This is the 2nd post in the series. Click here for the 1st.
Ty and Nat started talking about a conversation they had a while ago with some bigwigs up in Portland. They were having dinner with said bigwigs when everyone started going around the table and describing what drove them through life. Natalie’s driving force was change. This didn’t surprise me.
I first met Natalie and Tyrone immediately after the Ralph Nader campaign in 2000. We were fresh, young idealists, and change was in the air. We shared a vision – one where people lived in tune with the environment and in tune with each other - and we firmly believed with a little bit of hard work, we could make it happen. We had no idea how much the odds were stacked against us, but the cold, hard door of reality slammed in our faces quickly enough. Years later, we’re no longer the fresh, young idealists we used to be. “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Natalie said, referring to the change we all hoped for, “but I still believe it could happen, and that’s what keeps me going.”
I knew Tyrone’s answer before he even said it – compassion. Tyrone’s a reader, a thinker, a philosopher – an Eastern philosopher to be exact. Mixed between Natalie’s copy of Marx’s Kapital, and various offerings by Noam Chomsky, you’ll find books by The Dali Lama, Ken Wilbur, and other Eastern-type philosophers. Those are Tyrone’s. But my knowledge of his answer came from more than that. Tyrone and I are alike in a lot of ways – not all ways, but many – especially in matters of the mind and spirit.
Then, like I hoped they would, like I knew they would, they asked what drove me. “Whew, that’s a good question,” I said looking away, taking a deep breath, trying to concentrate. I knew the answer, but how to put it into words??? So, I just jumped in. “I want to feel alive. I want to feel everything,” I said thinking for a moment, “but then sometimes it all gets to be too much, and I don’t want to feel anything.” They were looking at me intensely. So I went on. “And it changes from day to day. Sometimes I’m driven by selfish desires and other times they’re more altruistic, and I can feel those forces inside me struggling all the time.” I took a deep breath again. My heart was pounding, my blood was pumping, my skin tingling. Tyrone and Natalie were nodding their heads in agreement – egging me on. “What I really want is freedom. I want to live in a world where people can be free to be who they really are without worrying about what others think, where people don’t have to be afraid to be different. I guess what I really want is a world where people don’t judge each other so harshly.” I looked at them, and they looked at me, and there was nothing more to say. At that moment, there were no more questions to answer, no more fears to slay, no more doubts to vanquish.
“Conformity,” Tyrone said and I knew he understood. We all knew. We knew because our answers were just different ways of saying the same thing. Where there is compassion, there is no judgment. Judgment can only occur when you separate yourself from someone or something, and if you have compassion, you cannot separate. As the Buddhists, Taoists, Hindus or any wise man or any wise woman would say, that’s when you become one. And I have to believe in a world where that’s possible. I have to believe in change. Because if I didn’t, I really wouldn’t see any point in anything.
Monday 26 March 2007
Sunday 25 March 2007
What Moves You
This is the first in a 2 part series....
After a long, hard week Tyrone and Natalie were on a mission for oysters and champagne. “Meet us over at the Marche,” Tyrone told me over the phone. “I don’t know. That place is pretty fancy isn’t it?” “Not in the bar,” he promised. That was good, cause I was wearing my black hoody complete with three holes resembling a ghost’s face on my sleeve, a pair of jeans, and a ratty pair of skateboard shoes that should’ve been replaced a long time ago. And I wasn’t about to change what I was wearing just to meet-up for a few drinks. Some people are all worried about style. My style is a lack of style.
I rode over there through the surprisingly warm March evening. When I walked in Ty and Nat were sitting there, champagne flutes in hand, and a big silver tray full of ice and empty oyster shooters on the half shell on table. “We saved one for you,” they said. “Cool, I haven’t had oysters in a while." I ate it. Mmmm-hmmm, it was the best oyster I ever had – fresh from the Northwest. The Marche is a little too snazzy for my taste, but all their ingredients are local. So, as far as snazzy places go, they’re ok.
