This place is smoky and dark and the girl in front of me exudes an unmistakable, inebriated desperation. Someone has put an old Pixies song on the juke, Black Francis wailing about Alec Eiffel, and I watch this girl totter and struggle for balance. She leans into me. Well, she actually stumbles into me more than anything else. Her arm slides around my neck and she says something I don't understand; her unintelligible words drifting to me in an odorous cloud of booze and cigarette smoke. It sounds something like, “Susie's car smells like sweaty tennis shoes.” I'm pretty sure that's not what she actually said, but at this point I can't be sure and frankly don't really care.
“I test sporting goods equipment for a major, national manufacturer,” I say loudly, competing with the din.
Beside me, Jerry looks over with this big, drunken grin on his face.
“Tell her about that time in Miami,” he says. “You remember - when you were testing tennis rackets.”
I like Jerry because there are no excuses or explanations required. He's played this game many, many times before.
“I'm not very good at tennis,” the girl says.
She looks vaguely confused and starts to giggle. Her tittering laugh grates at me, and I have to end this line of conversation or I'll lose any and all desire to see this quagmire I'm getting myself into through to the end.
“There was this Russian girl, a tennis player,” Jerry says.
The girl's eyes slowly wander to Jerry.
“Russian?” She asks.
“Sure,” Jerry says. “Russia. Eastern Europe. Surely you've heard of it.”
The girl just giggles again, taking a very unnecessary swig from whatever it is she's drinking.
“Anyway,” Jerry continues, “this Russian girl - the tennis player - Morgan here gave her a private demonstration. Long story short, she ended up testing that racket in ways the manufacturer definitely did not intend.”
The girl's face is now a blank. Jerry is smiling broadly, his mouth seemingly taking over his entire head. The girl looks uneasily from Jerry back to me.
“I'm not very good at tennis,” she says again, shaking her head emphatically.
“Just as well,” Jerry says. “Her career was never the same after that.”
I decide to shift gears before this whole scene completely deteriorates. This is how this is done. You take it to the edge, the thin line that can't be crossed, and then you yank it back. Christ, I've danced this dance so many times I could do it in my sleep.
“What is it that you do?” I ask.
Jerry hears the question and loses interest, as he has never cared for the dull but necessary groundwork of this game. He turns back to the bar, motioning for another drink.
The girl leans towards me, swaying on her feet. Her balance fails her, and she lurches sideways. I steady her with my hand, and some of her drink slops on my pants. She either doesn't notice or pretends not to notice.
“I work for the government,” she says, her head nodding drunkenly to accentuate this point.
The government. It figures. No wonder we're all on a rocket ship to oblivion, what with girls like this acting as cogs in the big, administrative wheel. Jerry hears this nugget and is suddenly interested again, leaning across me and looking directly at the girl.
“I work for the government, too,” He says.
She looks at him suspiciously, immediately guarded. Maybe she's not as fucked up as I originally thought. This would change the game plan, but truth be told it might make it that much more interesting.
“I can't tell you too many details,” Jerry says. “Let's just say my work involves a lot of travel to exotic destinations. It's all very covert. You know, on the down-low.”
“Like a spy?” The girl asks, her eyes narrowing.
She's suspicious now; her brow furrowed with a determined focus. Shit. Jerry might have taken this a bit too far. Soon, I'll have to slip into damage-control mode to try and reign in this cluster-fuck. God damn him. Sometimes Jerry's lack of respect for this process borders on infuriating.
“Well,” Jerry says, his eyes moving shiftily from side to side, “more like a spook. Black-ops stuff. Look, I've already said too much.”
“A spook?” She asks. "You mean like a ghost?”
Thank Christ. This train may stay on the tracks after all.
“I may as well be a ghost, most days,” Jerry says, dramatically rolling his eyes and slamming back a drink.
Jerry loses interest again, his eyes wandering to a crowd of yuppie wannabes sequestered in a corner; probably comparing iPhone apps and discussing their car's incredible European engineering.
“I'll be right back,” Jerry says, slowly climbing down from his stool and heading in the direction of the yuppie table.
Great. Now I'm going to have to have eyes in the back of my head in order to balance the task at hand with making sure Jerry keeps his drunk ass in check. I hate multi-tasking.
The girl looks up, locking eyes with me. She smiles, and it's clear she's completely, out-of-her-head wasted. Moments like this make what I do worthwhile.
“You're really cute,” She says.
“Thanks,” I say. “So are you.”
The fact is, she's not cute at all. While her appearance is not without appeal, taken as a whole this girl is a train-wreck of epic proportion. Sloppy, public drunkenness does nothing to downplay any flaws of appearance or personality.
She sidles up to me, snaking an arm around my waist. Her face is inches from mine now. I notice that her eyes are glassy, and that she's wearing way too much makeup. She's so drunk it's almost a miracle that she's standing at all. I wonder where her friends are, the people she came with. What kind of friend lets someone alone with somebody like me?
“Take me home,” she says.
There it is. The three words I've been waiting to hear. The reason I've been dancing this dance all night. Those three words uttered millions of times in millions of bars all over the world. The three words that, no matter what language they're spoken in, still add up to the same horrible, misguided desperation. English. Japanese. Swahili. The dialect isn't important. What's important is the loneliness behind it, the lack of restraint. Call it what you will, but in the end it all adds up to regret and a spiral that just doesn't end.
A horrible cliché of a rock song comes on the juke, and it seems fitting. I look past the girl to her friends, and I lock eyes with one of them and conjure up my most lecherous grin. The message I send with that look is, “intervene”. Come on, Mary or Agnes or whatever the fuck your name is. Intervene. Be a hero.
“You seem nice,” I say to the girl. “I can't just take you home. I barely know you.”
The girl's face is a cloud. She pouts, and her grip on my waist tightens. I see her friends making her way across the bar. The cavalry has sprung into action.
In the end, this is what it comes down to. Tomorrow this girl will wake up, stomach roiling and head throbbing, and she'll try to piece together the events of the night before. This game, this thing I do, is about not letting the horrible, leering face of regret enter into that mix. That's how I rationalize it anyway, on those rare nights where guilt creeps in. The real reason I do it is because I can. That's the crux of it. I do it because I can.
The girl's friend walks up, looking at me with what borders on disgust. I let my face go blank, playing the role of lecherous, manipulative suitor. What can I say? I provide the whole package. Everyone plays their part in this. The important thing is to know and embrace your role.
As the girl's friend reaches out to guide her drunk, amorous charge from a horrible fate, I hear a slight commotion from behind me. Jerry's voice rises above the din of the bar.
“Look, all I'm saying is fuck your Volvo,” Jerry yells.
The timing is impeccable, and I slip away from the girl to go put out yet another fire.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Now with more fiction and various other sundry ramblings!
So I use this other website to post my fiction. Why the need to keep my fiction and my non-fiction separate? Don't ask me why. I have no idea.
I've now decided to just consolidate and put everything on here.
Stories. Verse. Ramblings. Manifestos. Venting. Ransom notes. If I write it, I'm tossing it on here.
I'm also considering posting it onto Tumblr as a kinda' simulcast-y thing, but that's a story for another day.
My point is that I'm going to sporadically drag one of my meager collection of fictional offerings from the other site and post it on this here blog. I'm trying to be better about keeping up with this, and it'll make it easier for me to just keep all styles of written spewage consolidated in one place.
You have been warned.
I've now decided to just consolidate and put everything on here.
Stories. Verse. Ramblings. Manifestos. Venting. Ransom notes. If I write it, I'm tossing it on here.
I'm also considering posting it onto Tumblr as a kinda' simulcast-y thing, but that's a story for another day.
My point is that I'm going to sporadically drag one of my meager collection of fictional offerings from the other site and post it on this here blog. I'm trying to be better about keeping up with this, and it'll make it easier for me to just keep all styles of written spewage consolidated in one place.
You have been warned.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Desert
I’ve been dreaming about the desert a lot lately.
