I regret that I have not spent much time on my bike seat. I failed to pay closer attention to God's beauty. I did not travel up Bushy Park. I did not bike up to Holly Hill. I did not bike to Awendaw, when the leaves were on the trees. They are gone now. All that is left on a few of them that did flush with vibrancy is dull leaves on the bottom, that have yet to be completely shriveled from the sun and cold. I so very much regret this omission of traveling. I don't know what is happening. Things are changing. Life is getting dull. I've relied so much on green beauty and orange beauty and even brown beauty, that grey, my dreaded grey, the grey soaked into the branches, leaves me with little aesthetic joy. I missed an opportunity that won't be here for another year. I suppose that no matter how much time I spent out with the colors, and no matter how much pleasure I derived from them, I would have still regretted not getting more out of it come winter. Winter is here.
However! I DID go to Edisto Island. I wouldn't leave anyone dangling on just a teaser, well for too long anyway ;)
I went with someone else, which may shock some of you. We, of course, rode on a bus. The ride there was, well, dark. There was a haze in the sky. We got no sleep. In the "morning" (we had to wake up at 5am to catch the bus at six), the haze was gone, turned into a slight rain that sapped all heat from inside our tent. If there was any sleep that night, it was not after that rain, which made it too cold for slumber. It was one of the strangest times I have ever camped, and that is saying something. Think of it. We saw no sunlight the entire time on that island. The entire time, I marveled at how we did not set one foot on a gas pedal to get here. We had nothing but our bikes and a tent. We didn't even bring picture IDs. On the ride back, I marveled at man's unstoppable industry, building those miles of road and bridge, to allow access to something accessible to only few animals and definitely not the primitive human: a sandbar. We entered that sandbar in autumn, during the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, and left that sandbar in winter.
Winter is here, and I must renew my joy
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Remembering
I have been intending to post for the past two days. I have been locked up, and would sit down to type, and all I'd have to say is "I got nothing". My sleep schedule has gotten continually more sporadic. Part of it is that my thoughts are all over. Having run out of legitimate songs for the Musically-Inspired Geographic Location of The Day exacerbates my procrastination.
I have been pondering the fields of Ireland sloping downwards to the sea, or the rolling plains of Jerusalem, of the sort I have been daydreaming of since early childhood. I know that once I live in Utah for a few years, spending every possible weekend (or any other period of freedom) on the road, driving to California multiple times, exhausting all those lonely, buzzing towns, squeezing every last drop of life from God's country, I will undoubtedly lean towards Europe and the rest of the world. I know that many college-aged youth aspire to Europe, assuming its entire essence to be portrayed in a few large cities wrapped around a vague line of continental demarcation, but I wish to be a rover, a more ancient and self-sufficient kind of tramp.
To return to a relatively less-romantic plane, I want to talk about bluegrass. I got an excellent bluegrass compilation for Christmas. Ever since I read On The Road (yep, its going to keep coming up. It is the traveler's bible, after all), I've equated bop to bluegrass -- the same rapidity, the same intensity, the same overpowering level of skill and integrity the musicians possess. High-tempo bluegrass (mostly newer recordings, though some old, piercing breakdowns do it for me too) captures the bliss of velocity and youthful valor for me. I feel privileged to be able to appreciate it (because many cannot, probably for no better reason than why I don't like most heavy metal: preference) and really get into it.
I want to share some of my favorite passages from the traveler's bible
. How that truck disposed of the Nebraska nub! --- the nub that sticks out over Colorado. And soon I realized I was actually at last over Colorado, though not officially in it, but actually looking southwest towards Denver itself a few hundred miles away. I yelled for joy. We passed the bottle. The great blazing stars came out, the far receding sand hills got dim. I felt like an arrow that could shoot out all the way . . . I wondered where the hell they would go and what they could do. They had no cigarettes. I squandered my pack on them I loved them so. They were grateful and gracious. They never asked; I kept offering. Montana Slim had his own but never passed the pack. We zoomed through another crossroads town . . . and returned to the tremendous darkness... and the stars over head were as pure and bright, because of the increasingly thin air as wel mounted the high hill of the western plateau about a foot a mile . . . pure clean air, and no tress obstructing any low-leveled stars anywhere. . . I bought a pack for each of them; they thanked me. The truck was ready to go. It was getting on midnight now and cold. Gene who'd been around the country more times than he could count on his fingers and toes said the best thing to do was for all of us to bundle up under the big tarpaulin or we'd freeze. In this manner, and with the rest of the bottle, we kept warm as the air grew ice cold and pinged our ears. The stars seemed to get brighter and brighter the more we climbed the High Plains. We were in Wyoming now. Flat on my back I stared straight up at the magnificent firmament, glorying in the time I was making, in how far I had come from sad Bear Mtn. after all, how everything worked out in the end, and tingling with kicks at the thought of what lay ahead of me in Denver---what-ever, whatever it would be and good enough for me.
. 'And here I am in Colorado!' I kept thinking gleefully 'Damn! damn! damn! I'm making it!' And after a refreshing sleep filled with cobwebby dreams of my past life in the East I got up, washed in the station men's room, and strode off fit and slick as a fiddle to get me a rich thick milkshake at the roadhouse to put some freeze in my hot tormented stomach. Incidentally a very beautiful Colorado gal shook me that cream, she was all smiles too; I was grateful, it made up for last night. I said to myself, 'Wow! What'll Denver be like!' I got on that hot road and off I went to Denver in a brand new car driven by a Denver businessman of about thirty five. He went seventy. I tingled all over; I counted minutes and subtracted miles. In a minute just ahead over the rolling wheatfields all golden beneath the distant snows of Estes I'd be seeing old Denver at last. I pictured myself in a Denver bar that night, with all the gang, and in their eyes I would be strange and ragged like the Prophet that has walked across the land to bring the dark Word, and the only Word I had was Wow.