We were all in a good mood for some reason. Maybe it was the weather, maybe it was the company, maybe it was the champagne and beer - probably all three. We talked about things like old roommates, Tennessee Williams’ Streetcar Named Desire, and sustainability. Natalie is the “sustainability expert” for an organic foods distributor, and we’re all a bunch of ex-Green Party radicals, so, we pretty much always end-up talking sustainability at some point. I looked at the champagne, the oysters, and thought of Natalie’s “sustainability” conference stories - the Hilton motels, the flame grilled salmon, the constant flying from one place to another. I saw nothing but contradictions. But I kept my opinions to myself. Who am I to burst their bubble? I've got plenty of my own contradictions. Besides their hearts are in the right place. Yeah, yeah, I know. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Well then, take me to hell.
Continued in Part II.
After a long, hard week Tyrone and Natalie were on a mission for oysters and champagne. “Meet us over at the Marche,” Tyrone told me over the phone. “I don’t know. That place is pretty fancy isn’t it?” “Not in the bar,” he promised. That was good, cause I was wearing my black hoody complete with three holes resembling a ghost’s face on my sleeve, a pair of jeans, and a ratty pair of skateboard shoes that should’ve been replaced a long time ago. And I wasn’t about to change what I was wearing just to meet-up for a few drinks. Some people are all worried about style. My style is a lack of style.
I rode over there through the surprisingly warm March evening. When I walked in Ty and Nat were sitting there, champagne flutes in hand, and a big silver tray full of ice and empty oyster shooters on the half shell on table. “We saved one for you,” they said. “Cool, I haven’t had oysters in a while." I ate it. Mmmm-hmmm, it was the best oyster I ever had – fresh from the Northwest. The Marche is a little too snazzy for my taste, but all their ingredients are local. So, as far as snazzy places go, they’re ok.
We were all in a good mood for some reason. Maybe it was the weather, maybe it was the company, maybe it was the champagne and beer - probably all three. We talked about things like old roommates, Tennessee Williams’ Streetcar Named Desire, and sustainability. Natalie is the “sustainability expert” for an organic foods distributor, and we’re all a bunch of ex-Green Party radicals, so, we pretty much always end-up talking sustainability at some point. I looked at the champagne, the oysters, and thought of Natalie’s “sustainability” conference stories - the Hilton motels, the flame grilled salmon, the constant flying from one place to another. I saw nothing but contradictions. But I kept my opinions to myself. Who am I to burst their bubble? I've got plenty of my own contradictions. Besides their hearts are in the right place. Yeah, yeah, I know. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Well then, take me to hell.
Continued in Part II.
Saturday 24 March 2007
Why I Farm
Here I sit on the base of the stairs winding their way up to my apartment. The sun breaks through the clouds bringing warmth on yet another beautiful spring day. The summer-like breeze rustles through the trees, caresses my face, and birds are singing everywhere. Yes, springtime is here.
I take off my socks and let my feet feel the elements – the sun, the wind, the song of the day. I’ve been volunteering at the Skinner Butte Community Garden for the last few hours. Something about working with the earth grounds me and I find I’m liking it more and more - playing in the dark, succulent soil, watching the critters crawl, slither, and fly, nibbling on greens as I go. I love coming back to a plot of land that I planted weeks or months ago, seeing everything all green and alive, and thinking, “Yeah, I did that,” (with some help from Mother Nature of course). And there’s nothing like eating food that you’ve grown yourself - reaping the bounty as I call it. It tastes like satisfaction.
My bounty today was some salad greens – spicy mustards and tasty arugula. And there was some purple leafed green which I don’t know the name of, but it tastes good. And finally there was a tiny, little cabbage about the size of an apple. And that’s exactly how I’m going to eat it - like an apple.
After spending the day working on a farm, I look at all those wonderful vegetables and just want to sink my teeth into them – eat ‘em raw. Just hands and teeth - no utensils, no pots, and no pans. Something about gardening seems to strip away all the bullshit, shows me what’s really important.
What I like most about farming is that it makes me feel good. Like I’m doing my part, like I’m doing something positive, something healthy. In today’s world, that’s a rare and beautiful thing.
