Dialog Exercise

I am in a write club. This excites me more than I have words for. It is something I have wanted for a long time. Our assignment for last week was to write a short story using only lines of dialog- no narration or anything else. Short stories are hard. Dialog is hard. I had to write this in chunks over a period of days instead of in one binge writing spree. That's hard. Then someone else read it out loud at me and I wanted to crawl under the picnic table. HARD! And now it will be less hard next time.

CLEMENTINE

Bobby! Jo! Bobby! Tim! Mikey! Mikeeeey!

Zeke! Zeke where are you?!

Jo! Thank God, Jo! Over here! You okay?

Everything’s ringin’ is all. Shine your light so I can find you.

Me too. I can’t. I’m pinned. Where’s the others?

I donno. They were way back. I see you!

Christ Almighty! Piss on me! Find the others. I’m still breathing.

Okay! Okay! Mikey! Shane!

Check for gas! fires!

I know. Fuck. Timmy! Shane! Bob where are you?!....Mikeeeeey!...

----

Zeke?! Where you at Zeke!?

Hey, Jo! Here! I’m over here.

No fire. Air’s ok that way, No sign of the others. I donno know how far back they were.

Are we cut off then?

Yeah. The tunnel is gone up that way just before the main shaft. Can’t see or hear nothing through
the fall. Rocks still sliding loose.

Okay. You in one piece? How’s your radio?

Uh, I’m ok. Just scratched up. Radio’s dead. You?

I don’t know yet. I can’t reach the radio.

I meant are you hurt? Besides the obvious.

Uh. I donno. How big is the pile on my arm? Think you can pry me lose without burying us both?

It’s...It’s one big rock and some loose behind it. Lemme find a bar or somethin’.

Do you see my light?

Yeah. Good call. Here. I’ll be back.

---

What’d you find Jo?

I got a shovel. Whatcha wanna do? I lift, you roll out?

Um… that’s as good a plan as any at this point. You count to three, I’ll roll right.

One. Two. Three. Hrmph… Well your radio’s busted how’s the arm?

I donno. It’s probly broke. Help me up so I can see if my legs work.

You sure?

I gotta know how fast I can get if something else happens.

Do you want to splint your arm or something first?

No!

Ok. Fine. Here.

Yeah. Ok. No. I’m good. Ok, help me get my shirt off we can tie it up.

Christ, Zeke, just use my shirt. Hang on. Hold still.

Ahtch! Ow.

Better?

Yeah. We gotta get moving. How long’s it been yet?

No idea.

That’s probly well enough anyways. Let’s start moving towards the back.

You don’t wanna be there to meet them?

No. Start walking. I wanna move back to where the roof is more stable in case they’re in a hurry
when they come through, which I’m hoping for. You seen the safety videos Jo. Think!

I never paid no attention to them movies. Everybody knows PA mines are the safest and nothing
ever went wrong for Rosebud. I never thought I’d end up in a mine disaster. I took a nap.

You’re an idiot. Every mine is a grave that ain’t filled yet. And this ain’t no disaster.

No?

No. Five dead makes a disaster. I ain’t ready to go yet and I suspect you ain’t either.

Shane? Tim? Mike? Bobby? We donno where they are…

Makes four.

…or what other tunnels got closed off.

You got no way of knowing one way or the other. Why be in a hurry to bury them?

Fuck!...Fuck!

What?

We don’t know nothin’ ‘bout nothin’ and no one up top knows where we are cause we were taking
our time coming down the tunnel. We’re fucked.

The whole damn county knows by now. If you’d a paid attention in safety training you’d know
that Rosebud keeps a stable full of boy scouts turned miner who got nothing better to do but dream
about their chance to be a hero. Every time they feel a boulder settle they reach for their gear. You
just hang round and wait and some boy’ll get a chance to make his daddy proud.

Oh Hell with you, Zeke.

Look around. I’m already there with you.

Exactly. And I don’t wanna be trapped in no mine.

We weren’t even halfway through a shift. On a good day you’d still be here a handful of hours and
you’d be working. What plans you worried ‘bout missin’? You taking Sadie out for a night on the
town? Don’t you worry. She’ll be so frisky and tearful when they pull you out the hole, she won’t
wait ‘til you shower to throw you on the bed.

Fuck Sadie. She was running around on me with Mark. She thought she was clever, us in the mines
on different shifts. He worked nights, I worked days, she worked both. I got wise when he started
smackin’ her around some. I knew I never put a bruise on her.

Sorry.

She made her choice.

Mark Scheidemantle?

No. Mark Klause.

Don’t know him.

He’s over at the Long Run mine.

Makes sense. I been at Clementine since she opened. I don’t know any of the guys out that way.

It don’t matter.

I think this is far enough back. Beams look solid and nothing looks loose. You ok with camping
here?

I don’t have much choice.

So what were you gonna do tonight then?

I was going to Harry’s after to watch the game with Shane.

Well then when they punch the hole through you ask ‘em the score and for a pair of fish plates.

Dinner? I donno why you are so damn confident. It’s gonna be a week before they clear that
tunnel.

Harry’s has been there since before you were born. It ain’t going nowhere in the next few days.
And we’re playing Cleveland so we know who wins. Why wouldn’t I be confident?

Who says we make it that long. We’re trapped and you’re joking about fish and football.

What the hell else are we gonna do? You’re right. We got a few days. If you think about it, we are
already dead and buried. If they get to us in time then we ain’t dead no more. The way I see it, it’s
pretty hard for things to get worse but that means lots of room for getting better. You got a lot of
time to think in the dark. Be miserable if you want. I won’t.

If you know so much then you tell me what’s good about this.

Oh, I donno. I’d say they get us out of here in a few days and we’ll be all over in the papers and on
the news. You’ll be able to pick up any sweet looking girl in any bar in the tri county with your
story. We both get a coupla weeks R n R on the company and a nice hazard paycheck. You can
get your ma something nice for Christmas. I can take my wife on a cruise. How’s that sound?

I donno. Just wanna get out of this hole.

Or I could always bust you up good with the shovel. Then you could file for disability too.

And sue you?

Nah. I went crazy underground. Rock hit my head. I was trying to put you out of your misery and
mine. You wouldn’t get a cent.

And they’d never let either of us down a shaft again.

Now you’re starting to get the picture.

You are crazy. Go ahead and retire old man. What am I gonna do?

Did you really wanna work in the mine all your life anyway? What did you wanna do before you
stuck yourself here?

If I had any idea I wouldn’t be here. Ma wanted me to join the state police.

You didn’t like that idea?

It was ok. My driving record is pretty bad though. Shane’s brother got denied cause of his. I didn’t
try.

DWI?

No. But I got lots of points for speeding.

That’s easier to fix. What’s it hurt to try?

I donno. Maybe. I could do steel or iron I bet.

Army?

No. Never been interested. Isn’t one of your sons Army?

Both actually. Well Travis is out now and doing something with computers in Columbus. Chad just got himself a promotion but they are also shipping him out next month. He’s flying up on Friday.
Did you know Chad?

Not really. I think he graduated the year before me. But I knew Jenna. She was in a few of my
classes.

Really? I thought you were older than Chad.

More beat up I guess. What’s Jenna up to?