I’m not sure where these dreams are coming from, exactly. Maybe it’s a reaction to the incessant cold and snow and dreary, grey Northeastern skies that I’ve been laboring under these past few months. Maybe the dreams are trying to tell me something. I could probably try to decipher hidden messages contained in the sprawling vistas of my subconscious, but I feel like that would somehow cheapen the dreams themselves. Sometimes it’s better to just let the message wash over you than it is to pick it apart looking for something that might not be there.
In one of these dreams, I sat on top of a flat outcrop of rock high above a canyon of red rock and scattered mesquite. The sun was rising, its rays illuminating the landscape in an unearthly glow of reds and purples. I watched this sunrise advance across the desert floor in a wave, seeming to bring the landscape to life as it crept along. When it reached me I was awash in light and heat, and it was so vivid that it was like I was there. Who knows…maybe I was. At some point in the dream I looked to my left, and sitting beside me was the old Indian man that I’ve dreamed about regularly over the years. (I’ll maybe get into him in more detail later, in a different post all his own.) He was drinking from a steaming mug of coffee, and as I looked at him he smiled and gestured to the canyon with his coffee mug. I woke up after that.
In another dream, I was hiking in a slot canyon. The walls were smooth, red sandstone dappled with sunlight. It was hot and dry, and I was struck by the almost crushing silence. I know I was subconsciously referencing the silence I experienced while hiking into Havasu Canyon many years ago. One of the things that struck me the most from that experience was the deafening silence I felt while sitting on a rock and sipping water. I had never experienced a quiet that total before, and I haven’t since. There have been many times since then that I’ve yearned to bask in that total silence again, if only for a few minutes. Maybe my brain was desperately trying to drag me back into that place of pure peace and tranquility, if only in my own head. Again, it’s best to not try and read too much into it.
Sometimes I ponder my own internal extremes. My two favorite places seem to be New England and the Southwestern desert. Could there be two places that are more different? More at odds with each other? What does that say about the inner workings of my psyche? That I’m well rounded? That I’m an extreme personality, not content to sit comfortably on the soft, safe middle ground? Does it maybe mean nothing at all? Maybe I’ll never know. Maybe it’s best that I don’t. What I do know is that I will often feel the gentle tug of the desert, calling to me across the miles. When I feel that pull, I’m overwhelmed with the desire to get in my car and just drive until the land flattens out, and I’m once again in the clutches of that desolate and beautiful place.
Whatever it all means, it’s good to go there to a land of warmth and sun while outside the snow falls and the cold wind howls and pierces me like tiny knives. It’s good to go there – even if it is only in dreams.
I’m not sure where these dreams are coming from, exactly. Maybe it’s a reaction to the incessant cold and snow and dreary, grey Northeastern skies that I’ve been laboring under these past few months. Maybe the dreams are trying to tell me something. I could probably try to decipher hidden messages contained in the sprawling vistas of my subconscious, but I feel like that would somehow cheapen the dreams themselves. Sometimes it’s better to just let the message wash over you than it is to pick it apart looking for something that might not be there.
In one of these dreams, I sat on top of a flat outcrop of rock high above a canyon of red rock and scattered mesquite. The sun was rising, its rays illuminating the landscape in an unearthly glow of reds and purples. I watched this sunrise advance across the desert floor in a wave, seeming to bring the landscape to life as it crept along. When it reached me I was awash in light and heat, and it was so vivid that it was like I was there. Who knows…maybe I was. At some point in the dream I looked to my left, and sitting beside me was the old Indian man that I’ve dreamed about regularly over the years. (I’ll maybe get into him in more detail later, in a different post all his own.) He was drinking from a steaming mug of coffee, and as I looked at him he smiled and gestured to the canyon with his coffee mug. I woke up after that.
In another dream, I was hiking in a slot canyon. The walls were smooth, red sandstone dappled with sunlight. It was hot and dry, and I was struck by the almost crushing silence. I know I was subconsciously referencing the silence I experienced while hiking into Havasu Canyon many years ago. One of the things that struck me the most from that experience was the deafening silence I felt while sitting on a rock and sipping water. I had never experienced a quiet that total before, and I haven’t since. There have been many times since then that I’ve yearned to bask in that total silence again, if only for a few minutes. Maybe my brain was desperately trying to drag me back into that place of pure peace and tranquility, if only in my own head. Again, it’s best to not try and read too much into it.
Sometimes I ponder my own internal extremes. My two favorite places seem to be New England and the Southwestern desert. Could there be two places that are more different? More at odds with each other? What does that say about the inner workings of my psyche? That I’m well rounded? That I’m an extreme personality, not content to sit comfortably on the soft, safe middle ground? Does it maybe mean nothing at all? Maybe I’ll never know. Maybe it’s best that I don’t. What I do know is that I will often feel the gentle tug of the desert, calling to me across the miles. When I feel that pull, I’m overwhelmed with the desire to get in my car and just drive until the land flattens out, and I’m once again in the clutches of that desolate and beautiful place.
Whatever it all means, it’s good to go there to a land of warmth and sun while outside the snow falls and the cold wind howls and pierces me like tiny knives. It’s good to go there – even if it is only in dreams.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Welcome to 2011
2011 is here. Huzzah. Fire your pistols into the air and launch the fireworks. 2010 is dead, and its death was well deserved. Good riddance. May our paths never cross again.
It’s easy, and frankly quite tempting, to spend a good chunk of time and page space roasting the past 12 months until it’s burnt and charred and rendered an almost unrecognizable hunk of charcoal. Sweet Jebus, is it ever tempting.
Poison politics. Natural disasters. The disintegration of the American news media. The continuing plague of reality television. Justin Bieber. Justin Fucking Bieber! I could go on and on and on.
But I’m not going to.
I’m not going to ceaselessly belabor the passing of the past year. Instead, I’m going to turn around and look 2011 in the wide, innocent eyes and embrace it in a big bear-hug while it still has that clean, untainted new-year smell. I’m going to breathe deep and in six months, when 2011 is already fraying around the edges and stained and haggard and looking oh-so-much like 2010, I’ll be able to close my eyes and remember just what 2011 smelled like when it was fresh off the line.
New Years resolutions are a dime a dozen. I say this from both observation and experience. I’ve seen resolutions made and broken – and made and broken them myself – more times than I can count. I’ve already seen a litany of Facebook posts cursing the legion of newbies that flock to the gym after the door slams shut on yet another year of over-indulgence. I’ve seen Facebook posts from people resolving to be more tolerant of said newbies in the coming year. So many resolutions. So much desire to be leaner and stronger and kinder and sleeker and holier and less likely to listen to any albums released by Justin Bieber. So many promises to oneself that end up on the scrap heap by the time the groundhog sticks his fat head out of his hole in early February.
Me? I stopped making resolutions years ago. To me, if you only decide to do something to coincide with a new year, then it’s most probably a half-assed endeavor. I realized what I saw as a futile exercise, and I scrapped it in favor of making decisions based on what I knew were correct/necessary/preferable choices without regard to a calendar. It’s easier that way, and so much less pressure.
So it’s four days into 2011 and I’m eating pineapple for lunch and listening to John Doe and the Sadies and the sun is shining through the window. Not a bad start to the new year. Instead of harboring resentment for the litany of crap that 2010 dumped on us all, I’m going to instead remember it as the year my daughter graduated high school. The year I finally went to Maine. The year I finally, after over 20 years of being a fan, saw a Red Sox game in Fenway Park. The year I stopped letting politics under my skin. The year I watched countless sunsets and heard countless good songs and spent countless hours talking and laughing and drinking cold beers and being happy.