I take off my socks and let my feet feel the elements – the sun, the wind, the song of the day. I’ve been volunteering at the Skinner Butte Community Garden for the last few hours. Something about working with the earth grounds me and I find I’m liking it more and more - playing in the dark, succulent soil, watching the critters crawl, slither, and fly, nibbling on greens as I go. I love coming back to a plot of land that I planted weeks or months ago, seeing everything all green and alive, and thinking, “Yeah, I did that,” (with some help from Mother Nature of course). And there’s nothing like eating food that you’ve grown yourself - reaping the bounty as I call it. It tastes like satisfaction.
My bounty today was some salad greens – spicy mustards and tasty arugula. And there was some purple leafed green which I don’t know the name of, but it tastes good. And finally there was a tiny, little cabbage about the size of an apple. And that’s exactly how I’m going to eat it - like an apple.
After spending the day working on a farm, I look at all those wonderful vegetables and just want to sink my teeth into them – eat ‘em raw. Just hands and teeth - no utensils, no pots, and no pans. Something about gardening seems to strip away all the bullshit, shows me what’s really important.
What I like most about farming is that it makes me feel good. Like I’m doing my part, like I’m doing something positive, something healthy. In today’s world, that’s a rare and beautiful thing.
Tuesday 13 March 2007
A Day at the Beach
Note: The last pic, "take off the burden," was taken by my friend Doug. The rest are mine, mine, mine.
Sunday 11 March 2007
Season of the Frog (Part II)
This is the 2nd part in a series.
Under the full moon I went. I locked my bike up at the edge of the park knowing that sometimes the best approach is a gradual one. I walked by the first patch of ash trees all huddled together in mass, like a group of gossiping teens. And there under the full light of the lunar star was a bench – my first stop. I smoked a little, drank a little, and took it all in - the sound of the frogs in the distance, the way the cool night air felt on my hands and face, the night sky being painted and repainted by the incoming clouds. America must have been singing of spring when they said, the days are longer, the nights are stronger, than moonshine.
After while, I moved on, approaching my final destination, getting closer and closer. The moon’s reflection danced off puddles of water – molded by clumps of grass, rippling water, and clouds. And the frogs sang on, getting louder and louder with every step. I’ve been here several times over the years, but tonight they were at a whole new level. They were so entranced by their mating song; they didn’t even notice my approach. Not until I made it to the bench hidden in the darkness, under the trees, behind the water, mud, and grasses of the Amazon wetlands. All it took was one careless step and one frog went silent - then another, and another, and another. They dropped off like dominoes. Only the sound of the night air remained.
So I sat motionless, waiting. The frogs picked-up one by one, as I knew they would, adjusting to my presence, getting louder and louder. Soon they hit their peak and it was deafening. Sill I wanted more. I dreamed of plopping myself right in the middle of all that amphibian madness, but I figured the frogs didn’t want a human messing with their little orgy. So I listened on from a safe distance instead.
16 of the 32 ounces of beer had already made their journey from the bottle to my kidneys and now they were telling me it was time for the next part of the trip. So, I walked to the edge of the wetlands. A few solitary frogs were there singing their love song. “What are you guys doing out here?” I thought in their direction, “All the fun’s over there.” And I considered their chances of finding a mate, all the way out here, away from the crowd. Not too good. Survival of the fittest I guess. But is it really a question of the fittest, the strongest, versus the weak, the weakest? I’m not so sure. Maybe these frogs are just different. It’s not a difference a scientist would notice with all his or her abstract classifications based on physical appearance. No, it’s a difference on the inside, a difference in heart, in spirit, in personality. Maybe these frogs don’t like crowds. Maybe they don’t like following the masses. Maybe these frogs for some reason or another are different from all the other frogs. That doesn’t make them less valuable. After all, it’s diversity that makes the world the interesting, ever changing, beautiful place that it is. And aren’t these frogs just as much a part of that as the others? More? In fact, if variety is the spice of life, aren’t these rare, lonely frogs in some ways, the most precious frogs of all?
“Maybe. But that's a hard life to bear.” I thought to myself as I wished them luck and returned to my bench near the more obvious mass of frog existence.
I stayed with the frogs for some time, and when the beer was gone, it was time to go. I headed home, bought more beer, and spent the night drinking, smoking, writing, and thinking. I stayed-up till five in the morning. I woke at nine for work, had a job interview at one, and at nightfall did it all over again. This is how I live.
