bell - a verbalization of consciousness

So, what IS happening in cajun country?

I’ve had serious trouble identifying with and negotiating this whole New Orleans tragedy. I’ve visited the city three times in the past, for orchestra concerts, for church functions, for ultimate tournaments, and especially for fun… I’ve danced in cajun dance halls, jammed out in the superdome, eaten live oysters on Bourbon Street, followed Mardi Gras parades until the sun came up, and did it all in the company of the best of friends, old an new; I can only imagine the scene now. As of late, I feel such a disconnect to much of the political and social happenings in this country - mostly because I have my head in the books, or my heart in the field… but I received an email from a friend of a friend that really made me pause. Nelson, my roommate’s New Orleans travel buddy and a reporter for the Daily News covering Katrina, took the time to share his experience with us. And I must share his words with you:

Subject: New Orleans

I was born in September but have come to dread this month.

I am just returned from doing eight straight in New Orleans, where America’s willful ignorance of its own historic failings was on vivid display. I waded on foot and floated on flatboat through that septic sea of human waste and petroleum products. I learned to tell a floater was nearby by the sudden change in smell, a smell that is unique and invades the soul like a hand in the dark. This was Third world squalor hard by McDonalds and Toys R Us. Outside the Convention Center 10,000 people were told lies about buses as they baked in the 90-degree Louisiana heat. A man swigged Crown Royal and accosted every photographer who tried to pass by. Nearby a corpse with a bullet hole in its head lay in the street for days. It had silver box tape on its right wrist with the name “Sonny” and an uptown address scrawled on. A woman clearly eligible for the senior citizen discount at the local Cineplex lay in the street next to rotting food, moaning and alone, with no medic in sight. She died and was placed inside a freezer usually used for frozen foods. With night approaching, people who last week bought Lotto tickets and worried about their rent now stole snow-white queen size beds from the Holiday Inn and placed them neatly on median strip near piles of garbage. A father recounted how he stepped in front of his five-year-old son so he wouldn’t have to watch some guy getting stabbed in a row of seats nearby in a building that will never be viewed the same. On Saint Claude Avenue, a family of ten took refuge in an elementary school with 190 other strangers and two dead bodies in the basement whose decomposition hit you like a baseball bat when you walked in the door. Fearful that they’d be split up, they passed up several rescue choppers because there wasn’t enough room for everybody. A hooker who had no such worries swigged from a bottle of Night Train at 7 a.m. as she prepared for the first time in her life to ascend to a U.S. Army chopper pounding the air 15 feet above. In the Garden District a mom and dad dressed their children in church clothes as they prepared to evacuate to a hardware company van commandeered by cops. In the drowned Ninth Ward still immersed in hip-deep shit-brown water days after Katrina was spent, people huddled in the shade of front porches as if it was any Sunday. The music of choice there was a symphony of a thousand dogs abandoned by owners, trapped on porches, barking to no one. On Napoleon Avenue, cops in a commandeered fishing boat were returning to dry ground after rescuing a mom, a grandmother and an 11-year-old boy when a toothless man appeared in the chest-deep murk pulling a large construction bin full of booze. They pulled him into the boat, but chucked him back when he threatened them with a hammer. On Washington Avenue, men in a flatboat led a roan mare by rope to high ground after she’d been trapped in the water for four days, unable to sleep. In the Garden District, helicopters dumped giant red balls full of Mississippi River water on fires but the fires jumped from house to house at will. A woman whose diabetic kit was filled with maggots from disuse refused help and insisted on living in her home on Magazine – even though the entire back of the house had been ripped away in the hurricane. An LSU doctor and a team of cops carefully wrapped a body lying in the sun on I-10 in shiny black trash bags but did not know what to do with it. They left it lying there, where it sat for the rest of the day, broiling.

New Orleans, September 2005.

I’m not even going to bother about the monumental failure of government and corporate America on all levels, although the Bush people – above everyone else — should be prosecuted. Katrina was on TV for days. Long before she hit FEMA knew there were 100,000 people in the city – most of whom lived on low-ground — who don’t have vehicles of any sort. They simply did not get it together to bus them the hell out. Had that single task occurred, you would not have witnessed the decline and fall of one of America’s greatest cities as you did. Those who had means escaped; those with none did not. Make no mistake about this. On Sept. 11, 2001, the face of suffering crossed all boundaries. The mother of the waiter from Windows on the World, the firefighter’s widow, the little boy whose Wall Street father disappeared – all suffered equally. The face of suffering on 9/11 was black, white, Asian, Muslim, Jew, Christian. Here in New Orleans the vast majority of those who took it in the neck were poor black people. Period.