. Ed White, Frank, Bev and I spent an entire week of afternoons in lovely Denver bars where the waitresses wear slacks and cut around with bashful loving eyes, not hardened waitresses but waitresses that fall in love with the clientele and have explosive affairs and huff and sweat and suffer from one par to another; and we spent the same week in nights at Five Points listening to jazz, drinking booze in crazy colored saloons and gabbing till five o'clock in the morn in my basement.
That is one of the greatest joys of the road: the legend of it in one's own mind. Just look at the buildup and all-or-nothing hope for Denver, and then the paradise of it and fondness of remembering being there, how "the whole world opened up".
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As the title of this post suggests, I have been doing a lot of remembering. On my way back home from downtown on the 24th, biking up meeting street all the way to where it ends, I thought of nothing but the imperial towers amidst the river, unseen in the day time, hidden by the factories and buildings. I did not recognize the field the night -- the night I finished On The Road -- where they grabbed my attention when all other lights fell away. Downtown Charleston could not have been more desolate that day. It was the perfect morning. I felt like only person on the peninsula. I've been remembering that dingy night on top of the mountain overlooking the valley towns, the rain and prophesying wind, the gray, the Clemson clouds, all of the faces. That dead-quiet dusk on Mt. Mitchell. The still monday morning at Lake Eden, where frost covered everything and froze time. The contra dancing at the farmer's ball in the magical city of Asheville, followed by a long walk under the moon and haze. I remember the utter excitement and gratefulness with which I approached interaction with a friend. Things have been different, even empty, since I arrived back in Charleston with thirty-seven cents in my debit and pennies in my pocket. I cannot even write with the ardor and consistency that I once maintained. I must go back, and I know I will soon.
Musically-Inspired Geographic Location of the Day
I'm continuing with my wordless selections. This one is especially relevant in my remembrances. This location marks the beginning of the end of this period of wandering. After I ascended to this place, and biked off the ridge of the mountain, below the cloud, and into the road of troubles and hiking and hitchhiking, my mood followed. My demeanor went from soaring high above the clouds to a low indifference, being pushed on by intertia. I kept moving even in the pouring rain. Night comes, and there is nothing to do but stop and camp for the night. In the morning, there is nothing to do but break down camp and get moving. I really got excited about seeing four states at once though, on top of the Devil's Courthouse. Jim Vancleve tears it apart on this rickety ride of a bluegrass tune. (Remember, for the song, right click the Location title and select 'open in new tab' and for a picture of the geographic feature, click the greened and underlined name a few lines above)
I have been pondering the fields of Ireland sloping downwards to the sea, or the rolling plains of Jerusalem, of the sort I have been daydreaming of since early childhood. I know that once I live in Utah for a few years, spending every possible weekend (or any other period of freedom) on the road, driving to California multiple times, exhausting all those lonely, buzzing towns, squeezing every last drop of life from God's country, I will undoubtedly lean towards Europe and the rest of the world. I know that many college-aged youth aspire to Europe, assuming its entire essence to be portrayed in a few large cities wrapped around a vague line of continental demarcation, but I wish to be a rover, a more ancient and self-sufficient kind of tramp.
To return to a relatively less-romantic plane, I want to talk about bluegrass. I got an excellent bluegrass compilation for Christmas. Ever since I read On The Road (yep, its going to keep coming up. It is the traveler's bible, after all), I've equated bop to bluegrass -- the same rapidity, the same intensity, the same overpowering level of skill and integrity the musicians possess. High-tempo bluegrass (mostly newer recordings, though some old, piercing breakdowns do it for me too) captures the bliss of velocity and youthful valor for me. I feel privileged to be able to appreciate it (because many cannot, probably for no better reason than why I don't like most heavy metal: preference) and really get into it.
I want to share some of my favorite passages from the traveler's bible
. How that truck disposed of the Nebraska nub! --- the nub that sticks out over Colorado. And soon I realized I was actually at last over Colorado, though not officially in it, but actually looking southwest towards Denver itself a few hundred miles away. I yelled for joy. We passed the bottle. The great blazing stars came out, the far receding sand hills got dim. I felt like an arrow that could shoot out all the way . . . I wondered where the hell they would go and what they could do. They had no cigarettes. I squandered my pack on them I loved them so. They were grateful and gracious. They never asked; I kept offering. Montana Slim had his own but never passed the pack. We zoomed through another crossroads town . . . and returned to the tremendous darkness... and the stars over head were as pure and bright, because of the increasingly thin air as wel mounted the high hill of the western plateau about a foot a mile . . . pure clean air, and no tress obstructing any low-leveled stars anywhere. . . I bought a pack for each of them; they thanked me. The truck was ready to go. It was getting on midnight now and cold. Gene who'd been around the country more times than he could count on his fingers and toes said the best thing to do was for all of us to bundle up under the big tarpaulin or we'd freeze. In this manner, and with the rest of the bottle, we kept warm as the air grew ice cold and pinged our ears. The stars seemed to get brighter and brighter the more we climbed the High Plains. We were in Wyoming now. Flat on my back I stared straight up at the magnificent firmament, glorying in the time I was making, in how far I had come from sad Bear Mtn. after all, how everything worked out in the end, and tingling with kicks at the thought of what lay ahead of me in Denver---what-ever, whatever it would be and good enough for me.