Under the full moon I went. I locked my bike up at the edge of the park knowing that sometimes the best approach is a gradual one. I walked by the first patch of ash trees all huddled together in mass, like a group of gossiping teens. And there under the full light of the lunar star was a bench – my first stop. I smoked a little, drank a little, and took it all in - the sound of the frogs in the distance, the way the cool night air felt on my hands and face, the night sky being painted and repainted by the incoming clouds. America must have been singing of spring when they said, the days are longer, the nights are stronger, than moonshine.
After while, I moved on, approaching my final destination, getting closer and closer. The moon’s reflection danced off puddles of water – molded by clumps of grass, rippling water, and clouds. And the frogs sang on, getting louder and louder with every step. I’ve been here several times over the years, but tonight they were at a whole new level. They were so entranced by their mating song; they didn’t even notice my approach. Not until I made it to the bench hidden in the darkness, under the trees, behind the water, mud, and grasses of the Amazon wetlands. All it took was one careless step and one frog went silent - then another, and another, and another. They dropped off like dominoes. Only the sound of the night air remained.
So I sat motionless, waiting. The frogs picked-up one by one, as I knew they would, adjusting to my presence, getting louder and louder. Soon they hit their peak and it was deafening. Sill I wanted more. I dreamed of plopping myself right in the middle of all that amphibian madness, but I figured the frogs didn’t want a human messing with their little orgy. So I listened on from a safe distance instead.
16 of the 32 ounces of beer had already made their journey from the bottle to my kidneys and now they were telling me it was time for the next part of the trip. So, I walked to the edge of the wetlands. A few solitary frogs were there singing their love song. “What are you guys doing out here?” I thought in their direction, “All the fun’s over there.” And I considered their chances of finding a mate, all the way out here, away from the crowd. Not too good. Survival of the fittest I guess. But is it really a question of the fittest, the strongest, versus the weak, the weakest? I’m not so sure. Maybe these frogs are just different. It’s not a difference a scientist would notice with all his or her abstract classifications based on physical appearance. No, it’s a difference on the inside, a difference in heart, in spirit, in personality. Maybe these frogs don’t like crowds. Maybe they don’t like following the masses. Maybe these frogs for some reason or another are different from all the other frogs. That doesn’t make them less valuable. After all, it’s diversity that makes the world the interesting, ever changing, beautiful place that it is. And aren’t these frogs just as much a part of that as the others? More? In fact, if variety is the spice of life, aren’t these rare, lonely frogs in some ways, the most precious frogs of all?
“Maybe. But that's a hard life to bear.” I thought to myself as I wished them luck and returned to my bench near the more obvious mass of frog existence.
I stayed with the frogs for some time, and when the beer was gone, it was time to go. I headed home, bought more beer, and spent the night drinking, smoking, writing, and thinking. I stayed-up till five in the morning. I woke at nine for work, had a job interview at one, and at nightfall did it all over again. This is how I live.
Thursday 8 March 2007
Season of the Frog (Part I)
There are two kinds of people in Eugene: those that have been along the Amazon bike path on a springtime evening, and those that haven’t. It’s pretty easy to figure out. You just ask, “Hey, have you ever ridden along the Amazon bike path at night?” You’ll either get a strange look and a comment like, “No, why?” Or you’ll get an excited, “Yeah, isn’t it amazing.” And then you’ll both share a moment reflecting on the crazy, frog sounds of spring.
They’re always on my mind this time of year. Just a couple weeks ago I was telling a friend about them. She falls under the “those that haven’t” category. “They’re pretty cool,” I explained, “Sometimes I get a fourty-ouncer, go over to the park, and just listen to them.”
“Don’t they get quiet when you get near?”
“Yeah, but if you stay there long enough, they’ll start-up again. First you’ll hear one, then another, and then another, one-by-one, and then suddenly they’ll all kick-in at the same time – ribbit, ribbit, ribbit.” I motioned my hands up and down like frogs.
“You can actually see them?” she asked.