She’s down at Slippery Rock. She started doing nursing but last time she was home she said she
was gonna switch to special ed instead.

I can’t picture her as a nurse.

Yeah, no one could. Listen, we’re fixing to have a party for Chad on Saturday. The kids’ll all be
home. I promised Jody I would do up steaks on the grills even if there was snow on the ground.
Why don’t you come?

You think they’ll have us out by then?

Come Saturday we’ll be dead or we won’t. And if we’re not dead that’s one more reason for a
party. So you come over and bring your ma and some beer and we’ll all be alive together.

Whatever.

Or there won’t be a party and neither of us will care.
Just beer then. Ma’s in Reno with her fat sister for a few weeks anyway.

Fat sister? Shirley?

Yeah.

What in the world do you have against your Aunt Shirley?

She won’t sit in the same room as me ‘cause I look like Karl.

Shirley’s bent that you look like your father? Who’s she want you to look like?

It don’t matter.

Guess not. You can’t change your relations. Speaking of, how is your pa these days? Last time I
seen him he was trucking for McClymonds.

No one’s seen him. He got in with some long haul company going down to Louisiana and back.
They were either too desperate or stupid to piss test him. Last summer he was broke and got edgy
south of Wheeling on a run and tried to rob the wrong gas station. The kid held him at gunpoint
until the cops showed up.

Where’s he now?

Hell if I know. I hope he’s still in jail. He called Ma for bail money but she was out somewhere. He
tried his story with me. I let him finish and hung up. She hates him as much as I do but I know she
woulda sent him the money.

Really?

I don’t understand her. Hey, did you hear that?

What?

I thought I heard tapping.

I can’t hear nothin’ any more.

Maybe not…no I’m sure. Can you hear it now?

Yeah. Grab the shovel and tap back on one of the beams. You know Morse code?

Are you kidding?

Me either. At least they’ll know they got a reason to hurry.

I guess if they match the beat that means they got it?

I’d say so.

What happens now?

We keep waiting, they keep digging.

Okay. I can bring chips too.

What?

I’ll bring chips and salsa on Saturday. And beer.

Good idea. I think I am gonna take a nap while I still can. Soon we’ll both be famous heroes.

Yeah, ok. I’ll wake you up in two days when the fish gets here.

---



-Jn

200 Days

Because I am ABSOLUTELY counting.

It is 200 days until the big bad Twinkie day.

I encourage you to consider joining me and the other Jn on a hillside in Punxsutawney, PA for the culmination of our culinary...disasterpiece.

If you've been keeping track, I came up short 1 Twinkie somehow. So there is now only 1 nine-ish year old Twinkie floating around that we know of. The other Jn has it (I just have an empty box still under my bed) and we have plans to meet at a great big groundhog's day celebration to share it.

I have been told by many people that they want to participate in this. Awesome. We want you to be there. We are crazy. You love us anyway. Lets celebrate it together. This is what I expect you should expect...

I ate one of the many Twinkies there once upon a time and have pictures to prove it. The experience defied my expectations. There were tailgaters galore. The all night Walmart parking lot where we parked to catch the shuttle was filled with equal measures of families sleeping in RVs waiting and drunk college types who had come from colleges up to several hours away and declared their own holiday. The school buses of the down had been transformed into an armada of person shufflers, shifting a steady stream of humans towards a hillside turned carnival. Once in the magical place you were accosted with all manner of groundhog paraphernalia from hog shaped pastries and hats to large metal sculpture and carnival games. The majority of the crowd stood, sat or lay curled facing down on the slope of the hill and the participants were split down the middle for everyone's enjoyment and protection. One side of the divide was family friendly and had all the pent up excitement of children waiting for Santa at Christmas, the other side was raucous and teaming with the energy of a spring break beach party with the exception of donning every layer of clothing possible instead of removing it. These sides bantered playfully and without malice by tossing beach balls and balloons back and forth. At the base of the hill was a large stage and a team of cold but chipper cheerleaders moved to the beat of obnoxious music and encouraged the watchers to dance hypothermia away. There were flags and camera crews from many nations. There were periodic updates from men in long coats and top hats regarding the status of the day. How long must we wait, had the weather report changed, and heaven help us what has the temperature dropped to now? And during these intermissions all manner of people were escorted to the stage for recognition. We celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, distances traveled, number of Feb 2nds celebrated at that spot, the eldest, the youngest, the tallest and shortest. We applauded with gloved hands and cheered through muffling scarves and we shivered together for the sake of a very strange tradition. When called upon we would even sing. Shortly before dawn we collectively turned our gaze to the left to watch a frosty morning fireworks display sneaking above the treeline from a nearby field. At the appointed time the ground hog entourage arrived and the formal ceremony was performed to practiced perfection but while this was the climax and the purpose for the day it was by no means the most exciting bit of it.

So as you wander through the next few hot, hot, dry, dry days of summer I suggest you start thinking about a cold, early Saturday morning foray into planned madness. Come for the company. Come for the celebration. Come just to say you did it that one time. It will be a party. And there will be Twinkies.

-Jn

It's too hot to sleep

I forget when I wrote this. I hate when I don't write important things down. Now I have to work to find the answer.

Photographs of Rain

If you show me yours, I'll show you mine first
Not that I believe you will cause no one ever does
But these things can't hurt me any more, I'm pretty sure
My eyes aren't wet just yet so it must not be real pain,
More like photographs of rain, every single stain on a soul
Kept in a shoebox under my bed in the back of my mind
Waiting for such a time as this, my hair and my heart slightly amiss
And eyes that plead with a deep desire to be fully known
And you sitting there with nothing but all the time in the world
Sometimes these days I even feel whole
When the sun is shining down 
Like it will shine on forever, and never leave me alone
Yeah I'll show you mind if you promise
Promise you won't make mine worse


7/7/12
Union Hill

Early July

I woke up this morning surprised it was Sunday. I love Sunday although this one is more unusual than most. I spent part of a busy yesterday making the house chores past tense and the roommates that I usually bump in to while I lazily do whatever a morning requires are both absent this weekend. One bizarre consequence of this is that I have been fantastically productive which leads directly into a soothed and gregarious muse. I say bizarre because in reality I spend most of my days pleasantly alone so having no one in the house should not feel any different but both my conscious and my unconscious are acutely aware of the complete solitude that I was gifted for a few days.

I've come far enough to understand that I would make a horrible and miserable hermit. I need to be regularly brought out of the internal dialogue to reconnect with a 3.5 dimensional reality and the humans which inhabit it with me. But not too regularly. I have a pleasant enough balance right now. I can go a few days without saying more than a handful of words to my roommates as they pass in and out of the dwelling to tend to their frantic schedules. But no more than a few days. I typically get a day spent in solitude to accomplish my tasks and in the evenings I whisk myself away to be with real people living real life in situ. I posit that this is a wonderful way to spend a life and I will be immensely happy if I find a way to work from home for the duration of it.