. 'And here I am in Colorado!' I kept thinking gleefully 'Damn! damn! damn! I'm making it!' And after a refreshing sleep filled with cobwebby dreams of my past life in the East I got up, washed in the station men's room, and strode off fit and slick as a fiddle to get me a rich thick milkshake at the roadhouse to put some freeze in my hot tormented stomach. Incidentally a very beautiful Colorado gal shook me that cream, she was all smiles too; I was grateful, it made up for last night. I said to myself, 'Wow! What'll Denver be like!' I got on that hot road and off I went to Denver in a brand new car driven by a Denver businessman of about thirty five. He went seventy. I tingled all over; I counted minutes and subtracted miles. In a minute just ahead over the rolling wheatfields all golden beneath the distant snows of Estes I'd be seeing old Denver at last. I pictured myself in a Denver bar that night, with all the gang, and in their eyes I would be strange and ragged like the Prophet that has walked across the land to bring the dark Word, and the only Word I had was Wow.
. Ed White, Frank, Bev and I spent an entire week of afternoons in lovely Denver bars where the waitresses wear slacks and cut around with bashful loving eyes, not hardened waitresses but waitresses that fall in love with the clientele and have explosive affairs and huff and sweat and suffer from one par to another; and we spent the same week in nights at Five Points listening to jazz, drinking booze in crazy colored saloons and gabbing till five o'clock in the morn in my basement.
That is one of the greatest joys of the road: the legend of it in one's own mind. Just look at the buildup and all-or-nothing hope for Denver, and then the paradise of it and fondness of remembering being there, how "the whole world opened up".
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As the title of this post suggests, I have been doing a lot of remembering. On my way back home from downtown on the 24th, biking up meeting street all the way to where it ends, I thought of nothing but the imperial towers amidst the river, unseen in the day time, hidden by the factories and buildings. I did not recognize the field the night -- the night I finished On The Road -- where they grabbed my attention when all other lights fell away. Downtown Charleston could not have been more desolate that day. It was the perfect morning. I felt like only person on the peninsula. I've been remembering that dingy night on top of the mountain overlooking the valley towns, the rain and prophesying wind, the gray, the Clemson clouds, all of the faces. That dead-quiet dusk on Mt. Mitchell. The still monday morning at Lake Eden, where frost covered everything and froze time. The contra dancing at the farmer's ball in the magical city of Asheville, followed by a long walk under the moon and haze. I remember the utter excitement and gratefulness with which I approached interaction with a friend. Things have been different, even empty, since I arrived back in Charleston with thirty-seven cents in my debit and pennies in my pocket. I cannot even write with the ardor and consistency that I once maintained. I must go back, and I know I will soon.
Musically-Inspired Geographic Location of the Day
I'm continuing with my wordless selections. This one is especially relevant in my remembrances. This location marks the beginning of the end of this period of wandering. After I ascended to this place, and biked off the ridge of the mountain, below the cloud, and into the road of troubles and hiking and hitchhiking, my mood followed. My demeanor went from soaring high above the clouds to a low indifference, being pushed on by intertia. I kept moving even in the pouring rain. Night comes, and there is nothing to do but stop and camp for the night. In the morning, there is nothing to do but break down camp and get moving. I really got excited about seeing four states at once though, on top of the Devil's Courthouse. Jim Vancleve tears it apart on this rickety ride of a bluegrass tune. (Remember, for the song, right click the Location title and select 'open in new tab' and for a picture of the geographic feature, click the greened and underlined name a few lines above)
Monday, December 21, 2009
A Passion
I woke up this morning at 5am and the pervading thought was to set up my Deviantshare account. I worked on it and fished it before the sun came up. I do this because the adventure telling really isn't complete without a few pictures.
I may or may not have mentioned this before, but I really enjoy photography. I want to be more serious and take a class, and perhaps even have a small developing room, but for now all I have is a decent camera that I am borrowing. I honestly thought I'd shrivel up when I lost my camera (still have not found it), but instead it just removed a part of me that I'm trying to get back now. I am finding inspiration on a fellow Blogspot user's blog, along with perusing the pages of other DeviantArt users. I have found much inspiration from Flickr as well, looking at photos of places I have been and wish to go to. I do not claim much skill in it, but I have been told by an old friend and fellow photography-enthusiast (who has taken college photography classes) that technique can be taught but passion cannot be taught. Lately, it seems that a lot of my passions, including traveling, are fading, much to my disappointment. I have missed contra dancing for the past month. A few months ago, I tried charcoal again, but did not get caught up in it, though I wish I could paint again. Responsibilities are tying me down, and I do not fight them, because their reward outweighs the inhibitions they create. For a few weeks, I shall keep a small preview of my works at the top of my blog page. I have also changed the URL of my blog, because of some poor programming on the part of DeviantArt (in my humble opinion). I am going to create a second Blogspot URL entitled theadventurousspirit.blogspot.com. I'm going to do this for anybody that is following me, so they won't be victims of the dreaded broken link.