“No, I’m just imagining that’s what they look like,” I said as I flashed a smirk in her direction, “And then someone will go by on a bike, and they’ll get all quiet again. But after a while, they’ll start right back up, one by one, just like before. After a few times of that you can’t help but wonder if it’s always the same ones that start-up first.”
“Like the leaders?”
“Kind of, but it’s more like, are they the ones willing to take the biggest risk?”
She got a big smile on her face.
So, I’ve been meaning to visit my raucous friends for some time, but it’s always raining or just too damn cold – until last Sunday.
Earlier that day, someone told me we were seeing the last of the unseasonably warm, sunny weather. The clouds would be rolling in some time that night and the rains wouldn't be too far behind. "It will have to be tonight then," I told myself.
But when the moment arrived, inertia was against me. Time wasn’t on my side either. It was already 10PM and I was expecting a work call at nine the next morning. Not necessarily a big deal, but I wasn’t heading out there just to listen to a few notes and then be on my way back home. No, to truly appreciate something like this, you have to spend time with it. And you don’t go empty handed. A spliff and a fourty are mandatory. But I know myself. If I really start having a good time, well, there may be another fourty, and another spliff, and then maybe another fourty, and another spliff, so on, and so on. I reconsidered, thinking of all the options.
I could just wait till the next nice night - when I don't have to get-up early. But when will there ever be a night like this - it’s fairly warm, there's a full moon, it’s not raining, but it’s been raining really hard the last few days - perfect frog climate. No, this is the night. There will be no other.
I could skip the spliff and/or the fourty. Yeah, right.
So I said, “fuck it,” and threw caution to the wind.
To be continued....
They’re always on my mind this time of year. Just a couple weeks ago I was telling a friend about them. She falls under the “those that haven’t” category. “They’re pretty cool,” I explained, “Sometimes I get a fourty-ouncer, go over to the park, and just listen to them.”
“Don’t they get quiet when you get near?”
“Yeah, but if you stay there long enough, they’ll start-up again. First you’ll hear one, then another, and then another, one-by-one, and then suddenly they’ll all kick-in at the same time – ribbit, ribbit, ribbit.” I motioned my hands up and down like frogs.
“You can actually see them?” she asked.
“No, I’m just imagining that’s what they look like,” I said as I flashed a smirk in her direction, “And then someone will go by on a bike, and they’ll get all quiet again. But after a while, they’ll start right back up, one by one, just like before. After a few times of that you can’t help but wonder if it’s always the same ones that start-up first.”
“Like the leaders?”
“Kind of, but it’s more like, are they the ones willing to take the biggest risk?”
She got a big smile on her face.
So, I’ve been meaning to visit my raucous friends for some time, but it’s always raining or just too damn cold – until last Sunday.
Earlier that day, someone told me we were seeing the last of the unseasonably warm, sunny weather. The clouds would be rolling in some time that night and the rains wouldn't be too far behind. "It will have to be tonight then," I told myself.
But when the moment arrived, inertia was against me. Time wasn’t on my side either. It was already 10PM and I was expecting a work call at nine the next morning. Not necessarily a big deal, but I wasn’t heading out there just to listen to a few notes and then be on my way back home. No, to truly appreciate something like this, you have to spend time with it. And you don’t go empty handed. A spliff and a fourty are mandatory. But I know myself. If I really start having a good time, well, there may be another fourty, and another spliff, and then maybe another fourty, and another spliff, so on, and so on. I reconsidered, thinking of all the options.
I could just wait till the next nice night - when I don't have to get-up early. But when will there ever be a night like this - it’s fairly warm, there's a full moon, it’s not raining, but it’s been raining really hard the last few days - perfect frog climate. No, this is the night. There will be no other.
I could skip the spliff and/or the fourty. Yeah, right.
So I said, “fuck it,” and threw caution to the wind.
To be continued....
Friday 2 March 2007
The Circle K Girl
Walking home from a few rounds at the bars, hoping to meet someone, hoping to meet anyone, no such luck. I’m not really in the mood to party, but my mind is racing and my heart isn’t too far behind, so I know I’m gonna need more beer to put this night to an end. At this point in my life, I find the days are easy, even enjoyable. It’s the nights that are hard. So instead of going home, I turn around and head to the nearest beer store – The Circle K.