I’m going to try my hardest to make 2011 count. Is that a resolution? Hardly. It should be something we all try to do when faced with a brand new calendar hanging on the wall. Hopefully I can be better in 2011 than I was in 2010. Hopefully I learned something over the past 12 months that I can apply to the next 12 months. I’m just going to give it my best shot, and go into it with my eyes and mind open. I’m going to take the good with the bad and the known with the unknown. The year will deal the hand it deals. All we can do is know when to hold ‘em, and know when to fold ‘em. Did I just start the year with a Kenny Rogers reference? Your goddamn right I did. It’s going to be that kind of a year, my friends.
It’s easy, and frankly quite tempting, to spend a good chunk of time and page space roasting the past 12 months until it’s burnt and charred and rendered an almost unrecognizable hunk of charcoal. Sweet Jebus, is it ever tempting.
Poison politics. Natural disasters. The disintegration of the American news media. The continuing plague of reality television. Justin Bieber. Justin Fucking Bieber! I could go on and on and on.
But I’m not going to.
I’m not going to ceaselessly belabor the passing of the past year. Instead, I’m going to turn around and look 2011 in the wide, innocent eyes and embrace it in a big bear-hug while it still has that clean, untainted new-year smell. I’m going to breathe deep and in six months, when 2011 is already fraying around the edges and stained and haggard and looking oh-so-much like 2010, I’ll be able to close my eyes and remember just what 2011 smelled like when it was fresh off the line.
New Years resolutions are a dime a dozen. I say this from both observation and experience. I’ve seen resolutions made and broken – and made and broken them myself – more times than I can count. I’ve already seen a litany of Facebook posts cursing the legion of newbies that flock to the gym after the door slams shut on yet another year of over-indulgence. I’ve seen Facebook posts from people resolving to be more tolerant of said newbies in the coming year. So many resolutions. So much desire to be leaner and stronger and kinder and sleeker and holier and less likely to listen to any albums released by Justin Bieber. So many promises to oneself that end up on the scrap heap by the time the groundhog sticks his fat head out of his hole in early February.
Me? I stopped making resolutions years ago. To me, if you only decide to do something to coincide with a new year, then it’s most probably a half-assed endeavor. I realized what I saw as a futile exercise, and I scrapped it in favor of making decisions based on what I knew were correct/necessary/preferable choices without regard to a calendar. It’s easier that way, and so much less pressure.
So it’s four days into 2011 and I’m eating pineapple for lunch and listening to John Doe and the Sadies and the sun is shining through the window. Not a bad start to the new year. Instead of harboring resentment for the litany of crap that 2010 dumped on us all, I’m going to instead remember it as the year my daughter graduated high school. The year I finally went to Maine. The year I finally, after over 20 years of being a fan, saw a Red Sox game in Fenway Park. The year I stopped letting politics under my skin. The year I watched countless sunsets and heard countless good songs and spent countless hours talking and laughing and drinking cold beers and being happy.
I’m going to try my hardest to make 2011 count. Is that a resolution? Hardly. It should be something we all try to do when faced with a brand new calendar hanging on the wall. Hopefully I can be better in 2011 than I was in 2010. Hopefully I learned something over the past 12 months that I can apply to the next 12 months. I’m just going to give it my best shot, and go into it with my eyes and mind open. I’m going to take the good with the bad and the known with the unknown. The year will deal the hand it deals. All we can do is know when to hold ‘em, and know when to fold ‘em. Did I just start the year with a Kenny Rogers reference? Your goddamn right I did. It’s going to be that kind of a year, my friends.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
I Quit.
My head is swimming. It hurts a bit, too, now that you mention it. It hurts right up there in the temples, behind my eyes. You know – that part of the brain that controls…something. I’m frankly not quite sure what. All I know is that the sonofabitch is just throbbing these days.
The source of this headache? Politics.
I know, I know. I bring this shit on myself. I invite politics into my house; and like a vampire, inviting politics into your personal space is something you only do when you have a sick, twisted penchant for trouble and misery. Like the aforementioned vampire, politics will dazzle you and seduce you and invite you to care – only to leave you a dried, bloodless husk on the floor when it’s through with you. I know this because it has me in its icy grip. It’s had me for years. Anyone who knows me knows this. Many people say I care about it too much. Many more say I should just shut the fuck up about it. Valid points, all.
I’ve often wished I had a button deep down in my inner-workings that I could push to make me not care so much about this stuff. Believe me, if I had that button I would push it. Ok, maybe I would just consider pushing it. No sense in being hasty, right? Thing is, lately I think I really would push that button. It would be so much easier. So much less stressful. I’ve admitted that sometimes I wish I had a “God button” that I could push to make me believe in all that hoo-ha. Life would be so much simpler. Push it and have that comforting belief that an invisible man in the sky loves me and has my interests at heart and that eventually, no matter what toil and fuckery I commit here on Earth, I can just let slip a confession on my death bed and rocket away on greased rails to that big, all-inclusive resort in the sky. Easy, right? Well, I don’t have that button that shuts off my internal bullshit detector, so here I am. Stuck with the knowledge that this world is all we’ve got, and I’d better make the most of it because there is no all-inclusive resort in the sky, damn it. Sometimes ignorance, or at the very least wishful thinking, is bliss.
But these politics lately. These fucking politics.
The Hopi have this word – koyaanisqatsi. It means “a life out of balance” or “a life that calls for another way of living”. That’s the way the world feels to me right now. Everything is koyaanisqatsi. Everything is out of balance. (It sounds so much more poetic than saying that everything is fifty different shades of fucked up.) But it is fucked up. Lately it seems that everything is intertwined with this particularly nasty breed of partisan politics, and the sky is constantly falling and everyone is screaming and pointing their fingers and assigning blame for why everything has reached this point of widespread malaise and rage and dysfunction. The worst part? I’m part of the problem. I’m part of the finger-pointing and the vitriol and even if I only do it because I care passionately about the things that matter to me, it still means I’m contributing to the whole loud, stagnant mess.
I’ve frankly never been left at a confused, hair-pulling loss when it came to the political game before. There were just positions I supported and positions I didn’t, and it made everything so clear cut and clean and easy. Everything was red and blue. Black and white. Right and wrong. Easy. The problem is that lately the lines are starting to blur. Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten that much more knowledgable about the system, and frankly have become horrified by what I’ve discovered. I’ve pulled back the curtain and I didn’t like what I found there, working the levers. Maybe it’s because politics has just gotten that much more corrupt and messy and soulless. Probably it’s equal parts both. Either way, I’ve gone down the rabbit hole and what lives down there is something that is bloated and nasty and dead behind the eyes, and no matter how hard I try I can’t un-see what has already been seen. The monster is neither red nor blue, and it has grown fat and happy on our bickering and our finger pointing and our money and misery. We’ve fed the beast, my friends, and it grows ever stronger.
I for one am done feeding it.
I’ve sat down to write this blog quite a few times over the last few months, only to get once again hypnotized by the garish spectacle and be sucked right back into the maelstrom. I’ve been like a junkie. A battered spouse. I just couldn’t seem to let go, even though the whole ball of wax just made me miserable and angry and I stayed even though I knew I should just walk away. Politics had become my Ike Turner.
Well, Ike – I’m walking out that door.
Lately I’ve been angry at Obama for bowing continually to corporate pressure. I’ve been angry at Democrats because a majority of them were so limp-dicked that they couldn’t stand up to a Republican minority. I’ve swung back and decided that maybe Obama isn’t so bad after all. I’ve been angry at Republicans because they don’t give a flying fuck about this country, save for that tiny percentage of folks at the top with all the money. I’m tired of the wars. I’m tired of lies and broken promises and the fact that the people who truly run this country have “CEO” after their names. I’ve swung back and decided that Obama is just another corporatist who will never be what I expect him to be. I’ve been angry at Libertarians for having the audacity to believe that corporations will do the right thing without regulation. I’m tired of being told that I should be grateful for the scraps we get after the wealthy and powerful have helped themselves. I’ve decided that the Democrats in Washington are just as committed to catering to the wealthy hands that feed as the Republicans are. I’ve been tired of the morons on cable news. I’ve been tired of the idiots who feel compelled to comment on news stories despite the fact that they can’t even spell three out of five words correctly. I’ve been tired of thinking about it all. I’ve been…tired.