This was not abstract. This was not Haiti or the Sudan or even Baghdad on the BBC. These were Americans, with rent payments, kids with homework, jobs servicing wealthy people’s endless needs.

Since you’ve been here so often, you know how deep the sadness goes. I warn you that your relationship with New Orleans can no longer be a purely romantic one. This place is wounded and will never be the same. The recovery is inevitable but will have to be incomplete. For the record, the French Quarter and the Garden District missed the worst of it. The Maple Leaf, Snug Harbor, Commanders Palace, Brigtsens, Gallatoires, Molly’s at the Market, Praline Connection, Tipitinas, Casemento’s, most of the Warehouse District, Magazine Street – all are fine. Mid-City Rock ‘n Bowl and Donna’s on Rampart were both underwater. Eddies was underwater. The entire middle of the city was underwater.

When I go back, and I will, it will be difficult. I’m sure that some day we’ll all travel again to Jazz Fest and find ourselves once again lost in the unique love affair with a city that could only happen in New Orleans. We’ve collected quite a few memories there, most having to do with being young and believing that all possibilities are endless. For me it can never again be like that. The septic smell of standing water and the sight of all those bodies will be mine forever. I have concluded that I really can’t see the place again until they’ve truly fixed it up. It’s hard to for me to accept that the memories we gathered in all those visits – when we were 20-something, then 30-something, before kids, mortgages, all the rest – could be replaced by this, but I believe that to be the case. I’m sorry about all this. Maybe it’s just something that had to be.

"Ultimate Talk"...

Geeze, I had no idea…

Keepin' my eyes on the ground...

People are calling me anti-social. I know they are joking, but I suspect that there’s some truth to it; it still hurts just the same.

When you live to be social, it hurts to be told you’re otherwise… or perhaps it’s the fact that, as a social person, I know that I’m concerned with negotiating other people’s ToM’s (i.e., “theory of mind” - perceptions, identity, desires and the like), and it’s like a stab through the heart to have to put your own priorities above other people, and have them hold it against you. Maybe that last bit is too harsh… it’s not that they hold it against me, but if it’s not the case, why say it? Why call me “anti-social?” What do you have against what i’m doing? Why do you even begin to care about what I’m up to anyways? And further, what thoughts about me are you not saying? Maybe the bigger picture is: why does this even bother me? Why does it get under my skin? Why is it painful to hear?

Whatever. To them I say, ‘Move on’… do your own thing, for the love of all that’s good. I mean, why spit out some spiteful comment in the first place? To get a response from me? To persuade me to change my mind through guilt? If I respond, it gets laughed off as if its only kidding, but its hurtful and venomous just the same. I mean, let it go. Understand that I’m a person with goals, and ambitions; are you just trying to make the rest of my life one big scramble? Do you even notice, or care about the work and attention I put into living? It takes effort and discipline to keep things in balance, and I’m admittedly not that good at it. This whole ‘me-time’ thing is very new for me. I’m still figuring it out. Perhaps my sensitivity is pay-back for all those times I’ve convinced people to hangout, when they (and I) both knew it was probably in their best interest to tend to other priorities — both of our best interests for that matter (ha!)…

I remember meeting a man once…

…I was walking along a thin running trail on a banana plantation in Costa Rica, back in January of 2004. At a place like this, men and women, some poor costa ricans and other illegal nicarguans, would sign away their lives for three months at a time for a couple cents a day. Three months was the perfect contract for laborers because it meant you could adjust the employment with every quarter, and you never had to give anyone any benefits because they were all technically part-time help —- but the sad truth is, this is how people made their life’s living, and how they (meekly) provided for their family. The entire plantation workforce got paid the same, regardless of their specific job task — so whether they were sorting bananas at the factory, boxing up the bananas for the trucks, or out in the field picking and running bananas to the conveyors, they all got paid the same. Of course the most physically demanding job was the runners, all men with raging quad muscles and chisled frames; and what’s worse, people’s incomes specifically depended on their productivity; payment was determined by the # of boxes of bananas actually shipped each day, so the question always was, “why aren’t the runners working harder to bring bananas to the assembly lines???” — Everyone was working at least 11 hour days at these plantations as it was, but I can’t imagine that anyone felt each minute more painfully than the runners.

