as it was destined to be.  Plus, it would save him the effort of having to climb down the tree in time to catch the bird and save the worm, so he decided that it would be to the benefit of the most parties present not to interfere.  Conclusion reached, he continued to watch, and the bird and the worm flew away, up into the canopy.  The man took that as his cue to resume his place on the ground, but he was grateful for the opportunity to switch places with the bird, even for only a little while.

The path began an uphill climb, though nothing that required the use of all four limbs.  The increased intensity felt good after his brief respite up in the tree, and he felt healthy and productive as sweating resumed, and it began to drip down the lenses of his sunglasses while the muscles in his legs felt the change in terrain.  The tree line broke as he ascended the hill, and he reached the clearing at the top after a few moments time.  The subtle burning in his calves pleasantly dissipated, and he made his way to his sitting rock, which was strategically placed at the peak of the hill.

Oddly, as he made his approach, his head began to ache slightly, and he felt a pang of annoyance in his chest at this disruption, which was interfering with an otherwise flawless morning.  There was no simply no reason for his head to hurt on a day like this.  But, upon reaching his sitting rock, he realized he hadn’t taken a drink from his canteen in some time and attributed his headache to a surplus of sweating and a lack of hydrating.

He slung his pack down at the base of the rock and sat down, leaning back for a moment to allow the sun a helpful angle with which to dry the perspiration on his face.  He thanked his headache for reminding him to drink, and then removed his canteen and gulped heartily.  Satisfied, his headache eased, and the cool water in his stomach coupled with the heat of the sun’s rays on his skin restored the man’s enthusiasm.

He smiled and breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the fresh breeze that was significantly livelier up here on the hill, and enjoyed the warmth his hands absorbed from the rock’s coarse surface.  His stomach gurgled and advised him to eat, so he crossed his legs underneath him and hoisted his pack up the rock, unpacking the sandwich he had assembled before his departure earlier this morning.  He enjoyed the taste of the sandwich, as well as the opportunity to dine so informally in such an inspiring setting, without the need for proper manners and etiquette and obligatory dinner conversation. He also liked being able to keep his hat on.

A chittering and a chattering caught his attention, and he looked up to see a squirrel in hot pursuit of another squirrel of comparable size and color.  They looked the same, in fact.  They darted this way and that in the grass, appearing to bounce off invisible walls that only they could see.  The man wondered, as they danced, if the one squirrel had somehow offended the other and was rushing to apologize, or if perhaps it was squirrel mating season and they were being overly flirtatious, or if perhaps they were out for a squirrel run, which was an athletic ritual of their Sunday afternoons.

Soon after pondering these possibilities, the man realized that they were mostly absurd and decided that the squirrels were chasing one another because that was what squirrels did.  It must be a part of a squirrel’s identity, he thought, to chase other squirrels.  It must be a part of the essence of squirrelhood, along with gathering and burying nuts, forgetting where they are buried, and subsequently spending a lot of time looking for them again.  He felt a certain sense of jealousy toward them, as their only concern and only responsibility was to just squirrel all day long.  They had no worries and no obligations, except to squirrel day in and day out.  They did not need to go to squirrel school in order to learn how to squirrel, and they did not need to be told how to living a fulfilling squirrel existence.  Squirrels will always know how to squirrel, he thought.

This notion caused him a bit of envy and a considerable amount of laughter, for a squirrel would not have to worry about being considered rude for sitting cross-legged on a table with a hat on during lunch hours.  He watched them scamper back down the hill into the trees, and gazed longingly out at the great green horizon.  And on this morning, chewing his sandwich on his sitting rock, with the wind flowing over him and the sun warming the earth, the man wished his only responsibility was to just human all day long.

Why I Hate the Beach

And Also, Why I Guess It’s OK

I was never really a tremendous fan of the beach. I know: cue the crucifixion, but I just don’t see the appeal. I mean, granted there’s an ample amount of scantily clad eye candy for the casual observer, but nothing you can’t find on the internet or an issue of Sports Illustrated. Yes, I understand that you can get a tan at the beach, but you can get a tan being anywhere outside. And who decided that tanned people were of higher value to society than people who are content with their skin’s normal melanin content? You can keep the sun poisoning and skin cancer, thank you very much.