So here I am, finally getting around to writing this much-imagined and mentally rehearsed break-up note to the slimy, rage-inducing world of politics that I’ve frequented for so many years. Frankly it feels good. It feels overdue.
Don’t misunderstand me – I’m not abandoning the democratic process. I’m never going to be one of those people who just doesn’t care and who stays home on election day and is content to just waste away in front of Dancing With the Stars while others determine the course of their future. That will never be me.
As an example, I’ve been approached and lectured and cursed by Christians many times in my life, and it has never changed my unwavering belief that their god just doesn’t work for me. I’ve realized that I can post facts and talk sense about politics until I’m blue in the face, and those people who don’t share my views will never give a shit. I can curse and yell and stomp my feet, and frankly that won’t have any effect either. It’s all screaming into the abyss, and I’m tired of wasting my breath while I do little more than preach to the choir. Because that’s essentially what I’ve been doing – preaching to the choir. That and pissing people off.
So that’s it. I’m tired and I’m done. I’m sure some of you will be as happy as pigs in shit that I’m shutting up about all this. The brainwashed conservatives and the Democrats in denial and the folks whose primary beef with my politics seems to be that I take sides rather than being indifferent, like some sort of wishy-washy dolt who is too cool to care about anything but looking cooler and smarter than everyone else in the room. Then again, maybe some of you will miss my rambling and complaining and pointing out of things that, at the time, I felt needed pointing out. Maybe I’m just being overly optimistic.
I’ve dabbled at the fringes of the Green Party, and I think that’s where I’m officially heading. They loathe corporate money in politics, don’t care if gays get married and look at war as a last resort. Frankly that’s enough for me at this point. I’m done pretending that either of the two major parties isn’t totally bought and paid for. If you think that supporting a third party means I’m “throwing my vote away”, then by all means keep that to yourself. I’ve heard that tired song before, and frankly I’m done justifying my continued participation in the corrupt mess that has become our two-party political process. I’m going to step back from the soap opera, and I’m going to stop rationalizing away the fact that by continuing to play the game I’m effectively killing this country by handing it over to whoever has the biggest bankroll. It will never cease to amaze me that the people who most consider themselves “patriots” are the ones who more often than not vote for a party that doesn’t give a fuck about them and is turning them into fodder for the corporate machine. Look in the Constitution and find the part about Bank of America having more rights than you. Let me know when you find it. Me? I’m going to find productive ways to engage. I’m going to vote my conscience. I’m never again going to “settle” for the lesser of two evils.
Most importantly? I’m going to shut the fuck up and stop being part of the problem. I quit.
The source of this headache? Politics.
I know, I know. I bring this shit on myself. I invite politics into my house; and like a vampire, inviting politics into your personal space is something you only do when you have a sick, twisted penchant for trouble and misery. Like the aforementioned vampire, politics will dazzle you and seduce you and invite you to care – only to leave you a dried, bloodless husk on the floor when it’s through with you. I know this because it has me in its icy grip. It’s had me for years. Anyone who knows me knows this. Many people say I care about it too much. Many more say I should just shut the fuck up about it. Valid points, all.
I’ve often wished I had a button deep down in my inner-workings that I could push to make me not care so much about this stuff. Believe me, if I had that button I would push it. Ok, maybe I would just consider pushing it. No sense in being hasty, right? Thing is, lately I think I really would push that button. It would be so much easier. So much less stressful. I’ve admitted that sometimes I wish I had a “God button” that I could push to make me believe in all that hoo-ha. Life would be so much simpler. Push it and have that comforting belief that an invisible man in the sky loves me and has my interests at heart and that eventually, no matter what toil and fuckery I commit here on Earth, I can just let slip a confession on my death bed and rocket away on greased rails to that big, all-inclusive resort in the sky. Easy, right? Well, I don’t have that button that shuts off my internal bullshit detector, so here I am. Stuck with the knowledge that this world is all we’ve got, and I’d better make the most of it because there is no all-inclusive resort in the sky, damn it. Sometimes ignorance, or at the very least wishful thinking, is bliss.
But these politics lately. These fucking politics.
The Hopi have this word – koyaanisqatsi. It means “a life out of balance” or “a life that calls for another way of living”. That’s the way the world feels to me right now. Everything is koyaanisqatsi. Everything is out of balance. (It sounds so much more poetic than saying that everything is fifty different shades of fucked up.) But it is fucked up. Lately it seems that everything is intertwined with this particularly nasty breed of partisan politics, and the sky is constantly falling and everyone is screaming and pointing their fingers and assigning blame for why everything has reached this point of widespread malaise and rage and dysfunction. The worst part? I’m part of the problem. I’m part of the finger-pointing and the vitriol and even if I only do it because I care passionately about the things that matter to me, it still means I’m contributing to the whole loud, stagnant mess.
I’ve frankly never been left at a confused, hair-pulling loss when it came to the political game before. There were just positions I supported and positions I didn’t, and it made everything so clear cut and clean and easy. Everything was red and blue. Black and white. Right and wrong. Easy. The problem is that lately the lines are starting to blur. Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten that much more knowledgable about the system, and frankly have become horrified by what I’ve discovered. I’ve pulled back the curtain and I didn’t like what I found there, working the levers. Maybe it’s because politics has just gotten that much more corrupt and messy and soulless. Probably it’s equal parts both. Either way, I’ve gone down the rabbit hole and what lives down there is something that is bloated and nasty and dead behind the eyes, and no matter how hard I try I can’t un-see what has already been seen. The monster is neither red nor blue, and it has grown fat and happy on our bickering and our finger pointing and our money and misery. We’ve fed the beast, my friends, and it grows ever stronger.
I for one am done feeding it.
I’ve sat down to write this blog quite a few times over the last few months, only to get once again hypnotized by the garish spectacle and be sucked right back into the maelstrom. I’ve been like a junkie. A battered spouse. I just couldn’t seem to let go, even though the whole ball of wax just made me miserable and angry and I stayed even though I knew I should just walk away. Politics had become my Ike Turner.
Well, Ike – I’m walking out that door.
Lately I’ve been angry at Obama for bowing continually to corporate pressure. I’ve been angry at Democrats because a majority of them were so limp-dicked that they couldn’t stand up to a Republican minority. I’ve swung back and decided that maybe Obama isn’t so bad after all. I’ve been angry at Republicans because they don’t give a flying fuck about this country, save for that tiny percentage of folks at the top with all the money. I’m tired of the wars. I’m tired of lies and broken promises and the fact that the people who truly run this country have “CEO” after their names. I’ve swung back and decided that Obama is just another corporatist who will never be what I expect him to be. I’ve been angry at Libertarians for having the audacity to believe that corporations will do the right thing without regulation. I’m tired of being told that I should be grateful for the scraps we get after the wealthy and powerful have helped themselves. I’ve decided that the Democrats in Washington are just as committed to catering to the wealthy hands that feed as the Republicans are. I’ve been tired of the morons on cable news. I’ve been tired of the idiots who feel compelled to comment on news stories despite the fact that they can’t even spell three out of five words correctly. I’ve been tired of thinking about it all. I’ve been…tired.
So here I am, finally getting around to writing this much-imagined and mentally rehearsed break-up note to the slimy, rage-inducing world of politics that I’ve frequented for so many years. Frankly it feels good. It feels overdue.
Don’t misunderstand me – I’m not abandoning the democratic process. I’m never going to be one of those people who just doesn’t care and who stays home on election day and is content to just waste away in front of Dancing With the Stars while others determine the course of their future. That will never be me.