Back and forth from the conveyors to the fields, these guys would ceaselessly sprint across hills and irrigation creeks to the banana trees fields, they’d find a few ready trees nestled nearby eachother, chop down their limbs of bananas, pack thousands of their bananas on a system of interconnected hanging wires, and pull hundreds of pounds of bananas back to the factory conveyors as fast as they could possibly run. They were given two 5 minute breaks a day, but most people wouldn’t take both, for productivity demands. Under-hydrated, under-nourished, and under-appreciated, these were the work-horses behind every banana you eat, and every paycheck that the workers took home. Thankless.

I remember coming across this particular nicaraguan man, a nico, who was a very good runner. I had seen him twice in the field, once on the way out to the trees, and once more sprinting back to factory, pulling thousands of bananas along behind him, keeping his eyes on the ground ahead. He seemed to be working exceptionally harder than most of the other runners I had seen. Often these men were in good spirits, despite their arduously physcial work environment. “He’s all business,” I thought to myself. At the time, I was with a group of Americans, touring the plantation, most of us with cameras around our neck, bright white tennies on our feet, and a whole host of other name brand clothes and backpack gimicks on our bodies. Meanwhile, this nico, and countless other men were literally running heaps of sweat, drenched in their own efforts, and most had the nerve to toss us a smile or a wave as they’d pass. But for some reason, this one runner, silent and stoic, stood out in my mind.

Maybe it was the solemn look on his face. He harbored a very weathered brow and thick, dark skin; I remember thinking that he had such distinct features for such a young man. He seemed about twenty years old, strong, lean, reserved but innocent, and I began to imagine my life as his, and tried to imagine what he was thinking, and who he was as a person. As we passed, there was no invitation in his expression. I don’t remember him making any efforts for eye-contact, he didn’t show the least bit of interest in meeting, we were just two different bodies simultaneously found in passing for just a moment in time; nothing special, nothing worth noting - but I couldn’t forget him. There felt like so much more to this character — I mean, he’s a complete and living being too, right? He must have a life, and thoughts, and goals… Before leaving, half of our group found themselves chatting it up with another runner on his break, also a nico. A dozen men on break were huddled in a circle nearby him, including the young gentleman I had seen twice in the field; they were gobbling down some sandwiches from paper bags, while my group practiced their spanish with the friendly talker. I still don’t know quite how it came up, but somehow someone got to asking questions about the comradery of the group of runners, and among other things, I heard the guy say that he’s been working at this plantation for one and half years, and never once heard a word from the young man who had made an impression on me. He said he thought the young man to be friendly and a hard worker, but he tended to keep to himself. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to find myself in a social situation with a group of co-workers, or any group for that matter, and not say something. How could that possibly be? No conversations? Nothing? Just complete and utter removal from the social (verbal) scene… I don’t think I could do it, especially working as hard as he did — and since that day I’ve always wondered how that would be possible, to be so silent, so humbly removed. But honestly, these days, i wish i could be …

[deep pause]

Let’s face it. I’m stuck. I need to be alone, and I need to get work done, and I need to be diligent, and I need to be disciplined, but I know that I need people in my life, and I need to depend on them, and I need to feel included, and I need to be invited, but I’m pushing people away, and I’m afraid they won’t come back…

… and so I leap —- and they tell me that tomorrow is the first day of school. It begins.

one thing I forgot to mention: The nature of the interconnected wire system was that the banana baskets that hung from the wire were strong enough to hold a person, and on your way back to the trees, if you got to running at a fast enough speed, you could grab on, and leap into the folds of fabric the hung from the wire and coast above the trail for a good hundred yards, until you lost speed, and would have to dismount so as to run and gather up more. The runners would often attempt this when they were running over ravines, or just trying to keep a good pace, but sneak in a quick break. The first time I saw him, I remember that same nico boy, on his way out to the fields, run and hop into the banana basket — as he soared passed us, he just laid there, causally in the folds of the hanging material as he faded into the distance. But as we passed, I remember the look on his face: it was as if he was just thinking. That’s it. Staring right at us, and wondering, contemplating. But yet, saying nothing. This was by far the most compelling moment. And it was at this time that I first realized both our similarities, and later, our obvious difference.