I mentioned that I have been productive. It's true. It actually started Friday evening after I dropped off one of the mates at the airport and came home to see the other one lock the door and step out. This opened up a world of possibilities and I spent a good hour running in mental circles searching for some traction. I settled on a scandalous evening of downloading lectures from last semester while filing papers which I had sort of started and stalled around 4am some weeks in the past. (I know how early my roommate gets up and when I see her walk down the stairs headed for work I know I have forgotten to sleep.) The caveat of this previous filing was that there was very little left to throw away and that all of the easiest things were already handled...which is why I hadn't picked the task up since. I chose to distract myself with movies I had not seen- with my mind distracted I could not focus and obsess over the minutia to the point of halting progress. I sped through 2 movies that turned out to be much lamer than advertised and turned to a fallback favorite to finish off the night. It is still a favorite. And then it was nearly 2am. I am left with a pile of "stuff to deal with" and "papers that require dedicated thought to process" and a sense of accomplishment.

Saturday "morning" I spent a great deal of time cooking. I made breakfasts for many days to clear out some produce and freezerables that were on their way out one way or another. And I got things ready to do the same come dinner. Then I voyaged out to the farm where we have our CSA. Normally I am chaperoned but the boss is in another state...sort of. So in addition to the box of wonderfulness I brought home several packs of orphaned plants and many mini cucumbers. I had a vague idea about my time, about the state of the garden and the pots in the garage, and the number of cucumbers required for pickles. And vague was more than enough. I am equally likely to bring home a stray plant as a stray puppy...or piranha for that matter. (On that note I swear I saw a pen of skunks for sale on my way to the farm. You cannot imagine the depths of my disappointment when I discovered they were border collies. The only good thing to come out of that discover was I did not have to explain myself and my new pet to my roommates. But can you imagine? I can!)

Once home I commenced to rearranging the soil in pots and committing my plants to holes in the ground. I started by relocating tomatoes. I did not plant a single tomato seed this year. But last year I had the good sense to buy heirloom tomato plants from the super discount dying plant rack at a big box store. The chipmunks thanked me for their bounty (I ate very few of the tomatoes) by planting for me. And so, come spring I saw wee tomatoes coming up of their own volition stacked on top of each other in absolutely horrible places. But I was beyond giddy. I think I would have been less excited (albeit more surprised) had an orange tree sprouted. I am growing mongrel tomatoes. As it is I only ever knew what 3 of the 4 tomatoes I planted were in the first place. So my flock will likely be some combination of black prince, Mr. stripey, pink brandywine and un-identified red pear shaped wonder. But I also had some cherry tomatoes kicking around from before before. Those got replanted too. I waffled for weeks about relocating the tomatoes and right after I decided that it was too risk at this point (1ft high) I did it anyway. I am pretty certain that I now have 6 plants in the garden proper. They are most certainly still too close together but the are at least not touching and only 2 are devouring my peppermint. Nestled around the tomatoes are dark leaved basil plants. I saved 4 spindly 'matoes and one that was more robust to stick in pots (again with basil) mostly out of curiosity. I also planted hot peppers (I couldn't find jalapenos :( so late in the season.), one clump in the garden and one clump in a big pot. Round the outside I laid a hedgerow of marigolds which I love love love. The rest of the garden is laid out with peppermint and chives from this spring and spearmint reseeded from last year. Basil and mint love tomatoes. They help the tomatoes grow and enhance the fruits' flavor by changing the soil chemistry. They also repel pests and attract pollinators. All this and they are tasty in their own right. Likewise marigolds attract good guys and repel bad guys and while you can eat them they are more visually than gustatory satisfying.  And ruling over the whole bunch is my calamondin. It almost died a few weeks back but it is recovering in a hurry. It is putting out new leaves all over and getting ready to flower! 


I finished out the evening with a flurry of more cooking to prepare for the week coupled with cleaning the house in between stirring, shifting and savoring. And then to complete the night I wrote and wrote some more. 


So this morning most every necessity that requires doing was done save reheating. The transplanted tomatoes seem no worse for wear and I found myself with a chunk of hours to transcribe. I have filled them wholeheartedly. And now I will shift gears to showering and readying myself all around for a trip to the lake where I mark my starting over where I will meet up with a platoon of like-purposed and very real peoples. While this is one of the most challenging appointments of the month for a raging introvert it also has the potential to be the most fulfilling. 

More Idaho Things

(This apparently never got posted. Whoops!)

Open travel mug. Discover hobo spider. Close travel mug.
In truth it was probably not a real hobo spider just another viscous looking fangly spider.

Everyone claims they have bizarre weather. We do too. Right now the sun is shining and it is raining on a diagonal. The clouds that dropped the rain moved from overhead probably half an hour ago but they are so high that it takes that long for the rain to fall. Likewise when a rain cloud is over head dumping rain it isnt necessarily raining. When it gets particularly dry the rain and snow will evaporate before or as soon as they hit so you can stand in the rain and not get wet.

My phone keeps getting itself confused and bumping in to 2 time zones at the same time. At least one is consistently right.

Words...

Cleaning Out the Attic
Union Hill, 6/22/12 0415

Minutes past the middle of the morning
Or the middle of an hour
Midway through the middle of the night
And the minutia has been gathering
As I sort through all the usta was
Bits of a paper person
Who she is and what she does
From pay stub to receipt
This is who I am supposed to be
I have forced my mind to focus
On each scrap of paper
Saved like shards of a broken heart
Collected over years
In cardboard boxes
And moved from state to state
Kept with me, kept close, kept safe
As if to prove that I was here
And all of this was really real
That period of fuzzy perception and diffuse pain
Is suddenly become clear again
The love seat beside me is littered
With letters from old lovers
And saved stamps from international mail
And the pile to file grows
While the garbage overflows
And I’ve got a long way to go
But I’m beyond the point of caring
I’ve caught myself staring off
Into the space between the molecules of air
Still, I’ve stopped myself from reading
The cards that I know will bring tears
But photographs are less concealed
Memories of past selves revealed
Ready or not, they come
Fodder to feed an evil dream on
If I should pass that way
When I finally slip into my subconscious
And I will know soon enough, if only because
I’m losing the battle against my eyelids

The Twinkie story has been published.

http://www.gordon.edu/article.cfm?iArticleID=1295&iReferrerPageID=1676&iPrevCatID=134&bLive=1

I need like 10 copies for my grandchildrens' grandchildren... or something.

Seen/heard today

If at first you don't succeed, reload.

No shirt, no shoes, no worries.

Bananas are really expensive. We should buy a bunch and stock up in case the price goes up again. How's that sound? -Vern to me the banana hater

Traveling Ponderings

I asked a cop to run my car info today. It was very strange. He loved that the paperwork featured Idaho, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and New York info.

While we are at it I will visit all of my states today. Started in NY, drove to PA, layover in CO and end up in ID

I passed so many cops today going well above the speed limit. Lu-This is one reason why I drive a soccer mom car.

The drive felt like it took maybe 2 hours.

Selfishness/pride/self righteousness grows exponentially as you approach the TSA baggage check.

Pittsburgh must have the absolute worst possible TSA check in. Think hundreds of people below a balcony in a clump help in place by a net of lane barriers.

Dress like you respect yourself, be polite, smile and be kind. You will be in the minority and it will go a LONG way in the eyes and actions of others. If nothing else your attitude will be better. But you may also find your interactions with others moving more smoothly and bonus goodies along the way. I made 3 humans laugh and many more smile and I got an extra meal and an extra shot of espresso today and the day isn't even half over for me.

I love watching my bags go up the luggage ramp.