As an example, I’ve been approached and lectured and cursed by Christians many times in my life, and it has never changed my unwavering belief that their god just doesn’t work for me. I’ve realized that I can post facts and talk sense about politics until I’m blue in the face, and those people who don’t share my views will never give a shit. I can curse and yell and stomp my feet, and frankly that won’t have any effect either. It’s all screaming into the abyss, and I’m tired of wasting my breath while I do little more than preach to the choir. Because that’s essentially what I’ve been doing – preaching to the choir. That and pissing people off.
So that’s it. I’m tired and I’m done. I’m sure some of you will be as happy as pigs in shit that I’m shutting up about all this. The brainwashed conservatives and the Democrats in denial and the folks whose primary beef with my politics seems to be that I take sides rather than being indifferent, like some sort of wishy-washy dolt who is too cool to care about anything but looking cooler and smarter than everyone else in the room. Then again, maybe some of you will miss my rambling and complaining and pointing out of things that, at the time, I felt needed pointing out. Maybe I’m just being overly optimistic.
I’ve dabbled at the fringes of the Green Party, and I think that’s where I’m officially heading. They loathe corporate money in politics, don’t care if gays get married and look at war as a last resort. Frankly that’s enough for me at this point. I’m done pretending that either of the two major parties isn’t totally bought and paid for. If you think that supporting a third party means I’m “throwing my vote away”, then by all means keep that to yourself. I’ve heard that tired song before, and frankly I’m done justifying my continued participation in the corrupt mess that has become our two-party political process. I’m going to step back from the soap opera, and I’m going to stop rationalizing away the fact that by continuing to play the game I’m effectively killing this country by handing it over to whoever has the biggest bankroll. It will never cease to amaze me that the people who most consider themselves “patriots” are the ones who more often than not vote for a party that doesn’t give a fuck about them and is turning them into fodder for the corporate machine. Look in the Constitution and find the part about Bank of America having more rights than you. Let me know when you find it. Me? I’m going to find productive ways to engage. I’m going to vote my conscience. I’m never again going to “settle” for the lesser of two evils.
Most importantly? I’m going to shut the fuck up and stop being part of the problem. I quit.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Tilt-a-Whirl
Step right up. Buckle in. Pull that strap tight. This ride isn’t for the squeamish.
Sometimes I feel perfectly at peace with myself and the big, beautiful world that we live in. Sometimes the sun is shining and the birds are singing and I’m convinced that I can shoot brilliant, rainbow-colored rays of sunshine straight out of my ass.
Other times? Other times it seems like I’m lashed to the mast of a rickety, wooden sailing ship – like the hirsute Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall – while a category 5 shit-storm rages around me. Sometimes the world is all foreboding, grey skies and gale-force winds. Sometimes it just rains sideways. It’s all included in the price of admission.
Now? Right now? I feel like that soggy Brad Pitt, tied securely to that mast.
Lest anyone fret about my well-being or mental stability, this shit-storm I’m referring to is purely external. Inside my little bubble, where my personal life lives in a happy nest of purple Easter grass, everything is a-ok. This mind-numbing assault? This perfect storm of irritating, head-slapping bullshit? It’s all external and well beyond my control.
In short, the entire world is going batshit crazy.
We now seem to judge our entire worth as a nation - as a collective whole of diverse, teeming humanity – on our net-worth and financial well being. The barometer of our value is our GDP and the daily fluctuations of Wall Street. We are a commodity. Think you’re anything more? Guess again, my deluded friends. Take a good, hard look at how much money America’s corporations spend to ensure that they stay fat, rich and happy and our expense. You and me? We’re peons. Serfs. Expendable labor. Since the 1970’s, the divide between rich and poor has become a chasm. As of 2007, the top 1% of the U.S. population held 34.6% of privately held wealth. The next 19%? Try 50.5%. What does that mean? It means that 20% of the people in America own 85% of the wealth. (http://sociology.ucsc.edu/whorulesamerica/power/wealth.html) I’m reasonably certain those figures haven’t changed for the better over the past few years. So enjoy the crumbs we’re left to quibble over, my friends. Just be glad the landed gentry see fit to let us push their papers and empty their trash and haul away their garbage for them.
Which brings me to the tea parties. Oh, the tea parties!
I’m not going to expound on the sheer wingnuttery of the tea party movement. You’ve all heard it from me before. A bunch of conservatives that had no trouble with big government and deficits under a Republican are suddenly all kinds of butt-hurt over a Democrat’s big government and deficits. They’re trying to hijack the Libertarian movement and inject it with their culture-war craziness and rampant racism and homophobia. It has become a chorus of irrational, hysterical insanity that is damn near impossible to drown out. I guess that’s what happens when white folks with money see their spot at the helm of the bobsled in jeopardy as they gaze into a future that looks a bit too diverse for their tastes. Their anger smacks of hopped up fear with a splash of panic to push the madness to the next level.
Then there are the Democrats.
Listen, nobody loathed G.W. Bush more than me. I get it. I understand that you’re back in power and everybody is a bit punch-drunk and overflowing with piss and vinegar and you just want to get shit done. Believe me, I understand. The thing is that the arrogance some of you are displaying seems downright…Republican. Yeah, I said it. Oh, and while you’re at it, could you please stop referring to every Chad, Doug and Buford who disagrees with Obama’s direction for the country as “racist”? Let me tell you, that one is really getting tiresome. I know, I know – there are some racist jerks out there waving their misspelled signs and doing their part to work the word “nigger” back into the mainstream lexicon. All I’m asking is that you tone down the generalizations. Oh, and be gracious in victory. Dancing around, thumbing your nose and saying “I told you so” is so…Republican.
Which brings me to Obama.
Barack…Barry…Can I call you Barry? During the election, I set aside some of my patented cynicism and got behind you. I voted Democrat, even though I told myself I wasn’t voting for a member of the two-party system again. Quite frankly, Barry, I bought into your hype. I saw you speak on the Capitol steps in Harrisburg, and your passion and your energy just brought the atmosphere to life. That night, Barry – the warm, summer air just seemed to crackle with the electricity of the hope and potential that was trampled into the mud the prior eight years. Like someone in the throes of a new romance, I overlooked some of your flaws. Some major flaws, quite frankly. Namely your pro-business voting record. I should have listened to Ralph Nader, who pretty much had you pegged square from jump street. But who am I kidding? I would have voted for you anyway, so desperate was I to ensure that McCain and his happy band of war-crazy thugs didn’t slither their way into the White House. So essentially I became part of the problem. I voted the two-party safety net.
Please don’t misunderstand me, Barry. I like you. I think you’re a step in the right direction. That being said, in the end you’re just another bought and sold member of Washington, D.C. Inc. No matter what you say in your passionate speeches, in the end you’ll concede to Wall Street…just like the rest of them.
I still hold fast that this mess we’re in, both financial and cultural, will in the end be a blessing. I think a lot of people are waking up to the reality that corporations, not politicians (and certainly not the people), are the ones really running the country. I think people are fed up. Unfortunately, I still think there are too many people that are too ignorant to see that exchanging one party for the other will do nothing but ensure cosmetic changes. The mentality of “vote ‘em out” only works if you replace the person currently in power with a completely different breed of animal. Sure, a change in party will produce a slight lean in regards to priorities, but in the end nothing will really change. Like David Byrne said, “Same as it ever was.”
I like to think that through this mess we’ll come to see the error of our ways as a culture. I like to think we’ll learn not to be so wasteful. I like to think we’ll learn to do more with less. I like to think we’ll fix what’s broken, rather than chucking it and buying a new one. I like to think we’ll realize we’re all in this together, and learn to be more open, tolerant and accepting.
I like to think we’ll learn our lesson. History, however, teaches me to have my doubts.
Sometimes I feel perfectly at peace with myself and the big, beautiful world that we live in. Sometimes the sun is shining and the birds are singing and I’m convinced that I can shoot brilliant, rainbow-colored rays of sunshine straight out of my ass.
Other times? Other times it seems like I’m lashed to the mast of a rickety, wooden sailing ship – like the hirsute Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall – while a category 5 shit-storm rages around me. Sometimes the world is all foreboding, grey skies and gale-force winds. Sometimes it just rains sideways. It’s all included in the price of admission.