I may or may not have mentioned this before, but I really enjoy photography. I want to be more serious and take a class, and perhaps even have a small developing room, but for now all I have is a decent camera that I am borrowing. I honestly thought I'd shrivel up when I lost my camera (still have not found it), but instead it just removed a part of me that I'm trying to get back now. I am finding inspiration on a fellow Blogspot user's blog, along with perusing the pages of other DeviantArt users. I have found much inspiration from Flickr as well, looking at photos of places I have been and wish to go to. I do not claim much skill in it, but I have been told by an old friend and fellow photography-enthusiast (who has taken college photography classes) that technique can be taught but passion cannot be taught. Lately, it seems that a lot of my passions, including traveling, are fading, much to my disappointment. I have missed contra dancing for the past month. A few months ago, I tried charcoal again, but did not get caught up in it, though I wish I could paint again. Responsibilities are tying me down, and I do not fight them, because their reward outweighs the inhibitions they create. For a few weeks, I shall keep a small preview of my works at the top of my blog page. I have also changed the URL of my blog, because of some poor programming on the part of DeviantArt (in my humble opinion). I am going to create a second Blogspot URL entitled theadventurousspirit.blogspot.com. I'm going to do this for anybody that is following me, so they won't be victims of the dreaded broken link.
Internalization and Black Mountain
I am beginning to understand some of the more counter-intuitive emotions tied into traveling that Kerouac tried to communicate in On The Road: the failure, the sadness, "everything . . . collapsing"
I traveled to Florence, South Carolina this weekend. It isn't a noteworthy pinpoint on the map other than the fact that I have true friends there that I often travel with. I wanted to spend time with just them, instead of going places with them to visit groups of friends and acquaintances, which we have always done. I have thought to myself in previous visits that we never get to really spend time together, except in the car (where we oddly don't really talk much). Our dynamic just wasn't the same without the road. I truly enjoyed their company and they are just as good of friends, but it was just different, and oftentimes we find what is at variance to our expectations, at first, to be unsatisfactory. I remember failure: failure to go to Charlotte or Asheville to see snow, glorious snow, snow that creates perfect silence, snow that sets nature at stillness and seems to set time in suspended animation, failure to even get out of Florence without something going wrong. My car battery drained, having left the lights on all night. After we got that fixed, me and a friend, who especially loves traveling, set out to test the car and decided to make a small adventure out of it. We headed for the NC/SC border, going up I-95. We ran out of gas, and had to pull the car to the side of the road -- that is ultimate defeat. Things were falling apart. After getting gas, there was nothing left to do but go home.
Now the above narrative is simply just the concentration of the feelings of dissatisfaction and the glorious struggle that is captured so perfectly in Kerouac's novel. It is a key element, and I'm very glad to keep experiencing it. I honestly did not feel it while I walked five miles to Black Mountain from LEAF, nor when my bike was stolen. I did feel it when my new bike's back wheel became wobbly upon heading down from the Blue Ridge Parkway. The simple transition from being above the clouds, commanding the view of seas of mist, to being below them and at their dominance, made me think of the security and comfort of the sunny mountain. Everything was perfect on that mountain ridge. After my descent, the sadness really soaked into me, through my shirt, until I was covered with it. It got in my shoes. It hung about me for two days. Though be it a subtle sadness (not the kind of sad that makes us sigh or cry) it literally obscured the beauty all around, except a misty field that I often remembered from previous days (this was on NC-hwy 281). This is my first time I travel in the fall, in late October, when the snow can be seen atop sleeping Black Mountain, when cloud moves in and challenges what I qualify as beautiful. That night where I realized my time of tramping with the full spirit of exploration was over and that it was time to accept defeat and go home. . . this was when the travail culminated. By this time, it was all in my sleeping bag, staining my feet (the feelings brought on in this instance were not like that night the rain deprived me of any sleep), running into the low parts of the inside of my tent. There really wasn't any escaping it. In this moment, I distinctly remember wanting to go home, like a little child. It was an essential part of my journey. I firmly believe that once you hit that point of conciously desiring all the comforts and familiarity of home, yet do not obtain home, the concept of "home" in your mind begins to change. Your thoughts on home get rewired in your brain a little, with each instance of this. I feel a little bit of familiarity and the emotion of a yearning to return towards any place I've spent more than day at, such as the Salem and Lake Jocassee area, Riceville, North Carolina, and especially Asheville. I feel my adventures are just beginning.
Musically-Inspired Geographic Location of The Day
I wanted to try something different (also, if you've noticed, I set the title of this section of the post as the link to the song, rather than the title of the post up at the top. I wanted the music to flood the reader's ears as the words below enter their mind. Same thing goes: right click, select 'open in new tab'). I wanted to share an instrumental, with the location just in the title. I've been dwelling on that memory of snow-covered Black Mountain in the morning, looming over the valley (this memory is from Lake Eden in October), and thinking "I want to be THERE! on top of THAT!" and reflecting on my over-simplistic fantasy of walking to the top of it. This song seems like the perfect sound if one were to prefer something other than the super-terrestrial silence of the mountain. The song suggests a summer setting, when the mountain is well-awake and resonating in deep lows. Think of the beginning free-flowing part as you look up and are captured by the prospect of climbing the summit, and the adventurous idea of it that gives you a headbuzz. As the tempo picks up (starts at one minute, thirteen secons), you are climbing it, and it is strenuous. You can't really see anything because of the trees. The desire to reach the top now pulls you upwards, against the will of the muscles of your legs against any other restraint that might come from the mind. Again, because of the trees (winter does not present this problem, though. The leaves no longer obscure the vew), you have no idea how close you are to the top. You eventually find your rhythm and the ascent isn't as tiring. When you come to a clearing in the trees, your reward a view of the valley below, the melody becomes soft and contemplative (around five minutes, fifty-three seconds). That's just how it goes. You put in much work of ascending the mountain side for just a moment of silence, looking down on where you started.