I am so excited to travel I tried to get on the wrong plane.

I love coffee.

Bring your own plane food. I just watched the pilot wash his own Windows.

Most people are idiots. Some people are brilliant. I rarely see a middle ground.

You have to turn off e books during take off. Always bring real paper.

28 is such a lame number

I mean seriously. It's super even. When you divide it by 2 it is still even. Both numbers are even. And I swear no one is ever 28. When do you ever ask someone how old they are and they say 28? Never. I can't wait to be 29. It's a prime number. My prime number years were always the best. And it will be my golden birthday. I have to wait 364 days for that. Anyway. Enough.


To celebrate I spend the day with my Rochester family at my house as a part of our house church gathering. And I made stew and chocolate cake because I love to cook and I wanted it and I had the excuse and I love making good food for family and friends to enjoy. The discussion was excellent, I was encouraged all around, and the dinner was wonderful. It was the perfect way to spend a birthday. And I've been reflecting...



I have been thinking about a recap and a rewind. What has a year in my life looked like. And the answer is absolutely ridiculous. So many things have changed and so much has happened. For instance my drivers license was NH while my mailing address was NY and I was attending school in CO although more than half of my time was spent in ID or PA and I worked in MA. (pause for breath) At one point I had vegetable gardens in 3 states at the same time. I am not making this up.

I started a new degree and will hopefully be half way through with it in 2 weeks. (It was supposed to take 3 years not 2!) I moved to a new state. I got baptized. I shot my first deer. Then I shot a deer at 1000 yards. I learned how to babysit children (yes this is a milestone). I ate a 9 year old twinkie. The twinkie story is going to be published. That's a smattering of big/weird events at least.

Another way to account for a year. Today I interacted with many people. I was talking to AS when the clock rolled over to B-Day. Then LE texting me at 00:08 to wish me a happy. And KN sending me a Happy 23rd card that she drew herself. I woke up to a text from the LT. KH brought me flowers when she got home from her race. MB, SW, D A M & AG came over later for church. And then B and B came over later. And later I texted SO. I also got calls/emails/texts from mother, father grandfather, best friend, past roommate and a few others. And I don't want to diminish these in the least because they are incredibly important humans in my life. But can we talk about how 14/20 people who interacted with me were complete strangers. (2 I met today for the first time so...) But there are 12 people that I love dearly and get to regularly spend time with and enjoy with and adventure through life with that are as close as family and incredibly new on my life calendar. And that is just a handful of people. There's about 50 others who are in the same category- as trusted and loved and loving as those that I had the good fortune to spend time with today. That's mind blowing.

So at the end of a day of reflection this is what is standing out to me most...

Dear Rochester family, a year ago only 2 of you had met me and only a handful even knew my name. You are an incredible gift. Thank you for welcoming me with open arms and showing me truth and love on a regular basis. Thank you for being honest, encouraging me, teaching me, helping me break bad habits and build new ones, laughing with me, crying with me, eating my food experiments, giving me a place to serve others, and standing beside me when I face hard things. I have been grateful for you at least once every day since I was introduced to you...and while it hasn't been a full 365 yet we are getting close. I love you dearly.

I can't wait to see what the next year brings...



-Jn

PS. I turned off my Facebook birthday and wall as a gift to myself. I ABHOR Facebook birthday wall spamming because it is impersonal, generic, and mindless. Shame on you if you are only sending me a message because the Facebook told you to. If you miss me hit me up on a random day when we both probably have less going on. And if you can't come up with a better, more creative way to wish me happy I would rather you didn't bother. This is also consequently why you did not find me spamming your wall on your birthday. But you didn't notice the lack of my presence because 40 people you haven't spoken to in a year spent 2.5 minutes coming up with a catchy way to say the same thing that everyone else said. ...Ahem....Stepping off soap box. Sorry.

Why I do what I do

It's not finals yet but it's close enough. The first big thing due hits on Saturday and a torrent of other due dates follows. The week before finals will actually promise to be more all-nighter inducing than finals proper this semester. So it goes.

I have been fighting a database all day and I have settled down in to robot mode. Do things repeatedly and hopefully efficiently and by all means in a huge hurry. Everything is details. And all details need to be done yesterday. Don't think. Don't feel. Just finish.

So this morning I unwrapped a still slightly frozen roast and stuck it in the slow cooker and forgot about it. I shoveled breakfast in my mouth and started working on SELECT statements. I had to DELETE everything and start over. By lunch I had everything back in where it belonged. Leftovers went down rapidly and without fan fair. And back to SELECT statements. I'm sure by the end of this I will have lost articles from my speech and my capitalizing imperatives will be instinct not example. Dinner alarm goes off. Yes I have alarms to tell me when to eat. And to tell me when to go to class. When I get in to mass production mode I won't stop until I fall asleep. I hit snooze for a good half hour and I was starting to feel off. So I wandered downstairs nuked some frozen veggies and prepared to vacuum everything in and get as much done before class as possible.

I was on my 3rd mouthful of meat when the strangest thing happened. I stopped mid chew. My brain registered that it was not eating cow and gave pause to the whole system. The report came back: "This is not cow. This is deer. You killed this deer." And then all stress slipped out of my body. I was completely relaxed. I took smaller bites and chewed more slowly willing the taste to last.

I was on a rock. My father was behind me. I'd lost a deer once already in the trees. I couldn't see antlers. As I was questioning my shot my mind drifted to thoughts of steak and the sights were perfect and the rifle shot straight and then there was nothing left to question but where was the rope. He made one valiant bound and died mid air out of my line of sight. My father, my nephew and I (mostly Alex) drug him to the 4-wheeler. We skinned him in the garage over which his antlers are now displayed. And over the next few days I worked earnestly to wrap up parcels for such a time as this. A harried Tuesday not unlike any other day. I spent hours inside with my eyes focused on task and not on the mountains surrounding me so that on a begrudging future day in flat suburb in an eastern state I could take a bite and the world would stop. And I would pace out the events of the day, hear the forest, smell the trees, see the landscape, feel the presence of family and taste the victory of every part of that adventure.

Field to table. Amen.

-Jn

Apparently I am Gordon Famous

Friends and I have been bantering on a Google + post about about Strawberry Icecream Oreos. It goes like this:
SL-  i just gagged out loud- way to ruin strawberry icecream and oreos!
Jn-  Oh nasty. That is SO gross. Did you eat one on purpose?
JW-  Actually, I ate 1 from the goading of my little sister.
JW-  WAIT. How is this grosser than your twinkie-eating-habits of 9 years???
SL-  Tu shay J!
Jn-  True story...look of shame :(


About an hour after JWilly posted the Twinkie habits comment I got the following email:

Hello! I am looking for a J K who went to Gordon College, was a biology major, graduated in (2006?) and wrote a wonderful post about Twinkies in your blog. If that is you, we would love to run a brief mention of it in the upcoming STILLPOINT. Please let me know if that is (or is not) okay. I would be happy to send you the text we'd like to use. Many thanks!
P H
Gordon College Communications Office




I of course immediately emailed the other Jn. And then I emailed Gordon Communications out of sheer curiosity. Seriously? This is more than likely the most bizarre thing I will EVER do. You want to put it in the Alumni Magazine?


My life gets stranger every day.