Now? Right now? I feel like that soggy Brad Pitt, tied securely to that mast.
Lest anyone fret about my well-being or mental stability, this shit-storm I’m referring to is purely external. Inside my little bubble, where my personal life lives in a happy nest of purple Easter grass, everything is a-ok. This mind-numbing assault? This perfect storm of irritating, head-slapping bullshit? It’s all external and well beyond my control.
In short, the entire world is going batshit crazy.
We now seem to judge our entire worth as a nation - as a collective whole of diverse, teeming humanity – on our net-worth and financial well being. The barometer of our value is our GDP and the daily fluctuations of Wall Street. We are a commodity. Think you’re anything more? Guess again, my deluded friends. Take a good, hard look at how much money America’s corporations spend to ensure that they stay fat, rich and happy and our expense. You and me? We’re peons. Serfs. Expendable labor. Since the 1970’s, the divide between rich and poor has become a chasm. As of 2007, the top 1% of the U.S. population held 34.6% of privately held wealth. The next 19%? Try 50.5%. What does that mean? It means that 20% of the people in America own 85% of the wealth. (http://sociology.ucsc.edu/whorulesamerica/power/wealth.html) I’m reasonably certain those figures haven’t changed for the better over the past few years. So enjoy the crumbs we’re left to quibble over, my friends. Just be glad the landed gentry see fit to let us push their papers and empty their trash and haul away their garbage for them.
Which brings me to the tea parties. Oh, the tea parties!
I’m not going to expound on the sheer wingnuttery of the tea party movement. You’ve all heard it from me before. A bunch of conservatives that had no trouble with big government and deficits under a Republican are suddenly all kinds of butt-hurt over a Democrat’s big government and deficits. They’re trying to hijack the Libertarian movement and inject it with their culture-war craziness and rampant racism and homophobia. It has become a chorus of irrational, hysterical insanity that is damn near impossible to drown out. I guess that’s what happens when white folks with money see their spot at the helm of the bobsled in jeopardy as they gaze into a future that looks a bit too diverse for their tastes. Their anger smacks of hopped up fear with a splash of panic to push the madness to the next level.
Then there are the Democrats.
Listen, nobody loathed G.W. Bush more than me. I get it. I understand that you’re back in power and everybody is a bit punch-drunk and overflowing with piss and vinegar and you just want to get shit done. Believe me, I understand. The thing is that the arrogance some of you are displaying seems downright…Republican. Yeah, I said it. Oh, and while you’re at it, could you please stop referring to every Chad, Doug and Buford who disagrees with Obama’s direction for the country as “racist”? Let me tell you, that one is really getting tiresome. I know, I know – there are some racist jerks out there waving their misspelled signs and doing their part to work the word “nigger” back into the mainstream lexicon. All I’m asking is that you tone down the generalizations. Oh, and be gracious in victory. Dancing around, thumbing your nose and saying “I told you so” is so…Republican.
Which brings me to Obama.
Barack…Barry…Can I call you Barry? During the election, I set aside some of my patented cynicism and got behind you. I voted Democrat, even though I told myself I wasn’t voting for a member of the two-party system again. Quite frankly, Barry, I bought into your hype. I saw you speak on the Capitol steps in Harrisburg, and your passion and your energy just brought the atmosphere to life. That night, Barry – the warm, summer air just seemed to crackle with the electricity of the hope and potential that was trampled into the mud the prior eight years. Like someone in the throes of a new romance, I overlooked some of your flaws. Some major flaws, quite frankly. Namely your pro-business voting record. I should have listened to Ralph Nader, who pretty much had you pegged square from jump street. But who am I kidding? I would have voted for you anyway, so desperate was I to ensure that McCain and his happy band of war-crazy thugs didn’t slither their way into the White House. So essentially I became part of the problem. I voted the two-party safety net.
Please don’t misunderstand me, Barry. I like you. I think you’re a step in the right direction. That being said, in the end you’re just another bought and sold member of Washington, D.C. Inc. No matter what you say in your passionate speeches, in the end you’ll concede to Wall Street…just like the rest of them.
I still hold fast that this mess we’re in, both financial and cultural, will in the end be a blessing. I think a lot of people are waking up to the reality that corporations, not politicians (and certainly not the people), are the ones really running the country. I think people are fed up. Unfortunately, I still think there are too many people that are too ignorant to see that exchanging one party for the other will do nothing but ensure cosmetic changes. The mentality of “vote ‘em out” only works if you replace the person currently in power with a completely different breed of animal. Sure, a change in party will produce a slight lean in regards to priorities, but in the end nothing will really change. Like David Byrne said, “Same as it ever was.”
I like to think that through this mess we’ll come to see the error of our ways as a culture. I like to think we’ll learn not to be so wasteful. I like to think we’ll learn to do more with less. I like to think we’ll fix what’s broken, rather than chucking it and buying a new one. I like to think we’ll realize we’re all in this together, and learn to be more open, tolerant and accepting.
I like to think we’ll learn our lesson. History, however, teaches me to have my doubts.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Havasu Canyon - August, 2002 Pt. II
I’m awake before the sun. In a haze, I lug bags and gear to the car in the pitch dark. The morning is cool, the sun not even a thought at this dark hour. I walk the room key to the motel office, which won’t open for hours. There’s a padlocked, wooden drop-box bolted next to the office door, and I drop the key inside. In the pre-dawn silence the plunk of the key in the box seems to reverberate through the empty streets. I ponder the countless, sleep-deprived people that have dropped their key into this box – the unwashed, bleary-eyed legions. Like me, they probably awoke in the dark, hoping to get to the hilltop and the trailhead as early as possible. The earlier you set out, the better your chances of being deep in the shadowy confines of the canyon when that blazing, desert sun is high overhead.
I pull onto Route 66, headed West under a black sky. Eventually, as the miles tick off, the horizon in my rearview mirror begins to lighten, the rising sun asserting itself. I keep the radio tuned to classic country; not only because it comes in clearly, but because at this point, in this place, I can’t imagine listening to anything else. At some point Waylon and Willie are singing and the sun is beginning to paint the high desert all around me, bathing it in the first, pure rays of the day’s light, and there’s not another car or human being to be seen. It’s just me, Waylon and Willie blazing across northern Arizona while the sun creeps slowly into the sky behind us.
My body craves coffee. The windows are down and the cool, morning air is the only thing keeping me alert. It’s at times like this that I realize I’m a junkie – a hopeless caffeine addict. Upon waking in the morning, my body shifts into this Pavlovian mode where it impatiently anticipates the strong, dark, caffeinated nectar that I inevitably feed it. Not this morning. I drive, passing little, and with even less actually open for business at this hour. I kick myself for not taking a few minutes to poke around Seligman – for not trying to find a diner or coffee shop to get my caffeine fix.
Eventually I see a sign for Indian Route 18, black numbers printed inside a white arrowhead. I swing the car onto the road and begin heading north, toward the Grand Canyon and the Hualapai Hilltop – the parking area and trailhead into Havasu Canyon. Ahead of me is a rolling expanse whose end is an isolated portion of the south rim of the Grand Canyon.
Indian Route 18 is a long and meandering two-lane road. I drive through high desert scrub, a scattering of pines appearing as the miles roll by and then thickening as I get nearer to the canyon. The morning is breathtakingly bright, and the air is fresh and cool. The low hanging sun makes the landscape seem to glow, the reds and greens of this arid land cast in harsh, stark relief. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bluer sky. Somewhere during the drive I enter a dense stand of pines. After a while I begin to make out something huge in the road far ahead. As I get closer, I see that what stands in the middle of the blacktop is a massive Elk. She’s huge; at least seven feet tall, by my estimation. I slow to a stop about 30 yards away and hang my head out the window, watching her. She languidly raises her head and eyes me warily, then lowers her head again and walks slowly over to the shoulder of the road. She stops on the shoulder and turns her gaze back to me. I watch her for a bit longer, eventually driving slowly on. As I pass her, she walks a few steps closer to the shelter of the pines before turning one last time. I watch her in the rearview mirror until she disappears. She never takes her eyes off the car for a second.