It’s funny, I haven’t thought of this moment, or that worker for a very long time. I once had dreams of living in Costa Rica and trying to be a runner on a banana plantation for three months. It would definitely be the most physically demanding job, and I wonder how I’d take it… One thing is for sure, my quads would be like those of a greek god when I returned.

Responsibility vs. Chappelle?

So, Dave Chappelle is one block away on campus, making 4,500 people roll in their chairs as we speak, and I’m in my office about to get working on a paper. Damn. That’s pretty much all I can say.

I have a friend who works in the same building that hosts tonight’s show, and I stopped by for a little bit and thought about how cool it would be to meet Dave backstage, and how badly I wanted to see the show… and most of me felt like I could have controlled all the energy of the moment, and pulled together all of this to happen, — I mean, I could hang with Dave Chappelle, right? I think he would feel where I’m comin’ from, and be willin’ to chill for a bit before kickin’ off his show… ;) — but when it came down to it, I realized that I HAVE to get some work done. Even if I don’t come away with a finished paper tonight, I HAVE to put in the time; and that’s just my reality right now.

Unfortunate? Maybe. It just is. I must admit that I’m pretty happy with my life right now, and the situation I’m in. I have many incredible opportunities at my fingertips, and I feel like I’m living the dream. Granted, to live the dream one has to put in the time. And let this be the first lesson. I won’t admit that I’m behind, but I do feel a sense of urgency, and the office is pretty much the only place I can justify spending my evenings this week. I just have to remember, ‘next week will come’. And if next week comes, and it has to be this focused, well, then next month will come… and that’s just how it is. I got goals, ma’an. Things to do, teams to beat, degrees to earn, you-know-what-I’m-sayin’? If I’m meant to chill with Dave Chappelle, then the divine laws of Nature will take care of me, and make it happen when the time is right… but for tonight, Schopenhauer beckons. (sigh)

Knock ‘em dead tonight, Dave… you know I’d be there if I could.

three rows of three candles

I officially have $2.19 in my bank account and I’m over on my daytime minutes, but I’ve still got my health, as they say. With health, comes age, and with this weekend came that trusty reminder that time keeps on tickin’, and that this ‘Life’ thing is still workin’ out…. that’s right, I turned 24: uh! Not too shabby. September 17th was the big day, and look how, with vigor and ambition, I’ve left my golden birthday in the dust! [insert: the crowd goes nuts!! “woo-hoo!” clap, clap].

So, I was out on the ultimate field that saturday morning by 9am, cleats on, workin’ up a sweat for a good stretch; it was Mixed Club Sectionals in Corvallis, OR. Outkast was bumpin’ from the trunk while we warmed up for our first game, and I felt good. I carried a little secret with me: it was my birthday — but I didn’t care to make a deal out of it. I mean, what’s “24” all about anywayz?

I received some midnight phone calls from the night before and took my annual Birthday Shot with my b-day brother, Kevin Wright. A few text messages came my way, and a couple missed phone calls carried good cheer to my ears, and already at mid-morning, I couldn’t help but smile inside and out. There’s something to be said for being on the the thoughts of those who live and love to make our lives feel whole. Time and time again, I found myself huddled up with my Whor$hack teammates, out on the field, feelin’ the groove of life between our arms. Parents, opponents, some happenstance friends & acquaintances all seemed to poke their heads around our games, and though most were unaware, they all helped make my Birthday feel rich and rewarding. Listen, being in one of your favorite places with positive people and vibrations all around you is about as sensuous and marvelling as life can get - let alone on your birthday.

I felt great, and I didn’t need to make it any more obvious than that… but things happen, and the word slips out. I blame Meghan DiNero. After the games (3-0), we went to Matt Melius’ parents’ house to have dinner, watch the UO football game, and soak in the hot-tub with a few ice cold coronas in our hands. One word: heavenly.