-Jn

Man cannot live on bread alone. Man cannot live on Twinkies at all. 

The first day of Spring and 15 years

The night my sister left…

In my head that was when death was the most real. But that acute loss wasn’t death. Not the sudden parting of soul and body. Death was the slow and steady breakdown of a fragile body. Decay of flesh still indwelt with spirit. The opposite of growth. Instead of counting words acquired, the words were lost.

This slow insidious creeping death had her months before. She ceased to be herself, ceased to be ours, long before her heart stopped beating. But as long as there was a heartbeat there was some small hope that maybe this wasn’t the end. There was still a chance for the miracle of pulling her back from the grip of creeping death.

But death maintained its hold.

And perhaps still does. At first the day by day hollow ache. A room not lived in. A chore no longer required. Everything we’d grown to consider normal hat to be re-written and new habits formed. This too was death. Day by day the acute pain faded. Life didn’t feel so strange. The lack became a usual part of life and then it wasn’t a lack any more. Week by week things were boxed or sold or given. They weren’t needed. They were in the way. They were a reminder. And year by year reminders slipped from consciousness, followed by the memories they marked.

This too is death

Somewhere in a teapot in Virginia are the remains of my sister. DNA reduced to component parts. Carbon to carbon. Ash to ash. Dust to dust. There is a painting of her too. A hopeful vision from a family friend. These are the remains. But not all that remains.

I have my own urns gathering dust in the shadowy corners of memory. Mementos to mark a loss. Trophies proving an existence. This person used to be in my 3 dimensions and now she is not. They only way I can still connect is to skew the fourth dimension with a concerted effort. I can think back to what was or project to the present of what never could be. And the interaction must always be solitary and one way. Even a memory shared by others is tainted by my own experiences. The colors of the paintings the study of my mind have faded based on how the sun shines in through my eyes. This is not the real thing, only my best rendition. And as years approach decades, the death of memory continues. I can hold fewer images and those become ever more altered to fit my present desires.

As ashes don’t make a body, memories don’t make a soul.

Written 8/6/11. Edited 3/20/12. Spencerport.

-Jn

Surprise Blizzards aren't Surprising anymore

When I left my house this evening there was a hinting at foul weather. It was raining and balancing on the edge of 33 degrees. The drive to the highway was shockingly dark. I waited for the LT to get out of work with the heat blasting and the radio loud to cover the sound of the rain. We sped east of the city to our destination but the weather tapered as we went and there was barely a drizzle when we arrived.

We walked into the dark house and hailed the inhabitants. We bantered for a while about the lights and the baby and then set our minds to progress. Hours passed. It was time to head for home.

While we were distracted we missed the beginnings of the surprise blizzard. One of the lake special effects of Rochester fame.

My furnace of a car was the only vehicle not covered with half an inch of snow. I helped the others brush and sped towards home alone. East to the road of rotaries. Round and round and generally south, aiming for the highway. Nothing was particularly dramatic until I reached the highway. The yellow incandescent lights were hazy and ill defined. The snow was falling more thickly now and dense and wet and absorbing all stray light possible. Everything seemed vague and dim with the exception of the masses of flakes streaming at me in the brilliance of my headlights. Insert here the perfunctory reference to flying through the stars in a space ship.

I was still in 6th gear and still going at least the speed limit but this was slowly becoming unwise. The ground was beyond saturated and though some of the snow melted as it landed the water had no place to go. It built up on the road surfaces and became a slurry as more crystals fell from above. I was driving through at least 2 inches of slush and though I was not hydroplaning and I had decent traction I was being guided from side to side by the uneven pull of friction on the corners of my car.

I turned the radio down and the heat. The noise of slush on tires was drowning them out anyway. Forward. Onward. Slush. Slush. Slush. I passed a car on the right because it was easier than shifting left two lanes. I was rewarded by and enormous blast of water to the windshield. I jumped. The only break in the overpowering sound of wet friction came when passing under overpasses. No snow snuck beneath them and the roads were merely wet. For the first time I realized just how many roads cross over the loops around the city.

I crossed the bridge which designates to me that I am on my side of the city. A plow is spewing salt in a single lane without removing the snow that’s building up. I don’t understand. I pass it and wonder at the salt denting my car. The snowflakes are growing in size. Quarters perhaps but round. Can snow even get that big?

Around the bend are myriad brake lights in every lane. Against my better judgment I slide over to the far left lane, boxing myself in and nearly assuring that I will be in the line of the accident. The slooshing sound of snow subsides with my speed and is replaced by the overly anxious alarm of my radar detector alerting me to what I already knew. There are police ahead. Shortly reflected blue and red lights confirm all of this and I am as expected directed to shift right.

There are many officers. A man is being arrested. Patted down. Alcohol I suspect. He looks less unhappy than I would have suspected. He looks like I wouldn’t want to meet him in an alley. Then a line of cars too close to other solid objects for comfort. OneTwo together then Three and Four against the wall. A woman is standing in the back of an ambulance talking. I glance at Four. There is a man in the passenger seat leaning against the window. No one else is around. He must be dead. I will have to check the news tomorrow. We are past the accident. We pick up speed again.

The sound of slush again increases as do the size of the snowflakes. We are up to sliver dollars. That cannot be true. They cannot be that bit. But they are. I continue on the left side of the road. No longer in 6th gear but still passing, still getting sprayed with water. Still heading west towards home. I pass a pair of plows in tandem. The rear is dumping salt. The front is pushing snow…and dumping salt. This makes less sense than the previous plow. I pass.

I curve gently off the interstate onto the highway that will lead me the rest of the way home. No plows have touched this road and few cars have passed this way. The road is not lit and the slush is much thicker. I have driven this road in much more ferocious snow but the roads were less dangerous. I pass a small pickup. I am in the far left where the roads are the worst. I feel as though I am in complete control but my traction control light strobes to tell me otherwise. I acquiesce to physics and shift right. I regret my decision when I find myself behind a slow minivan. I consider passing it. Then I consider the depth of the slush. Then I consider myself in the ditch. Was that guy really dead? I consider how painfully slow we are going for the next two miles.

I exit the highway to even deeper snow at the bottom of the off ramp. I brake well in advance to prevent a slide and find myself thankful. A car speeds through the intersection at too great a speed for even normal road conditions. The light changes on them when they are between intersections and they slide too far into the middle. They take their foot of the brake to slide backwards down the hill and avoid being hit. Luckily I am not going that way. I don’t want to see another accident.

A few cars have preceded me towards the townhouses and left trails for me to follow. I am home with an inch or more of snow and no roommates. One is tucked safely away in Arizona where it never snows this way. The other is working until I don’t know when. I hope she makes it home safe. I hope she is safe. Did I really see a dead man? I leave fresh tracks everywhere I walk. The snow in the driveway looks white and clean and innocent.

I am as convinced it was a man as I am that I saw him and that he was dead. I would give it a bold 75%. This is not the first time I have witnessed dead human. I’ve watched a man drown. I’ve held the hand of far more intimate death. But I am not yet immune to the shellshock that the permanence brings. I think I saw a dead man tonight.