It’s early when I reach Hualapai Hilltop. The parking lot is surprisingly full, mostly the vehicles of those currently down in the canyon. There are a few hikers in the lot, unloading backpacks and gear from their cars. In the eastern corner, a few Havasupai are tending to a row of horses and mules, all tied up to a long wooden fence. The Indian guides are prepping them for the daily trip to the reservation. For a fee you can have your gear lugged to the bottom of the canyon on the back of a pack mule, while you ride in relative comfort atop a mule or horse. I even read where you could, for a ridiculous price, have yourself and your gear whisked to the canyon floor in a helicopter. The thought of a loud, exhaust-belching helicopter descending noisily into the canyon gets my hackles up. That will never be me, I think. Especially not today – for today I descend into the canyon on foot. I scoff at both the horses and the helicopter as I tighten the laces on my hiking boots and prepare my gear.
For anyone unfamiliar with the geography of Supai/Havasu Canyon, here’s a brief, encapsulated look. Hualapai Hilltop sits literally on the edge of a bluff – the south rim of the Grand Canyon, to be exact. The views are spectacular, with red rock formations rising into the sky along the borders of the canyon floor below. From the hilltop to the Village of Supai is eight miles. The first mile and a half are switchbacks descending almost vertically from the top of the bluff to the canyon floor. From the village to the campground, where I will put up my tent and sleep for the night, it’s an additional two miles. All told, I was looking at a ten mile hike through the desert in the middle of August. What could go wrong, right?
I stand at the entrance to the trail, the pack strapped to my back loaded with the bare minimum amount of gear. Despite packing light, the load on my back is still fairly heavy. I imagine it’s going to fell a hell of a lot heavier as I go on. I start off down the dusty trail, the canyon sprawling before me under a huge, blue Arizona sky.
I pass some hikers on the way down the trail, and I’m passed myself by some others. I’m in pretty good shape, but I still want to conserve my energy for the long trek ahead. I pace myself, moving at a comfortable clip. I pass two women, probably in their early thirties, and as I pass I hear them speaking German. They’re both wearing clothes that seem completely unsuitable for the hike they’re embarking on. They look more like they’re dressed for a trip to the mall. I glance at their feet and see that they’re wearing stylish sneakers – shoes not at all designed for the terrain. They have small day packs slung over their shoulders, and they each clutch a small bottle of water. I make a mental note to look for their bodies on the return trip, if the coyotes haven’t already picked them clean.
For the first few miles of the hike the trail winds through wide, shallow canyons. The rocks are a deep, rich red and smoothed by millions of years of wind and water. It’s early yet, probably no later than 10 AM, but the sun overhead is already hot. I walk close to the walls, trying to stay in the sporadic shade that the canyon walls sparingly provide. Unfortunately the shade is sporadic, and a majority of the first few miles are mostly spent in the sun. It’s astounding how hot it can get in the Sonoran Desert so early in the day. It’s not even 10 A.M. yet and already the sun is merciless.
As the trail unfurls, the canyon passages narrow and, thank goodness for small favors, the shade becomes more and more plentiful. The fact that this coincides with more and more tiring miles under my belt is a welcome relief. Smooth slabs of red rock, riddled with shelves and fissures, tower above me on either side. Overhead a narrow strip of brilliant, blue sky winds onward in an endless ribbon.
A few hours in I stop, shrug off my pack and recline on a large rock for a little rest and water. I lay there, drenched in sweat that will dry quickly in the dry, desert heat. I look up at the sky, framed beautifully by the rust-colored rock walls. Something feels off to me. Not wrong, mind you, but just…off. Different. After a few minutes it hits me. It’s the silence. I’ve been to many places that I thought were quiet. In the middle of the woods somewhere. Nights on the Outer Banks of North Carolina many years ago, before the development hit a frenzy. Those places were quiet. But this canyon? This canyon is silent. I can try to describe the difference from now until the end of time, but unless you’ve really experienced deep and total silence, any words I spit out won’t begin to convey it. You know the old saying about “deafening silence”? After that canyon, this saying will always make perfect sense to me. Coming from the Northeast, where it’s hard to go anywhere and escape the sound of auto or air traffic, the ability to sit and hear absolutely nothing was jarring, to say the least. There wasn’t even the sound of a bird to break the spell. After a space of sitting and basking in the canyon’s unrelenting silence, I quickly stood up and threw on my pack. I did this as noisily as possible. See, a thought had occurred to me while I was perched on that rock. I thought about what it would be like to get used to that silence, only to have it ripped away. I imagined how hard it would be to go back to a hectic, everyday life of noise and confusion after surrendering to the canyon’s hypnotic, siren-song of tranquility. I decided it was best to move on.
It’s remarkable how fast the desert air can suck the moisture right out of you. You can take a nice, long drink to slake your thirst only to be parched again within a matter of a half an hour. Read any guide to desert hiking and you’ll be bombarded by admonishments to equip yourself with as much water as possible. The reality you’re confronted with when completing a hike like the one into Havasu Canyon is maintaining that tenuous balance between carrying enough water and keeping your pack light enough to manage. So far so good. I was surprising myself with my ability to manage my thirst. Normally I’m a bit of a sissy when it comes to being thirsty. On any given day I consume copious amounts of water, and I feared I’d turn into a quivering, water-deprived mess after I chugged my supply an hour into the hike. Turns out I underestimated myself. I rationed my water like a champ on the way in. (Things got a little dicey on the water front on the hike out – but that’s for later.)
The miles unfurled; a slow procession of sheer, red rock walls and thin snapshot of a sky that was achingly blue. I was captivated, my mind miles away, and thus needed the occasional reminder from my body that it was time to have a drink. Sit a spell. Don’t kill yourself, my body would occasionally say with a nudge. That’s how it went for miles. Rocky, narrow pathways to be navigated while at the same time trying to take in the surroundings. It was difficult to peel my eyes from the beauty that surrounded me, yet if I didn’t watch where I was walking there were more than a few rocks, embankments and switchbacks willing to put an inattentive hiker on his or her ass. I learned to keep my eyes constantly in motion; scanning up, down and everywhere in an attempt to absorb my surroundings without taking a tumble or snapping an ankle on a rock. The silence persisted, and I walked in rhythm with my own footfalls. Red dust rose in little clouds with each step, the accumulation on my boots and legs marking my progress.
I started to see more and more green the deeper I got into the canyon. It was sparse at first, but soon I saw clusters of it ahead as the trail widened and the canyon began to open up. I rationalized that where the clusters of green were located, that was where I would find the cool, turquoise waters of Havasu Creek.
I pull onto Route 66, headed West under a black sky. Eventually, as the miles tick off, the horizon in my rearview mirror begins to lighten, the rising sun asserting itself. I keep the radio tuned to classic country; not only because it comes in clearly, but because at this point, in this place, I can’t imagine listening to anything else. At some point Waylon and Willie are singing and the sun is beginning to paint the high desert all around me, bathing it in the first, pure rays of the day’s light, and there’s not another car or human being to be seen. It’s just me, Waylon and Willie blazing across northern Arizona while the sun creeps slowly into the sky behind us.
My body craves coffee. The windows are down and the cool, morning air is the only thing keeping me alert. It’s at times like this that I realize I’m a junkie – a hopeless caffeine addict. Upon waking in the morning, my body shifts into this Pavlovian mode where it impatiently anticipates the strong, dark, caffeinated nectar that I inevitably feed it. Not this morning. I drive, passing little, and with even less actually open for business at this hour. I kick myself for not taking a few minutes to poke around Seligman – for not trying to find a diner or coffee shop to get my caffeine fix.