Adrian and I got back to the pad just in time to see the Ducks go on a 20 point scoring streak to take half 20-17. Hummus, turkey sandwiches, salsa & chips and ice-bags were all at our disposal, and the team started showing-up shortly thereafter. I was all showered up, any feeling so fresh and so clean. The food was going down easy, and I was posted up in the comfort of a living room couch. [Can I mention again how great ‘homes’ are? They have everything!] So, DeNiro comes in and we get to talkin’, shootin’ the shit, keepin’ it chill, and somehow I think we got to talking about age. There was one of those moments where we’re all talking about how old we are, and I felt the invitation to respond. “Well, I’m 24 years old,” I said. “And, actually, today is my birthday…” And, really, the look on her face was priceless! ha! I had to feel good, I had to feel proud that it was my birthday… she was right. And accordingly, it was essentially her duty to let everyone know. (…chuckle…)

So, one by one, peeps came in to check out the status of the Ducks game, and Meghan would be all like, “yeah, ducks are up 20-17,… oh, and did you know it’s Belltron’s Birthday?” I dunno if she really said ‘belltron’, but I really like re-telling the story like that. I should start with this: People go nuts for birthdays in Portland. By the end of dinner time, and we’re talking ‘endless-lasanga-and-goodness’ dinner time, there was a crowd of good friends singing me a birthday song while I sang the ol’ “I’m 24 years, I’m 24 years old” bit, and cut a homemade cake — with 3 rows of 3 candles… add it up how you will, but my jersey represents the duuurty Thirty-Three for a reason, and the cake candles were in mighty good fashion.

To top it off, everyone couldn’t help but tell me how young I was, and how they would never have suspected that I was only 24… I remember hearing that twenty-eight was much more reasonable of a schematic fit for me. “Sweet,” I thought — I didn’t really see that coming. For the record, our team’s average age is probably around 29, with Melius at 21, I’m probably third youngest, and a few players are said to be pushing 40… but hey, we all play like we’re 18 (yeah, i’m talking to you Shazam, beware! mu-hahahaha!)…

So, the ducks won a big game against Fresno State, our Whor$hack team went on to win all of our games on Sunday to officially earn the title of Oregon State Champions, and I went to bed that night with a full birthday belly, and piece of mind. Life is swell at twenty-four years old. That’s all I know. … well, that, and giving birth is a very, very strange concept to grasp.

Thanks mom for pushing through on that…

clearing space for Momentum...

Shit. A brother should be writing right now. I know this, and quite frankly, so does everyone else in my life (apparently). How funny that it’s come to this: other people reminding me of my priorities. It’s as if they’re more invested in my life than I am, or more interested, or more something. Well, I’m done answering to them at least. I mean, we only get so many free moments to chat with people, might as well keep our minds off of my work load… that and admittedly, I’m deathly afraid of other people’s pessimism, or worse, their sympathy…

If you don’t believe in me, … cha! jus’ watch how-I-do.

But the real difficulty lies in the attempt to change one’s routine. I’m puttin’ in the time, but I can’t seem to tighten up. Habits are hell, I’m tellin’ you. Just the reading and writing alone is so arduous and so pathetic; I spend half of my time re-reading the same page over and over again, and the other half of my time wanting to beat my head against the wall. But, so is grad school! The minute I open my books, my ears drift into the whispers of all the shadows of earth; my eyes fall off the pages and snatch up the brights and lights, and the darks and dulls of the world around me; my body falls asleep within itself, wrapped up in its many layers of soft and warmth, and next thing you know, time is spent, and all is lost. Gosh, all I want to do is sit at this desk, focused, disciplined, and put my pencil to the paper, and make some academic progress, and check some stuff off the List…

It’s as if I’ve been walking for quite a while, and the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t getting any larger. If I don’t get to running soon, something tells me it will disappear all-together.

The push-ups, the sit-ups, the home-cleaning, the meal-making, the emailing, the RSD reading, the phone-answering, the day-dreaming… all amount to this ingenius plot to self-distract, and self-destruct. Individually, these are all things that need to happen. I know this. But I’m either doing too many of each, or taking too long to do them, or just plain doing them at the wrong time. So what is the right time? The ‘when’ and the ‘how’ become increasingly arbitrary at a certain point. The real issue emerges: momentum.

I lack it.

… at least, academically. And I need it now more than ever. I’ve never been more excited about the MA thesis I have in the works, and I’m very excited to have done as much additional reading on the topic as I have, but the truth is I’m behind schedule, and, ironically and unrealistically, I’m still looking to start this fall ahead. (And no, I’m not going to openly discuss my thesis either, right now; it’s categorized with the same status of my other papers: “In Progress” — I mean let’s be honest, even if I was able to explain myself succinctly, at this stage of the game would you have the patience to really listen? And then what, will you change the way you live your life today? I doubt it, so let’s just move on for now.). But MA thesis or not, I have other work to do, and I’ve got to focus. But how? Tell me. How can I learn to just pound out my readings every night? How can I learn to tune out the temptations that seem to be unforgivingly fixated at the forefront of my tumultuous ego (in every philosophical sense of the term…)?