I unshoe, unjacket, unload. I find pajamas a laptop and a bed. The thoughts are already fading as I start to scrawl. I think I saw a dead man tonight. I put it down on paper because I decided I would when I noticed the different hues of the incandescent lights in the snow and thought it worthy of composition. This was miles and paragraphs before the accident. Before the dead man. But in timeline probably after he was already dead. After the ambulance had arrived on the scene. I decided I was going to write and so I was already writing in my head and absorbing every detail when I happened to look over and see a dead man wearing green.

Maybe it was just a jacket. Maybe what I saw was something other than a hand against the glass. Maybe the person in the ambulance was once in that seat and was now being rushed towards a second chance of life.

My roommate is home. I heard the keys in the door. The keys find a hook. The shuffling of a work weary body in the house. Safe. And of course the news has no story yet. It is still unfolding.

-Jn

Groundhog's Day!!!

I recorded it for posterity. Also if I die you can remember what I look and sound like.

The post Twinkie reaction-A very real headache and a completely mental stomach ache.

Here is the running list of previous Twinkie updates: (Here is the running list of previous Twinkie "data".)

Groundhog's Day Eve - Recap

Tomorrow makes Twinkie number 9 of the box of 10. Let me remind you where we've been...

Feb 2, 2004 - Twinkie number 1, Year 0. Jenn Hayden, Eric Mehlberg and I shared the moment in the second row back on the left hand side of the ultra orange organic chemistry classroom. Orange tile, walls, furniture, benches, art and periodic table of the elements- with Carbon painted gold. We dined on Twinkie before class started and before Irv Levy popped open his perpetual can of soda. We got the idea from him of course. All of his industrial examples were about extending the shelf life of Twinkies from 5 years to 10 years. Our real goal with this experiment, to have a reason to keep in touch for as long as possible if only for one day a year. This was before Facebook mind you. It worked so far.

Feb 2, 2005 - Twinkie number 2, Year 1. Jenn Hayden and I partook together shortly after lunch and before biostats class started. I remember having to move the desks around so we could sit together and that the room was very hot and we were very nervous and shocked at how much it was Twinkie like.

Feb 2, 2006 - Twinkie number 3, Year 2. I don't remember. Jenn help me out? I'm willing to bet money that I ate the Twinkie in the bio library with Mel Kel and whoever happened to be there at the time. This was our senior year and by that time I lived in the library almost constantly.

Somewhere between Feb 2006 and Feb 2007 one of my Twinkies went missing. I think it was during MBI which means I have 5 suspects. Seriously guys, how could you not know what you were eating? They were super stale at that point.

Feb 2, 2007 - Twinkie number 4, Year 3. I was in Punxetauny PA for the big Groundhog's day celebration with my mother. I ate the Twinkie after the Phil predicted no more winter. I called Jenn from the celebration.

Feb 2, 2008 - Twinkie number 5, Year 4. I was alone in my weird little studio apartment that was next door to Krista then Faulks' apartment with my cat Gurgles chillin. Called Jenn that evening.

Feb 2, 2009 - Twinkie number 6, Year 5. At my desk in my bedroom in Malden, MA. Early afternoon. Shandra was not around to watch but she did ask a lot of questions when she got home. I think this is also the first year I know that Sarah Ripley has told her Rochester friends about this adventure and that they refer to it as pray for Jenn day. I also didn't call Jenn until the next day. SHOOOOOOT.

http://jnkcmd.blogspot.com/2009/02/wheres-cream-filling.html

Feb 2, 2010 - Twinkie number 7, Year 6. 8th floor of the library of UMB with my dear friend Aimee Young. She was incredibly concerned and she photographed the events more than willingly. I texted Jenn from the library but I called her later.

http://jnkcmd.blogspot.com/2010/02/tomorrow-is-groundhogs-day.html

http://jnkcmd.blogspot.com/2010/02/groundhogs-day-twinkie-as-promised.html

Feb 2, 2011 - Twinkie number 8, Year 7. Late afternoon in the kitchen of the Dover, NH kitchen. My dear father had to dig through boxes I stored at his house after the Twinkie and mail it to me. He told everyone he met the day he put it in the mail what the Twinkie was all about. Jenn and I caught up that afternoon and I cleaned snow off the back deck while we talked.

http://jnkcmd.blogspot.com/2011/02/twinkie-report-2011.html

Feb 2, 2012 - Twinkie number 9, Year 8. TBD and TBA
Update: http://jnkcmd.blogspot.com/2012/02/groundhogs-day.html

Feb 2, 2013 - Twinkie number 10, Year 9. I am desperate for Jenn and I to be reunited to share the last remaining Twinkie and also split a fresh one for comparison sake in Punxetauny PA. I am also desperate to have as many other humans as I know there to join the party. Please come.

And yes Virginia, I liked groundhogs day a ridiculous amount BEFORE the Twinkies. That's why we picked that day in the first place.

-Jn

The coolest made up animal ever made up

Writing for me is not a task, a chore, a verb. It is an animal inside my being and scurries and scatters, digs and climbs, uncovering emotions, burying thoughts. It lays dormant for hours, months, long winters of internal time. It wakes slowly, stirs, tries to find a way out here or there. I fight against it. External time has constraints. I feel compelled to keep the animal in stasis from guilt. There are things to be done. What things? It doesn’t matter. It’s the doing that matters. Do things. Do more things. Can’t writing be a thing that you do? No. Because. Or when acceptance has finally been come around to by force or pain, the animal scraping and digging fiercely for escape, for breath and the guilt of occupation has been won over there still remains stifling obligations. There is the subject matter to consider and the audience. You should apply yourself to writing about x or y or z not n! and may all social constructs forbid that your composition be addressed explicitly or implicitly to p or q. Much safer to broadcast to the set of m=[a, a+1,…h]. But it doesn’t take much to trace this back into the former guilt of a thing to be done. This is writing as a verb. A verb is not wrenching my insides out in the panic of a dark tomb.

The current dilemma is one of theme. Squalor. I question myself. Why do you choose the dismal? Or let me be more clear, why do you choose the dismal when your life is so obviously and clearly on the upswing? Is it healthy? What with this or that human think? What do you know of fetid existence really? What right do you have to speak towards such things?

I imagine the slant towards the miserable has something to do with the most recent selections in reading material. Whether up beat or beaten down the backdrop of my most recently visited fictional worlds have been painted in hues of grey, brown, poverty, sickness, pain and steely blue. I recognize also that the atmosphere of any selected story, place or occurrence trapped by the strokes of a pen will be colored intimately by the specific pile of words wrestled into the line of a sentence. A sewer filled with vagabonds and ruffians can be papered over with the warm and festive feel of a fair just as halls lined with gold and silver gilt can be transformed into a prison given the appropriate cadence and tense. The written word is dangerous and powerful.

However, my literary intake can only account for so much of the shift towards stagnant puddles in my mind. No, I have become convinced that the largest compulsion comes from the hours I’ve been awake, the flavors of the company I have spent my time with, and the shades and tones of the building in which most of my conscious time has played out. Nocturnal. Police. Emergency Center. Dispatch.

Over and again the questioning of my obligation to write or not write this or that phrase. By what right? I feel the claws sink deeper into the unprotected internal flesh.

I suppose that the best writers of fiction are in fact the best liars and they are the best liars because they approximate most accurately the elusive phantom of truth. So it goes.




I crack open the den. I write.