Eventually I see a sign for Indian Route 18, black numbers printed inside a white arrowhead. I swing the car onto the road and begin heading north, toward the Grand Canyon and the Hualapai Hilltop – the parking area and trailhead into Havasu Canyon. Ahead of me is a rolling expanse whose end is an isolated portion of the south rim of the Grand Canyon.
Indian Route 18 is a long and meandering two-lane road. I drive through high desert scrub, a scattering of pines appearing as the miles roll by and then thickening as I get nearer to the canyon. The morning is breathtakingly bright, and the air is fresh and cool. The low hanging sun makes the landscape seem to glow, the reds and greens of this arid land cast in harsh, stark relief. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bluer sky. Somewhere during the drive I enter a dense stand of pines. After a while I begin to make out something huge in the road far ahead. As I get closer, I see that what stands in the middle of the blacktop is a massive Elk. She’s huge; at least seven feet tall, by my estimation. I slow to a stop about 30 yards away and hang my head out the window, watching her. She languidly raises her head and eyes me warily, then lowers her head again and walks slowly over to the shoulder of the road. She stops on the shoulder and turns her gaze back to me. I watch her for a bit longer, eventually driving slowly on. As I pass her, she walks a few steps closer to the shelter of the pines before turning one last time. I watch her in the rearview mirror until she disappears. She never takes her eyes off the car for a second.
It’s early when I reach Hualapai Hilltop. The parking lot is surprisingly full, mostly the vehicles of those currently down in the canyon. There are a few hikers in the lot, unloading backpacks and gear from their cars. In the eastern corner, a few Havasupai are tending to a row of horses and mules, all tied up to a long wooden fence. The Indian guides are prepping them for the daily trip to the reservation. For a fee you can have your gear lugged to the bottom of the canyon on the back of a pack mule, while you ride in relative comfort atop a mule or horse. I even read where you could, for a ridiculous price, have yourself and your gear whisked to the canyon floor in a helicopter. The thought of a loud, exhaust-belching helicopter descending noisily into the canyon gets my hackles up. That will never be me, I think. Especially not today – for today I descend into the canyon on foot. I scoff at both the horses and the helicopter as I tighten the laces on my hiking boots and prepare my gear.
For anyone unfamiliar with the geography of Supai/Havasu Canyon, here’s a brief, encapsulated look. Hualapai Hilltop sits literally on the edge of a bluff – the south rim of the Grand Canyon, to be exact. The views are spectacular, with red rock formations rising into the sky along the borders of the canyon floor below. From the hilltop to the Village of Supai is eight miles. The first mile and a half are switchbacks descending almost vertically from the top of the bluff to the canyon floor. From the village to the campground, where I will put up my tent and sleep for the night, it’s an additional two miles. All told, I was looking at a ten mile hike through the desert in the middle of August. What could go wrong, right?
I stand at the entrance to the trail, the pack strapped to my back loaded with the bare minimum amount of gear. Despite packing light, the load on my back is still fairly heavy. I imagine it’s going to fell a hell of a lot heavier as I go on. I start off down the dusty trail, the canyon sprawling before me under a huge, blue Arizona sky.
I pass some hikers on the way down the trail, and I’m passed myself by some others. I’m in pretty good shape, but I still want to conserve my energy for the long trek ahead. I pace myself, moving at a comfortable clip. I pass two women, probably in their early thirties, and as I pass I hear them speaking German. They’re both wearing clothes that seem completely unsuitable for the hike they’re embarking on. They look more like they’re dressed for a trip to the mall. I glance at their feet and see that they’re wearing stylish sneakers – shoes not at all designed for the terrain. They have small day packs slung over their shoulders, and they each clutch a small bottle of water. I make a mental note to look for their bodies on the return trip, if the coyotes haven’t already picked them clean.
For the first few miles of the hike the trail winds through wide, shallow canyons. The rocks are a deep, rich red and smoothed by millions of years of wind and water. It’s early yet, probably no later than 10 AM, but the sun overhead is already hot. I walk close to the walls, trying to stay in the sporadic shade that the canyon walls sparingly provide. Unfortunately the shade is sporadic, and a majority of the first few miles are mostly spent in the sun. It’s astounding how hot it can get in the Sonoran Desert so early in the day. It’s not even 10 A.M. yet and already the sun is merciless.
As the trail unfurls, the canyon passages narrow and, thank goodness for small favors, the shade becomes more and more plentiful. The fact that this coincides with more and more tiring miles under my belt is a welcome relief. Smooth slabs of red rock, riddled with shelves and fissures, tower above me on either side. Overhead a narrow strip of brilliant, blue sky winds onward in an endless ribbon.
A few hours in I stop, shrug off my pack and recline on a large rock for a little rest and water. I lay there, drenched in sweat that will dry quickly in the dry, desert heat. I look up at the sky, framed beautifully by the rust-colored rock walls. Something feels off to me. Not wrong, mind you, but just…off. Different. After a few minutes it hits me. It’s the silence. I’ve been to many places that I thought were quiet. In the middle of the woods somewhere. Nights on the Outer Banks of North Carolina many years ago, before the development hit a frenzy. Those places were quiet. But this canyon? This canyon is silent. I can try to describe the difference from now until the end of time, but unless you’ve really experienced deep and total silence, any words I spit out won’t begin to convey it. You know the old saying about “deafening silence”? After that canyon, this saying will always make perfect sense to me. Coming from the Northeast, where it’s hard to go anywhere and escape the sound of auto or air traffic, the ability to sit and hear absolutely nothing was jarring, to say the least. There wasn’t even the sound of a bird to break the spell. After a space of sitting and basking in the canyon’s unrelenting silence, I quickly stood up and threw on my pack. I did this as noisily as possible. See, a thought had occurred to me while I was perched on that rock. I thought about what it would be like to get used to that silence, only to have it ripped away. I imagined how hard it would be to go back to a hectic, everyday life of noise and confusion after surrendering to the canyon’s hypnotic, siren-song of tranquility. I decided it was best to move on.
It’s remarkable how fast the desert air can suck the moisture right out of you. You can take a nice, long drink to slake your thirst only to be parched again within a matter of a half an hour. Read any guide to desert hiking and you’ll be bombarded by admonishments to equip yourself with as much water as possible. The reality you’re confronted with when completing a hike like the one into Havasu Canyon is maintaining that tenuous balance between carrying enough water and keeping your pack light enough to manage. So far so good. I was surprising myself with my ability to manage my thirst. Normally I’m a bit of a sissy when it comes to being thirsty. On any given day I consume copious amounts of water, and I feared I’d turn into a quivering, water-deprived mess after I chugged my supply an hour into the hike. Turns out I underestimated myself. I rationed my water like a champ on the way in. (Things got a little dicey on the water front on the hike out – but that’s for later.)
The miles unfurled; a slow procession of sheer, red rock walls and thin snapshot of a sky that was achingly blue. I was captivated, my mind miles away, and thus needed the occasional reminder from my body that it was time to have a drink. Sit a spell. Don’t kill yourself, my body would occasionally say with a nudge. That’s how it went for miles. Rocky, narrow pathways to be navigated while at the same time trying to take in the surroundings. It was difficult to peel my eyes from the beauty that surrounded me, yet if I didn’t watch where I was walking there were more than a few rocks, embankments and switchbacks willing to put an inattentive hiker on his or her ass. I learned to keep my eyes constantly in motion; scanning up, down and everywhere in an attempt to absorb my surroundings without taking a tumble or snapping an ankle on a rock. The silence persisted, and I walked in rhythm with my own footfalls. Red dust rose in little clouds with each step, the accumulation on my boots and legs marking my progress.
I started to see more and more green the deeper I got into the canyon. It was sparse at first, but soon I saw clusters of it ahead as the trail widened and the canyon began to open up. I rationalized that where the clusters of green were located, that was where I would find the cool, turquoise waters of Havasu Creek.
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