I just want the strength to be determined. This is real life I’m playing around with. One has got to be in control with the pursuit of his goals. I just want the strength to check-out of my social worlds. The strength to let go of people. and of bad habits. But I must be willing to accept that, on the other side of now and then, many of those friendships will never be the same, if ever even recovered. I think, in a strange way, I feel too delicate or too attached to take that leap. But to do what I’m about to do this year, I really see no other way around it. I have to leap. And the world will necessarily be different when the smoke clears.

I may find myself more alone that I’ve ever been.

that skydiving Taffer...

You guys gotta read this… somehow, it’s easily one of the funniest emails I’ve read in a while:

So I went skydiving last week. You need to do this!

I would definitely do it again. This is the 2nd time my co-worker went and she said that the 2nd time is much better cause you know what’s coming and can enjoy it more. But its hard to imagine that my life to me is only worth $140 and a $10 tip.

Medicine Cards

When I went to Reggae-on-the-River, my friends and I set up camp next to the most wonderful people in the world. A group of middle-aged friends (and sisters), from Arizona who had frequented ROTR nearly a dozen times and called themselves “The Happy Elders”. Every morning they woke us up with a fresh cup of coffee, and together, we comfortably made breakfast and did some mid-morning lounging and reading. It was pretty sweet, to say the least. One of the gals, Phyllis, a very talented handmaiden (who has a website I believe…), had this incredible book that bordered on Astrology and Tarot with a Native American twist, but it involved the power and mystique of different animals. You would draw a card, face down, from a pile of cards, and whatever was revealed on the card would be your “sign”. Then, you would look up the corresponding card in the main book to inquire about the meaning of your draw. The book was called, Medicine Cards, and the card I drew was an upside down Bear. I copied out the reading because I was so intrigued:

Bear - Introspection (right side up)

“The strength of the Bear medicine is the power of introspection. It lies in the West on the great medicine wheel of life. Bear seeks honey, or the sweetness of truth within the hollow of an old tree. In the winter, when the Ice Queen reigns and the face of death is upon the Earth, Bear enters the womb-cave to hibernate, to digest the years experiences. It is said that our goals reside in the West also. To accomplish the goals and dreams that we carry, the art of introspection is necessary.

For eons, all seekers of the Dreamtime and of visions have walked the path of silence, calming the internal chatter, reaching the place of rites of passage — the channel or pineal gland. From the cave of Bear, you find the pathway to the Dream Lodge and the other levels of imagination or consciousness. In choosing Bear, the power of knowing has invited you to enter the silence and become acquainted with the Dream Lodge, so that your goals may become concrete realities. This is the strength of Bear.”

Contrary : (when drawn upside-down; read additionally)

“If you have drawn Bear reversed, your internal dialogue may have confused your perception of your true goals. In seeking answers or advice from others, you may have placed your own feeling and knowing aside. The time has come to regain your authority, for no one knows better than yourself what is proper and timely for your evolution. Reclaim the power of knowing. Find joy in the silence and richness of the mother’s womb. Allow the thoughts of confusion to be laid to rest as clarity emerges from the West, nurturing your dreams as the Earth Mother nourishes us all.

Journey with Bear to the sweetness of your cave and hibernate in silence. Dream your dreams and own them. Then in strength you will be ready to discover the honey waiting in the Tree of Life.”

"Bell, where have you been?"

September, here we go. This was definitely the summer that just kept on giving. I’m not really in the mood to fire up the ol’ memory bank, and reflect upon all of my summer happenings, but damn!, it’s been a great, great summer. Most of my good friends still in school have already started by now, but for us quarter-system oregonians, the dream keeps on going… and I’m cool with that. But the boss-man (my own guilty conscience, that is) tells me that its time to get back to the books, and gear up for the fall. If 2006 is going to be all that I think it can be, my effort has got to be big, and its got to start now.