I traveled to Florence, South Carolina this weekend. It isn't a noteworthy pinpoint on the map other than the fact that I have true friends there that I often travel with. I wanted to spend time with just them, instead of going places with them to visit groups of friends and acquaintances, which we have always done. I have thought to myself in previous visits that we never get to really spend time together, except in the car (where we oddly don't really talk much). Our dynamic just wasn't the same without the road. I truly enjoyed their company and they are just as good of friends, but it was just different, and oftentimes we find what is at variance to our expectations, at first, to be unsatisfactory. I remember failure: failure to go to Charlotte or Asheville to see snow, glorious snow, snow that creates perfect silence, snow that sets nature at stillness and seems to set time in suspended animation, failure to even get out of Florence without something going wrong. My car battery drained, having left the lights on all night. After we got that fixed, me and a friend, who especially loves traveling, set out to test the car and decided to make a small adventure out of it. We headed for the NC/SC border, going up I-95. We ran out of gas, and had to pull the car to the side of the road -- that is ultimate defeat. Things were falling apart. After getting gas, there was nothing left to do but go home.
Now the above narrative is simply just the concentration of the feelings of dissatisfaction and the glorious struggle that is captured so perfectly in Kerouac's novel. It is a key element, and I'm very glad to keep experiencing it. I honestly did not feel it while I walked five miles to Black Mountain from LEAF, nor when my bike was stolen. I did feel it when my new bike's back wheel became wobbly upon heading down from the Blue Ridge Parkway. The simple transition from being above the clouds, commanding the view of seas of mist, to being below them and at their dominance, made me think of the security and comfort of the sunny mountain. Everything was perfect on that mountain ridge. After my descent, the sadness really soaked into me, through my shirt, until I was covered with it. It got in my shoes. It hung about me for two days. Though be it a subtle sadness (not the kind of sad that makes us sigh or cry) it literally obscured the beauty all around, except a misty field that I often remembered from previous days (this was on NC-hwy 281). This is my first time I travel in the fall, in late October, when the snow can be seen atop sleeping Black Mountain, when cloud moves in and challenges what I qualify as beautiful. That night where I realized my time of tramping with the full spirit of exploration was over and that it was time to accept defeat and go home. . . this was when the travail culminated. By this time, it was all in my sleeping bag, staining my feet (the feelings brought on in this instance were not like that night the rain deprived me of any sleep), running into the low parts of the inside of my tent. There really wasn't any escaping it. In this moment, I distinctly remember wanting to go home, like a little child. It was an essential part of my journey. I firmly believe that once you hit that point of conciously desiring all the comforts and familiarity of home, yet do not obtain home, the concept of "home" in your mind begins to change. Your thoughts on home get rewired in your brain a little, with each instance of this. I feel a little bit of familiarity and the emotion of a yearning to return towards any place I've spent more than day at, such as the Salem and Lake Jocassee area, Riceville, North Carolina, and especially Asheville. I feel my adventures are just beginning.
Musically-Inspired Geographic Location of The Day
I wanted to try something different (also, if you've noticed, I set the title of this section of the post as the link to the song, rather than the title of the post up at the top. I wanted the music to flood the reader's ears as the words below enter their mind. Same thing goes: right click, select 'open in new tab'). I wanted to share an instrumental, with the location just in the title. I've been dwelling on that memory of snow-covered Black Mountain in the morning, looming over the valley (this memory is from Lake Eden in October), and thinking "I want to be THERE! on top of THAT!" and reflecting on my over-simplistic fantasy of walking to the top of it. This song seems like the perfect sound if one were to prefer something other than the super-terrestrial silence of the mountain. The song suggests a summer setting, when the mountain is well-awake and resonating in deep lows. Think of the beginning free-flowing part as you look up and are captured by the prospect of climbing the summit, and the adventurous idea of it that gives you a headbuzz. As the tempo picks up (starts at one minute, thirteen secons), you are climbing it, and it is strenuous. You can't really see anything because of the trees. The desire to reach the top now pulls you upwards, against the will of the muscles of your legs against any other restraint that might come from the mind. Again, because of the trees (winter does not present this problem, though. The leaves no longer obscure the vew), you have no idea how close you are to the top. You eventually find your rhythm and the ascent isn't as tiring. When you come to a clearing in the trees, your reward a view of the valley below, the melody becomes soft and contemplative (around five minutes, fifty-three seconds). That's just how it goes. You put in much work of ascending the mountain side for just a moment of silence, looking down on where you started.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Going To California
So, as I am wont to do while driving all day Tuesdays, I've gotten on a new kick: Dolly Parton. I never saw this coming. Her vocals are perfect, and she writes EXCELLENTLY. I got really pumped off of her album Little Sparrow and one song, Shine, a classic rock cover, gave me the biggest thrill of any of my recorded-music-listening experiences (yep). I could definitely see her live, and I'm very very picky of which musicians I truly enjoy live.
I got a copy of Led Zeppelin's, which I got to listen to Going To California. I decided, upon first hearing this some years ago, that I would listen to this song as I traveled to the pacific ocean, perhaps on an overcast day. I would listen to this song hundreds of times over. I thought it wonderful. I may want to visit San Francisco to this song, as I thought as the lyrics "someone told me there's a girl out there, with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair," sank in (as I've said, I will listen countless times before some lyrics "sink in"). Think of Scott McKenzie's San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers In Your Hair). Long title, self explanatory. Everything about Zeppelin's California is beautiful on a different plane altogether, the aching, the longing, the dizzying airbuzz. Another album I tend to listen to while going out west is a mix tape I made of Gillian Welch. I decided this a few months ago, and again last month. This is not for a long time though. I won't be going out to Utah for a good two years or more.