Opening Day (PA edition)

I stand atop a shipping container which is stacked on a shipping container that is in turn resting on another and another. And this stack is fastened to another of equal height beside it. We are 42 feet off the ground counting the concrete pad supporting the stack. But as our tower of seaworthy metal blocks is on a hillside, to the south the drop off puts us at something more like 64 feet. The tower is painted and industrial military shade of green to match it's purpose. Someday snipers may train in this very spot with a rifle much more powerful and accurate than my own. We are 3 sentinels guarding this tower from a theoretical onslaught of deer.

I stay at the East side of the stack. My focus is on a field that is visible for 300 yds before it dips and any deer disapear from view. In truth even in the open field they will be hard to spot because the brush in places is nearly 3 feet high, so too are the deer if they drop their heads. More than half of the field is encircled with a thin stand of timber marking property lines and parcel edges. Though only 10 feet wide in most spots it is enough to offer a deer the illusion of cover. I regularly check these potential avenues of travel especially considering that the deer have worn a path directly beneath my perch. in the north there is thick timber from which we expect our quarry to come. It is state land, publicly huntable and filled with rifle bearing men in orange who we hope will shift the deer in our direction. I occasionally look south at a triangle shaped bench along the hill. It is thick with brush but it in a deer pushed upwards my try to catch his breath before continuing to ascend.

My nephew, a year my younger, guards the western flank. His view is wider, more interesting, harder to manage. Straight west is flat for a piece with a line of rotting machinery at the edge of the trees. it then slopes slightly, crests and drops off at 400 yards. But along the shallow traverse there are dips which will hide a deer from sight. A few clumps of pines also dot this section. To the south his view drops off much more rapidly. The hill is steep and we are high so most of it is in view. And arm branching off from the peak is the tipping point of sight but it many places it is 300 yards away.

The bottom of the hill is marked by a dirt road running east-west. Beside it and on our side but mostly out of view from our perch is the 1000 yard range increasing west to east. It is marked at 100 yard intervals with mounds of dirt growing ever higher with distance from the targets. It was seeded with clover and grass after construction this summer and the part that is visible to me is a verdant green even now. Our tower is roughly between the 7 and 8 hundred yard mounds. On the other side of the road the terrain again rises, a low hill that happens also to split a creek and become an island in the process. This island is surrounded on 3 sides by swampy brush and timber and the far side is better than 1200 yards from me as the crow flies. The terrain rises again beyond the island, thick trees for a while then another "open" field with a strip of trees surrouding it, marking pipeline-east, property line-west, and crest of hill-south.

My brother is at an intersection of paths at the bottom of the hill. Treeline, creek, island corner and dirt road meet beside him and very near the 600 yard mark. He paces like a caged animal around the cable spool which is supposed to remain his home base. He covers all directions. Protected from our view and our rifles by a hump in the hill are 2 friends of my brother and father, Sam and Ross. One is on a cable spool above 1000 yards and the other on a spool above 200.

My father for his part walks between us like a commander checking on troops. He has a rifle, loaded, resting on the makeshift plywood table. But he would rather we shoot first. As we wait he points out orange dots and names them, describes the owner of each stand and the stand itself. Talks about how he knows them and the deer they are likely to take. Across the field from me is a party of 4 hunters. They take turns sitting 2 in a tree stand and 2 driving deer. They are shooting for meat and likely have doe tags. For them anything goes. Along the pipeline a party of 2, unknowns to us. Near the edge of the far trees tucked into a fox hole covered with tin is ---, barely visible. His friend sits in the middle of that far field. Every other year --- takes a trophy buck. He will hold out for glory until the final days of the season. His friend, we suspect, will shoot the first shootable deer.

Shooting light comes and goes without incident. By some design of the state, it is not yet light enough to see through a scope until 5 minutes after you are permited to fire. As it was we wait nearly 10 minutes before the first shot christens the season in earnest. It is followed by a volley from all directions and a lull. This patteren continues until an hour past lunch. Five to ten minutes of regular shooting from every which way and then silence for half an hour or more. It is as if the rifles are calling to one another from distance hillocks and checking in to maintain the pack formation.

The tree stand hunters have luck early, within the first hour of light they take something. We cannot tell from our vantage point if it was buck or doe but it never crossed within our line of sight so it probably doesn't matter much. Across the island, friend of --- makes a kill. This is unfortunate as the pair is old and the deer is far from a road. It takes them over a hour and a half working together to drag their beast up the hill and into the back of a faithful pick-up. They do not stay to fill another tag.

My brother takes a shot. It makes contact but does not kill. He calls to inform as he gears up for a hike through swamp. An hour later we here a shot from his supposed direction and half an hour past that we get another call. Among other things he is wet waste deep from the failure of a beaver dam he was crossing. His deer is now cooling in the creek while he seeks dry clothing. One of the pipeline brothers saw him and bored with his station wandered down to investigate. Obnoxious and unhelpful. Why the deer did not drop immeditately is beyond us all. The first shot was accurate, true and more than enough to end things quickly. Perhaps this deer found a methamphetamine stash this morning.

Kurt has a doe tag but wants to save it for a snow covered day. His plan is 5 buddies on the tower and a doe crossing the island at 1200 yards. The stuff of legends. He joins us for a while on the tower while his deer cools in the creek.

While he is hiking we see a buck too far away to shoot let alone count points. It is headed for Sam and his failure to shoot tells us that is was not legal. My father sees a doe come and go quickly. For a long time my nephew watches a buck, well within range. He is perhaps a year and a half old. The same age as the pair we took a few short months ago in Idaho and every bit bigger for having grown up here. He is a 5 point, 3 on one side including the brow tine and 2 on the other...no tine. For a man who has only 5 hours to shoot before he has to travel home, this is more than large enough to take and in most of the state it would be legal. However, on our side of the state, where deer grow larger faster, we are constrained to only shoot deer with more than 4 points on one side...or rather 3 points off the main beam and you can skip the brow tine (so goes the rule new this year). The buck pauses for him more than once as it makes it's way down the hill. Until next year good sir. I dare you to walk this way again.

Time comes and goes. My sister comes. She and my nephew go. They fix my father's tire before they head for Indiana and in turn have tire trouble of their own crossing Ohio. A pothole of epic proportions blows one tire and bends another rim. The police tell them "We know, we know. File a claim with the state." They are home in time for my sister to start her shift at 10pm.

We pack up and head home. There has been no volley for over an hour and we suspect there is no one left in the game lands to drive us deer. Rain fell in torrents throughout the morning and continued to pizzle down for the duration of our stay. We are cold, wet, hungry and unenthused.

At home we each scavenge in the fridge for food to heat. Top this off with a hot drink and spirits lift slightly. We reaquire wet gear from piles on the livingroom floor and step out of the house for round two. This time I mount my fathers tree stand in the field below our house. He circles behind and tries to drive deer my way. His first and second loops return nothing. His final kicks up a doe, shot in the back leg and limping. She puts some weight on it but not much. I burn with anger at whatever fool did this. If there is a chance that your hit will be half that bad you do not bother to flip off the safe. There is no honor in a wound like that, no respect in causing suffering. The goal is accurate and therefore quick and painless. I have no tag to exchange for her life as she limps up the hill as quickly as she can manage. She will bed down in the trees beside my uncles house and his boys are flush with doe tags. I will see them tonight and tell them where to go.