Ok, so I’m blogging at the moment, I see what you’re saying. But whatever. This is progress, I tell you. Collecting the ol’ thoughts, tearin’ through some old emails, spending some alone time with Mos Def on the ‘phones while lookin’ out the library windows — this is right where I need to be right now. It’s like stretching: it just has to be done before you get out there and play hard.

… (I just checked out for a moment there, just letting my thoughts twist and turn in space.)

What am I even feeling right now? Anticipation? Anxiety? Wonderment? I dunno, it’s hard to say. It’s really hard to access the feeling for some reason. It’s as if I’m swelling. The body is fit, but the person inside feels full, feels tight, feels as if we’re at the limits. It’s new territory over here. I’m at a place within my person that has officially taken on a whole new level of goals and ambitions. The plate has been full for a long time, and you know what people say: “hey listen bro, you gotta take some stuff off of your plate,” or, “hey, you gotta be careful not to put too much on your plate, man.” — I feel you. I hear what you’re sayin’ ya’ll… but I’m goin’ for it. I’m pushing the limits and every day is, consequently, exciting to the thirty-third power. Trim the plate? Nah, I’m just upgrading. I’m ready for it. Pass me a larger plate… afterall, its just a matter of efficiency, right?… and appetite, maybe. So pass me that larger plate, busters, and I will balance that shit, and live the dream.

Cuz Living is ‘right now’. You know what I’m sayin’? It’s this moment. Living is not a series of future plans and possibilities. It’s a matter of what you can put into right. freakin. now. But, … the secret to growth is to stretch and stabilize the moment, which, ha!, is no easy task at all. Literally, I realize that every foothold currently supporting me is physically grounded in school: my income, my ultimate passions, my friendships, my academic ambitions, my immediate career possibilities,… my gym membership. Figuratively, and I feel this in my soul, I’m in the same mental moment now in the beginning of September as I’m going to be at the end of May - the same energy, the same anticipation. But to stretch out this whole situation (aka, Life), to bring to cohesion my mental and physical state, I need to stabilize school. (pause)… “okay, I hear you, self: we’re on it!”

Now, some of these things on my plate, well specifically college ultimate, have a shelf-life, and they come and go, and with their retirement, comes free space. Space and time.

These days, I have a lot of things on the back-burner, things to do, papers to write, people to love, places to see… but I fear (and this is rare of me) that this year will allow me very little room to ignore/waste any bit of my finite alottment of time and space. I will get behind, I know this. Hell, I’m already behind, (whatever ‘behind’ means)… But if I keep my focus fixed on the essentials, I’ll be blessed with newfound time and space next fall. And to be honest, this promise of forthcoming time and space is the one thing that has got me so jazzed and so freakin’ motivated to try to do it all this year. Never again will I be in college with ultimate on my plate. That being said, I’m going to make damn sure that this last year of ultimate is the best one it can possibly be.

So what does that mean? It means I get my work done, I teach my classes well, I finish my courses strong… and let the ultimate speak for itself.

You gotta problem with that? Den, do sumfin.

"Scorcher, 2005" - a boise ultimate tourney

Well, I just got back from Boise after an incredible weekend of sloppy fun, and slutty ultimate — literally! Our team was conspicuously named “Slut Hut”, as we ended up being a rag-tag combo team of cats from Eugene, Portland, Tacoma, and Boise… We played awesome, winning a come-from-behind semis game against some wiley veterans, and finals was even more incredible. We were down 13-7 to Missoula’s “Fly-coons”, game to 17. We turn on the heat, and bring it to 15-14!, them. It was sick. Bad guys score and keep the lead 16-14, win by two. Right now, I’m wishin’ we would have thrown some junk in that last D-line, but we’re still fired up, so… We put out a sick line, and bring it within one: 16-15. Our defense goes out on a mission… zone for 5, we get the disc back 3 times to tie it up at 16’s, but we just can’t get the flatball movin’. Fly-coons stick it in on their 4th attempt, and win the game 17-15… and to top it off, we had one time-out left in the bank that we could’ve (should’ve) burned on anyone of those turnovers…. damn! It would have been nice to win the whole thing and earn, what would have been, a first tourney win for a lot of people, but what can you do?! The whole weekend was ridiculous: we won the party, and made an exciting finals game with a pick-up team… not too shabby!

Sluts, lookin’ pretty cool…

Sluts, doin’ what they do best…

For more pics, check out Nick Dare’s site thingy, and if any of you have additional shots from the tourney/weekend, hook me up!