I got a copy of Led Zeppelin's, which I got to listen to Going To California. I decided, upon first hearing this some years ago, that I would listen to this song as I traveled to the pacific ocean, perhaps on an overcast day. I would listen to this song hundreds of times over. I thought it wonderful. I may want to visit San Francisco to this song, as I thought as the lyrics "someone told me there's a girl out there, with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair," sank in (as I've said, I will listen countless times before some lyrics "sink in"). Think of Scott McKenzie's San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers In Your Hair). Long title, self explanatory. Everything about Zeppelin's California is beautiful on a different plane altogether, the aching, the longing, the dizzying airbuzz. Another album I tend to listen to while going out west is a mix tape I made of Gillian Welch. I decided this a few months ago, and again last month. This is not for a long time though. I won't be going out to Utah for a good two years or more.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Winter is Coming
I have so much to say. Its been building up for almost a week, and it all comes out on the road. Driving that car always gets my mind turning. The fall colors decorates either side of the road as I'm listening to Ricky Skagg's Walls Of Time (though it is that Bill Monroe that composed it, it being one of a seemingly endless number of his compositions. That's one of the very few things I don't like about bluegrass musicians: they do too many covers on their recordings) with that solemnly heralding violin solo. I have programmed this song to a lot of different imagery. At first, I played it on a small cassette recorder (which perfected its feeling of oldness and vaguity) while biking my route down Red Bank Rd to Bushy Park Rd, with the marshes and swamp trees and tall grasses with their ghostly, white husks. There is an ancientness and slow but ineffable timeflow to it. I feel it, and the song depicts it perfectly, with the harmony always at the interval of a fifth (sorry for those that don't know music theory, I do it for the edification of those that do know). As I was walking up the Blue Ridge Parkway in the afternoon, the sun causing all the red-browns to resonate and burst at my eyes, the lyric "the wind is blowing 'cross the mountain, and on the valley way below" described the blustery land that I was slowly ascending. I see the mountain range, hill after hill after hill, with one earthmound right in my face and holiding a vice on my attention. The ancientness, communicated in low rumbling frequencies that must be emitting fro the mountainside . The natural temples embedded in the land. During the most "earthy" season -- when the trees turn the color of the soil -- all of this was, to me, captured in Walls of Time, both the swamp and the mountain. I would REALLY like to go canoeing in any creek flowing through an estuary environment in the period of two to three hours before sunset, but it would have to be soon or never, because autumn, with its evocative ancientness, is giving way to winter. Winter is on its way. My trip to Sully's Island really drove this floating thought home and pinned it in my mind. The constant wind of a beach exaggerated the drizzle and cold air. This wind, eerily enough, was utterly absent during this one visit to Folly Beach last February, though not the kind of quiet that there was at the base of Mt. Mitchell that lone dusk. This absence of noise was a time-halting silence, a silence that restrains utterance or movement -- even to stop the Walls of Time in my head, just having left the Parkway and entered the shadow of elder mountain, father mountain -- a silence that haunts you for the rest of your life. It's like the atmosphere did not exist above 5400 feet. No more medium for sound waves. It was like I had left earth, and was in the heavens, for the stars were certainly closer, and in the morning sky the gentlest shades of crimson. There was no crimson in the sky that morning on Sullivan's Island. It was a grey, not the purgatorial grey of being in a drizzly cloud, but a pleasant mixture of grey melted in with light blues and benevolent whites. It had rained just enough in the night to busy me with keeping dry. Though I only got two hours of sleep when, after four hours, the drizzle finally subsided (and then was left to deal with the colder wind that always follows even the slightest rain), I was at relative peace. No cursing my discomfort or lack of sleep, no regretting I didn't take a ride home after listening to Ward and Joel at Art's. I left towards my destination as they had sung finishing the song Sullivan's Island. It was neat, because I desired to hear it right before they decided to play it. The idea of living here, in this old sleepy town by the sea, then travelling all over, only to return back, right where you started, broke and beaten -- "back on Sullivan's Island" -- is one of pure legend and stoicism. Getting there, a sudden thought struck me with horror: What if they had closed the swing bridge?! I read in the newspaper about the closing of the bridge while a new one was built and about traffic being rerouted over the IOP connector, which would mean an insurmountable ten-mile detour for me and my lowly bicycle. Luckily, this was not so, but walking over the bridge was the eeriest experience. The fiendish bridge played on my fears of falling and drowning, and the lights above the suspension structure gave the feeling of being in a sinister cage. I arrived, and dealt with the rain for the said four hours. When the clouds thinned a little bit (only for a moment), just as the time the clouds temporarily cleared to flaunt the glorious yellow sun when I last visited this bless-ed sandbar, I saw instead the white moon. Even in its waning, near-dark phase, it lit up the clouds perfectly, just as I had romantically hoped for (it was the imagining of this: relaxedly looking up to the comforting moon from cool, windy shore; that swayed me to risk being rained on). This scene evoked the greatest feelings of comfort and mildness in my heart. I was too chilled to be warmed by it though, but it was wonderful as it cast the gentlest white on the edges of the clouds around it. In the only break in the clouds a few stars could be seen, and this feeling of fun-ness -- of things getting back into motion -- that was sprinkled on me, such as I felt upon seeing the reddest evening sky of my life, now reminds me of LEAF, when the clouds thinned and gave way to the stars, promising the victorious sun come morning. There was no fun-ness in the morning, just tiredness, but the ineffable feeling to move on was there. I actually walked a lot of the road through Mt. Pleasant and halfway up the Ravenel. Viewing the trains of cloud with the fresh backdrop of light blue to the north on top of the Ravenel was oh so refreshing. I was passive in my tiredness, but enjoyed it nonetheless. Rocketing down the Ravenel, I just made the bus home, popping out onto Meeting St just where the bus was about pass. Under the covers, as I collapsed into an unrefusable sleep when I got home, the thought that winter was coming (though the warm Charleston sun persisted through the glass) pervaded my thoughts. I do hope I can enjoy more colors before winter comes and steals them all away. Edisto is next.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
There'll Be Some Changes Made
Some things about my page
1. I removed the picture of the morning mountainside. I wanted to make a statement with words rather than pictures. It also wasn't cropped correctly to smoothly fit with the streamlined, highly-marginalized design from our amazing Google developers.
