The September Report

The mood I've been in for the last week and a half, contemplative you could call it, seems to suit this time of year, when summer floats like a feather to the ground, leaving you with a lovely sort of early fall, cool and clear, the sun inarguably gold—always shining on you at some odd autumn-ish angle.

I've been spending a lot of time at home. When I walk the dog, we walk slowly. It's okay to slow down. And it's okay when things end. Loss is, when you get to thinking about it, just the other side of love. Gah, which reminds me, I was watching the Netflix animated version of that Antoine De Saint-Exupéry book The Little Prince on Sunday afternoon (hey, I find it relaxing to watch cartoons on lazy weekends whilst I cook and tinker, don't you?). Anyway, this movie snuck up and caught me unawares. Before I knew it I was gritting my teeth and the tears were flowing because, as it turns out, The Little Prince, well it's a story about death. Stupid cartoons ...

Favorites 9.7.16

The forest a long time after a fire. It's my new favorite color palette. Instead of a verdant shading canopy, there's just the bleached bones of trees, the sky, and plenty of sunlight to make the wildflowers go all crazy.

A wagging dog tail. Simple, contagious joy. Don't take it for granted, as we aren't guaranteed shit.

Not 4X4ing in a VW Jetta. When faced with a rugged bumpy expanse that's more rock than road, it's quite lovely to drive up it with a proper 4X4 vehicle. Maybe a truck? Something with ample clearance and suspension. Anything but a VW Jetta with a predisposition for tire problems.

The place where fall and summer meet. A liminal time, full of potential energy. One coolish morning, one shaft of sunlight, one gust of wind can completely change the day's seasonal identity. Is it summer? No wait it's fall. Now summer again.

To The Last Drop

Like snowflakes and people, there is no summer like any other one, ever.

This year, it was blistering hot at the beginning and the end; cool and mellow in the middle. I cannot complain. I didn't eat as many tacos as summer's past, but I did have plenty of pizza. Balance in all things. I sweat a lot and skated a lot. I tent camped. I boat camped. I swam in both rivers and lakes. I watched a punk rock show in a city park. I ate grilled summer squash, as well as strawberry shortcake. I ate orange watermelon! Whether riding my bike around town or reading from my book about hawks, I tried to always be outside at sundown—as those liminal minutes of dusk are the loveliest, most fragrant treasure of the warm season.

Anyway, hi, September, see ya Thursday!

 

Lake Life

Just looking at these pictures makes me feel good. They're from my trip to Lake Powell in Southern Utah last week. It was a red-dust playground of motorboats cutting the glassy water. We drove through 3 states to get there—way out to the very middle of the desert, but the long hours on the straight, hot roads were worth it. As said elsewhere, I love the southwest. The desert is elegant, beautiful and harsh. It was a magical trip.

1. 3 a.m. scenic pee. My child-sized bladder did me good service by waking me every night at the calmest, darkest hour, when the Milky Way burned bright overhead and the lake was so black, so still that it looked like just another star-spangled sky.

2. Lunch beer. As a bonafide lightweight, I don't normally do lunch beers, but on vacation, on the boat, in the heat, on the lake, a very cold beer is the only thing you can possibly drink with your sandwich.

3. Houseboats. RVs on the water! What a concept. They seem kinda tricky to maneuver though, so don't ask me to drive yours.

4. Kids in the water. A couple of 12 year olds, my nephew and his friend, spent every second in the lake. Splashing, swimming, sliding, dunking, diving, flipping, flopping, etc, etc. It made me very happy.

5. A dusk swim. Every night I slipped in the water right at purple dusk in order to wash off the day's sweat and sand so as not have to sleep in my own filth. During this hushed time, I could float on my back in the silver water and stare up at the clouds turned pink in the fading light.

  

Paint It Black

I'm about to leave on a quintessential summer vacation, but first, here's a small post about a big game. Paintball. Have you ever? It's very and truly scary. You sweat and your mask fogs up. All you can hear is your own breath coming in short frantic bursts. Right away or after awhile, it makes no difference—you always get hit. It always hurts. As the game wears on, your greedy hoarding of bullets gives way to reckless shooting everywhere, anywhere. And that, my friends, is paintball.

It was my first time playing, and I went ahead and wore a high-vis purple sweatshirt. Hindsight being 20-20, I could've worn black, but it honestly never occurred to me. I learned many lessons that night—the virtues of camo was just one.

I'm a poor shot. I'm a pacifist. For so many reasons, I'm not cut out for this type of thing. Still, though, it was fun, exhilarating you could even say. A physically demanding activity that leaves you covered in sweat, gooey paint, and bulls-eye purple bruises.

Thanks to Trevor G. for the all the action pics. War journalism is a noble calling after all—he's truly one brave man.