Let’s talk about sand for a second. I don’t need sand to enjoy warm weather. Maybe it feels good, but so does grass, and grass doesn’t burn through the soles of my feet. And they’re right when they say it gets everywhere, and yes, that does include the most intimate of body cavities. I just can’t say it really enhances the experience. Sometimes sand is ridiculously hot, and that’s just uncomfortable. Plus, it’s not like you can go in the ocean and enjoy any sort of cooling off experience. First of all, by the time you get down to the water, you’re not hot anymore anyway because it’s innately cooler down there. So you don’t really want to go in the water, but you made the show of getting up and announcing that you’re going for a dip. You should have gotten the idea when no one wanted to come with you; trust their judgment next time. You regret your decision because the water is flippin’ cold, but you can’t turn back because you’ll look like a jackass. So you decide to stand there and gaze contemplatively at the ocean and the horizon. Very deep of you.

The water is always freezing. There are rocks and sand, and you can’t open your eyes underwater, partially because of the salt and partially because you’re terrified of seeing something with teeth coming at you out of the murk. I don’t need that kind of stress.

“But the beach is so relaxing!” you whine. Yeah, so is my shower, and I don’t have all these aggravations to deal with either. What’s there to do at the beach anyway? You show up with your gear and blankets and warm cold cut sandwiches, set up camp, and then what?

“Ok, now we’re at the beach. Hmmm.” Awkward. “Welp, I guess I’ll lay down…” Sand is not as comfortable as people think it is. And you can’t lay on your back because the sun is always burning the retinas out of your eyes, even if you have polarized sunglasses. Then you think, “Oh, I’ll just put a shirt over my face.” But you know you look absurd, and you risk having a tanned/burnt body with a pale/normal face. Freak.

Reading books is annoying because the wind is always turning the pages on you before you’re ready, and it’s too damn hot to really focus on anything anyway. Ooo! Let’s throw something back and forth to each other for recreation! Yeah, ok, but running on sand is not easy, and I risk twisting my ankles or plowing into some bro who’s too busy flexing his biceps while trying to get you to notice his rippling pectorals.

Maybe we could have some sandwiches that we assembled and brought from home? Maybe that would make my experience less excruciating? But oh, wait, somehow this tin foil makes my sandwich taste less delicious than when I make it at home. Come to think of it, if I wasn’t at the beach, I could have eaten this sandwich three hours ago when I made it. And apparently I brought this sandwich for the seagull that just attacked me. Damn it. Actually, it’s probably better if I don’t eat, because if I do, I’ll have to go to the bathroom eventually, and that involves a mile-long trek across burning desert before arriving at a festering watering hole of human sweat and fermenting waste. And I didn’t wear my flip-flops!

Alright, now let’s throw some academic merit into this tirade.

Despite my outrageous ranting about one of your favorite places everrrrrrr, I suppose there are a few unique merits that make the beach worth visiting. I was… privileged, shall we say, to sit on Fairfield Beach for a few hours the other day, and I managed to find some sort of appreciation for these liminal spaces where the land meets the sea.

Thankfully, I was fortunate enough to have good company, which was great compensation for my less-than-desirable environment. Also, I didn’t realize just how much eye candy hangs out at Fairfield Beach, which is a tremendous amount. But anyway, there is something to be said for being able to stand at the edge of a continent, knowing how many miles of grasslands, mountains, rivers, and forests lie behind you, and how many (nautical?) miles of ocean lie ahead of you. It’s interesting, and quite intimidating, to think than beneath the surface of the water is a vast foreign world that might as well be as deep as the universe, as far as we’re concerned. Who knows what’s going on down there? We might know a little bit, but that place is scary. If you’re swimming in the middle of the ocean, it’s like floating over the Grand Canyon; you just can’t see how far you can fall. Come to think of it, I suppose drowning in the middle of the ocean would be like one long, slow-motion free fall.

It’s very humbling to be standing on the edge of where we have control, where we can do things like walk and sit down, eat and really just exist. The ocean affords no such luxuries. It is merciless and makes no effort to accommodate our puny human requirements. I suppose it fulfills part of its job description as an element of nature that way.

As for the beach, it serves as a setting for us to experience the grandeur that is the ocean. Despite its recreational and mood-enhancing (for most) benefits, it has a deeper and more meaningful role for human beings. It is something to be travelled to, a destination that grants us access to one of the most impressive components of our natural world that most of us are not privileged enough to see each day. I suppose I should be grateful for the beaches and their ability to allow us to escape our daily lives and get a glimpse of the world that lies beyond our shores…

But I still think “life’s a beach” is a grossly negative statement.