I go in, underneath the buzzing fluorescents, among the open isles of dirty vinyl floors and convenient distractions. There’s not a single item in this place I’d call essential to society - except maybe beer.
I go straight to the coolers, past the imported, expensive stuff, right to the big bottles of domestics – the economical route. I scan through the prices, figuring I’ll get the usual – a 32 ouncer, maybe a fourty of Bud - but there flashing in front of my face, hanging from the cold, grey rack is a bright, plastic sign calling for my attention:
I look over the rest of the racks. It’s by far the best bargain. So I open up the door, reach back, and grab one. “Yeah right,” I say laughing to myself, “give me the High Life - limousines, dance clubs, sexy girls.”
I walk past the fossilized, rotating dogs and place my 32 ounces of The Champagne of Beers on the counter. The cashier has a camouflage colored bandana on her head. I’ve seen her before – another night weeks ago under similar circumstance - maybe a little less lonely, a little less desperate, but still the same. She was friendly, talkative, more importantly, interesting. So, I’m hoping for more of the same, not expecting much, but then she goes right into it, “I just got back from ten days off,” she says, “Ten days off and then I had to come back to work. I was hating it.”
“I can relate,” I reply.
“And my first day back I had to train the new guy.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, getting curious.
“But he already worked three days, so I really didn’t have to train him. He was like, ‘just sit back and take it easy.’ So, I didn’t have to do anything. It was the best day ever.”
“Don’t you wish every day could be like that?” I say.
“You got that right,” she replies.
“So did you have ten days off for vacation or what?” She was sick the last time I was in, so I’m wondering if there’s something more.
“No it was vacation,” she continues, “well, actually I was visiting family. You know how that is. Pretty stressful. It was like more work than work is.” Then after a brief pause she adds, “But I got a pair of socks out of it. So that’s good.”
I let out this big laugh. It carried me all the way out the clear, glass doors and all the way home. She wasn’t even trying to be funny. That was beauty of it. She was just telling it like it is.
I go in, underneath the buzzing fluorescents, among the open isles of dirty vinyl floors and convenient distractions. There’s not a single item in this place I’d call essential to society - except maybe beer.
I go straight to the coolers, past the imported, expensive stuff, right to the big bottles of domestics – the economical route. I scan through the prices, figuring I’ll get the usual – a 32 ouncer, maybe a fourty of Bud - but there flashing in front of my face, hanging from the cold, grey rack is a bright, plastic sign calling for my attention:
$1.69
32 oz. Miller High Life.
32 oz. Miller High Life.
I look over the rest of the racks. It’s by far the best bargain. So I open up the door, reach back, and grab one. “Yeah right,” I say laughing to myself, “give me the High Life - limousines, dance clubs, sexy girls.”
I walk past the fossilized, rotating dogs and place my 32 ounces of The Champagne of Beers on the counter. The cashier has a camouflage colored bandana on her head. I’ve seen her before – another night weeks ago under similar circumstance - maybe a little less lonely, a little less desperate, but still the same. She was friendly, talkative, more importantly, interesting. So, I’m hoping for more of the same, not expecting much, but then she goes right into it, “I just got back from ten days off,” she says, “Ten days off and then I had to come back to work. I was hating it.”
“I can relate,” I reply.
“And my first day back I had to train the new guy.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, getting curious.
“But he already worked three days, so I really didn’t have to train him. He was like, ‘just sit back and take it easy.’ So, I didn’t have to do anything. It was the best day ever.”
“Don’t you wish every day could be like that?” I say.
“You got that right,” she replies.
“So did you have ten days off for vacation or what?” She was sick the last time I was in, so I’m wondering if there’s something more.
“No it was vacation,” she continues, “well, actually I was visiting family. You know how that is. Pretty stressful. It was like more work than work is.” Then after a brief pause she adds, “But I got a pair of socks out of it. So that’s good.”
I let out this big laugh. It carried me all the way out the clear, glass doors and all the way home. She wasn’t even trying to be funny. That was beauty of it. She was just telling it like it is.
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