2. I added a Kerouac quote in place of the caption "travels, music, geography," partially because I didn't like the wholesale feel it gives off, and also because categorizing something often deprives it of the very essence you are trying to draw attention to. It is inevitable that it will cycle between a handful of quotes that capture the adventurous spirit
3. I added a "Earth Saving Tips" widget. This is partially because most people take for granted the playground that is Mother Earth. God gave us this world for our use and enjoyment (or if you take the leap of faith in saying that there is no god, perhaps I could reword this in saying that we humans have a disposition of dominance over the rest of life on Earth), but also to take care of, because as you can see, we are more thean capable of depleting it and de-beautifying it (while I don't think we can "disrupt the balance" per se, nature is very resilient and while we may put stresses on some species that drive them to extinction, ecosystems are remaining balanced. Its also important to realize that species come and go, this is nothing to be alarmed about). I just want to call to everyone's attention that the cleanliness of our environment is a personal responsibility in how and what we consume, and in what allow to happen. Nature is only for us to enjoy as long as we take care of it.
4. I eliminated everything in the blog post section except title and post body. No comments, no date of posting, nothing, just the raw text. These words are what they are, and I don't want anything to leave an impression about this blog other than the text, not how frequently I post, not whether or not someone feels I'm wasting my time or whether anybody even reads it. Its the best formatting I've done or probably ever will do on this blog
1. I removed the picture of the morning mountainside. I wanted to make a statement with words rather than pictures. It also wasn't cropped correctly to smoothly fit with the streamlined, highly-marginalized design from our amazing Google developers.
2. I added a Kerouac quote in place of the caption "travels, music, geography," partially because I didn't like the wholesale feel it gives off, and also because categorizing something often deprives it of the very essence you are trying to draw attention to. It is inevitable that it will cycle between a handful of quotes that capture the adventurous spirit
3. I added a "Earth Saving Tips" widget. This is partially because most people take for granted the playground that is Mother Earth. God gave us this world for our use and enjoyment (or if you take the leap of faith in saying that there is no god, perhaps I could reword this in saying that we humans have a disposition of dominance over the rest of life on Earth), but also to take care of, because as you can see, we are more thean capable of depleting it and de-beautifying it (while I don't think we can "disrupt the balance" per se, nature is very resilient and while we may put stresses on some species that drive them to extinction, ecosystems are remaining balanced. Its also important to realize that species come and go, this is nothing to be alarmed about). I just want to call to everyone's attention that the cleanliness of our environment is a personal responsibility in how and what we consume, and in what allow to happen. Nature is only for us to enjoy as long as we take care of it.
4. I eliminated everything in the blog post section except title and post body. No comments, no date of posting, nothing, just the raw text. These words are what they are, and I don't want anything to leave an impression about this blog other than the text, not how frequently I post, not whether or not someone feels I'm wasting my time or whether anybody even reads it. Its the best formatting I've done or probably ever will do on this blog
Sometimes, You Just Need it Faster
I spent all day driving today. My ears perked up when World Cafe's made a reference to Kerouac in talking about the musician's life being one spent on the road, and how getting back home demands one to decide which part of their life they like better, and how one gets a chance to look at themselves in the mirror after months of ceaseless traveling and realizing with some sadness at first at how pieces of oneself have been left in all the places touched upon.
I think of Ralph Stanley II's Honky Tonk Way. Life on the highway -- its freedom and the entrapment, all at the same time. A lyric from that song:
I also think of more entrapment of the traveler that is traveling on assignment. Traveling for the sake of anything else but to move and experience new things, the idea horrifies me. After having listened to Cold Shoulder a thousand times, the thousand-and-first time penetrated my understanding of what the song was trying to say. The double meaning of the phrase 'cold shoulder' only hit me when I realized Ralph was taking on the character of a trucker.
I say all these things because, as Kerouac says, they are too fantastic to remain silent about. Life is brimming with light and inspiration, given to us freely to the point of overflowing. Who am I to withhold that from my fellow humans, who have that same access to this spring of light? Because this song is also "too fantastic not to tell," I give you this song. Those fellow wanderers in this land of electronic tonic who have been exceedingly vigilant in November may recognize these lyrics ;)
http://songza.fm/~19uf0d
http://songza.fm/~8548qa
Same song; different recordings. No artist or title, its a surprise, and an explosive one, at that.
I think of Ralph Stanley II's Honky Tonk Way. Life on the highway -- its freedom and the entrapment, all at the same time. A lyric from that song:
We ride the highway in a big silver eagle
its not quite as nice as you think
the freedom of the highway can feel like a prison
with bars made of asphalt and paint
its not quite as nice as you think
the freedom of the highway can feel like a prison
with bars made of asphalt and paint
I also think of more entrapment of the traveler that is traveling on assignment. Traveling for the sake of anything else but to move and experience new things, the idea horrifies me. After having listened to Cold Shoulder a thousand times, the thousand-and-first time penetrated my understanding of what the song was trying to say. The double meaning of the phrase 'cold shoulder' only hit me when I realized Ralph was taking on the character of a trucker.