Thus ends opening day. With rain, pain, and a twinge of sorrow. I shower immediately. I found a solitary deer tick on my hand and my mind has convinced me that I am covered in wee beasties. My dinner of leftovers is heart-warming, though I skip the stuffing, please pass the potatoes (and forgive the pun if you happened to pick it up). I sleep quickly, soundly and late. Tomorrow (now yesterday), according to weather forecasts, a horrible day for hunting.

Today I am in bed equally late. The world is shaddowed in full blowing blustering white and wind howls through cracks in the windows. This is supposed to stop in a few hours at which time I will gear up and remount the tree stand. But at the moment my thoughts wander to eggs, ham, coffee.

-Jn

Between a dumpster and a concrete place

I intended to write through breakfast. To my surprise, when I stopped it was past lunch. Unintended consequences of observation.

No dear reader, these words were not for public consumption. But this was more than reassuring as only last night I was considering my lack of inspiration among friends. Yes I have left my preferred canvas of aspen and tamarack at daybreak but apparently garbage trucks, smoking stylists, and exhaust fans on a grey drizzly day can be prepared in a manner worth of ink and paper.

So it goes. I do not want to do my homework.

-Jn

Montana, the sunrise state

My father by some unknown power managed to drive 11 hours straight through the night last night while I slept fitfully in the back of the truck. He turned the keys over to me shortly after 6 am local time, just east of Billings. This, my friends, presented me with a glorious treasure. A sapphire so blue that you stare into it until you lose your mind. A sunrise on a cloudless Montana morning. Pure, graceful beauty.

For a space between Billings proper and the outskirts of mention there is emptiness. No lights brighten the road. A few souls flew past to open some store for the future souls who need stores open before their 9-5s begin. A couple of truckers were also on the road. Likely team drivers who do not need to lie about sleep in a log book. My body had long since grown numb to the bumps and bustles of the road beneath the tires turning steadily homeward. In the darkness I might as well have been flying through space in a hover car, a rocket ship, the vehicle of the future. And there on the horizon out of the darkness is an alien constellation. Lights that would outshine the sun surrounded in clouds of mystery and wonder. Mist threading here and there between stacks and domes with a few torches, flames for dramatic effect. These brilliant gems, Montana People’s Power and Light, Conoco Phillips, and Exxon Mobil. A coal fired power plant churning all night to fuel a pair of refineries which not only burn but also process the midnight oil. An ethereal dream, wrapped in wisps of steam. This is the lifeblood of Montana. This is a steady stream of income for a populous. This is the beauty of production. But I can only hold the lights for a few moments. The darkness swallows even those lights whole as I churn eastward.

A first for me. A wolf hit by the car on the side of the road. “Good dog. It’s a little chilly at 17 degrees but I know you will be quite comfortable in that ditch.” There is a season for wolves in Montana as in Idaho. One state to the east, and my next destination, has no such privileges. The sun will crest the hills mere moments before I breech the state border but I do not know this yet.

I am flying quickly through the darkness as dotted lines tick under my tires. But there is a change in the inky black. I sense it. A Painter is on the prowl. Somewhere in the black, a black tipped tail twitches. The tawny lion, the dawn is hunting. Swiftly and silently it is coming, diligent to its purpose. So many fools wandering now are unaware of its coming. It will take them before they know it. But I am awake and keen to watch the sun approach.

The first signs of an as yet non-existent light come in the faint outline of what might be a horizon. If asked, even if hard pressed, both sky and land are as black as black can possibly be. But somewhere in the distance, where the edges of the earth reach toward the infinite, a black is slipping in to blue. The stars still shine with all the brilliance and honor the million year journey of light deserves. Punctuation marks across an otherwise immutable glass ceiling of darkness. No, the next shift toward a lighted heaven is hinted at on earth. Each pond, puddle, lake and lagoon is gathering up every stray ray of the infantile dawn and reflecting it to any being that will see. In the black on black the name for this color is shimmer. Crayola has yet to dissolve it into a 4 part formula in wax and I hope they never shall. Hiding in the havens of shimmer are small black forms in comfortable, irregular clumps. Waterfowl, hoteling. They are headed homeward south as I press towards the east. And then as at the ends of the world black shapes start to appear against the black earth, silhouettes on silhouettes. Here there are forms of beasts, cattle. There the forms of bales, hay.

And there to the east is a change in shade. Out of the blackness, the colors of the rainbow spread from ceiling to floor but in muted charcoal tones. These are not quite colors. There is a hint of yellow, perhaps green. But no it is just grey I suppose. Is that pink on the horizon? I think so, but no…it is only more grey. This continues for an odd hour or more. Black gives way to pale pastel in ever lightening washes of grey without becoming something of a complete color. No color you would stake a dollar on at any rate.

Somewhere in between the not quite indigo and essence of blue the stars wink out one by one. The almost shades of rainbow are drifting upwards, westwards around the dome. To one ill experienced with a nascent sun or more comfortable with the close of day this might seem to signal a new wave of brilliance, for is not a sun rise merely the opposite of a sunset? But this has never been the case. An aged day is cocky, flamboyant. Raging mad with sparks of color to highlight the insanity as the sun plunges towards another death. Purples intermingle with oranges and gold shines out with neon flare against preposterously pink clouds. And even as the sun struggles downwards it thrusts out final rays in hopes it will not be forgotten. But as an infant the day comes wrapped in layers tenderness. The soft shades of new skin. Pink lines the edges of the buttes for a time and you sense that the sun when it first appears must certainly be pink. Imagine the disappointment then when colors never actually appear. Pink slides softly out of existence, kissing the contours of the hills at your back before disappearing completely.

As yet there is no sun but the sky is full light and it seems so too is the earth. From black on black into light on light, for all of creation is covered in snow. This color too is best described as shimmer and again it is dotted with dark forms. However, these are the black bodies of range cattle. The plod onward in whichever direction their whims take them. They graze, then they wander, then they pause to chew, and all the while they praise their Creator for their darkness as they soak up any light that reaches them. All heat is precious when the air hovers near single digits.

To my right I spy a pack of wolves. They are running in a line and like me they are pointed towards the east. This part of the country is much more open than the one I left 12 hours earlier. These wolves are in season and exposed. And so they are on the move. They are less than a handful of miles from the neighboring state where they are still protected and this is where they are bound with all haste. Their feet are faster than mine, but they are no match for the speed of my tires and they are out of sight in seconds. I catch a glimpse of a sentry prairie dog searching the new day for something to fear. His wish will be granted in 5 minutes or so when the wolves pass through his village.

I can see Wyoming’s welcome sign in the distance. Then suddenly I can see nothing but light. The sun has finally scaled the hills and is present in full glory. A ball of fire that cannot warm the day soon enough. Though momentarily blinded the sun has also revealed a danger I’d not paused to consider. The asphalt leading me eastward is coated in a shine of black ice. I ease off the accelerator and slow to what I consider a reasonable speed. I am passed frequently, but then I watch the hasty slide as they cross bridges at wrong angles and I am reassured that my pace is perfect. It will be another hour before I drift above 51 and then only once behind an ash truck. Miles tick off more slowly but also more safely and I am content.