The lure of the highway is like a woman sometimes
She can be your best friend, but she's a real jealous kind
I wish I could hold her
Instead of hugging this old cold shoulder
She can be your best friend, but she's a real jealous kind
I wish I could hold her
Instead of hugging this old cold shoulder
I say all these things because, as Kerouac says, they are too fantastic to remain silent about. Life is brimming with light and inspiration, given to us freely to the point of overflowing. Who am I to withhold that from my fellow humans, who have that same access to this spring of light? Because this song is also "too fantastic not to tell," I give you this song. Those fellow wanderers in this land of electronic tonic who have been exceedingly vigilant in November may recognize these lyrics ;)
http://songza.fm/~19uf0d
http://songza.fm/~8548qa
Same song; different recordings. No artist or title, its a surprise, and an explosive one, at that.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Revival
After a some six-week hiatus, I am listening to Gillian Welch again with the same feeling I did right before I went up into the mountains (though the echoes of it remained for the first couple of days). I don't mean Wrecking Ball or Wayside/Back in Time or the other songs from this Location(s). I mean just sitting on the sofa and listening to an entire album of hers in the sunlight. Her subject matter is so pure, as is her musical style. How unadulterated her singing voice and how simple David Rawling's picking. I need to go back to Art's Bar and Grille in Mt. Pleasant -- maybe biking over the Ravenel bridge to Sully's Island before and going back to that beach afterwards -- to hear Ward and Joel sing her music.
The Gillian Welch album that continues to impress me is Hell Among The Yearlings. It is her fourth released album, and stands out from her previous albums. You get to hear Gillian playing banjo, evoking a whole new range of images, mixes of wet and cold early-morning environments. Some of my favorite solo work by Rawlings is on this album.
There are many biking routes I wish to take and local journeys I'd like to pursue while the leaves are still on the trees in Charleston (excluding the evergreens, of course). I wish to bicycle up to Lake Moultrie and travel alongside it for a few miles east of Moncks Corner (about 50 miles round trip) and go up Hwy 176 to Holly Hill one morning, have Sweatman's BBQ for lunch, rest for an hour, then bike back home in the afternoon (it is 35 miles from my house to Holly Hill, so 70 miles round trip. I haven't biked that much in one day since coming home from Ninety-Six). An endurance run that I will only do once I get a better bicycle seat follows a route through Moncks Corner, down Hwy 41, and then through Awendaw to downtown Charleston and back home (I looked at it on google maps. It is 90 miles if I complete the whole circuit on bicycle, 75 if I take the bus home in the evening). I'm also going to pay a visit to Edisto Island before Autumn is over, so keep a look out for that.
The Gillian Welch album that continues to impress me is Hell Among The Yearlings. It is her fourth released album, and stands out from her previous albums. You get to hear Gillian playing banjo, evoking a whole new range of images, mixes of wet and cold early-morning environments. Some of my favorite solo work by Rawlings is on this album.
There are many biking routes I wish to take and local journeys I'd like to pursue while the leaves are still on the trees in Charleston (excluding the evergreens, of course). I wish to bicycle up to Lake Moultrie and travel alongside it for a few miles east of Moncks Corner (about 50 miles round trip) and go up Hwy 176 to Holly Hill one morning, have Sweatman's BBQ for lunch, rest for an hour, then bike back home in the afternoon (it is 35 miles from my house to Holly Hill, so 70 miles round trip. I haven't biked that much in one day since coming home from Ninety-Six). An endurance run that I will only do once I get a better bicycle seat follows a route through Moncks Corner, down Hwy 41, and then through Awendaw to downtown Charleston and back home (I looked at it on google maps. It is 90 miles if I complete the whole circuit on bicycle, 75 if I take the bus home in the evening). I'm also going to pay a visit to Edisto Island before Autumn is over, so keep a look out for that.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The End of The Road and Johnson City
To view the song while reading about it in the Location of the Day, right-click the title above and select 'open in new tab'
I finished reading On The Road (The Original Scroll) around 11:15 on Monday night. It took me the same time to read it as it took Jack to write it: three weeks. I had spent all day on the move, from the Ashley River in its burning blue water, to the Old Navy Base sitting alongside the creek (though only for a moment), and read last of Kerouac's travels during all of this. As planned, I finished the book on a bus. The restlessness of youth. Kerouac lays "IT" out on the road and in his novel here:
We were all delighted, we all realized we were leaving the confusion and nonsense behind and performing our one and noble function of the time, move.
Snapshots of my time on the road Monday. . .
1) The autumn moon brought the salt at my feet, the salt-pluff and salt-reeds, their mixing smells forever conjoined in my mind with the beach. The sun made it all right. A narrow string of trees across the creek showed their festive colors and gave way to a wise, old marsh tree further in the distance.
2) Biking down old meeting street, the MAGIC of the desolate sodium-vapor-lit dark, with moon keeping vigil amongst the cottonball clouds. All of the orange burning light, it disappeared, dispersed all at once. Across the dark field, all the light that was left was the imperial light of the Ravenel towers, miles out in the sea, two pillars of gentle white. It spoke to me, not that I could understand at all, but it gave utterance and it grasped and held my attention
3) THIS is North Charleston in the late night, with all of its decay, and all of its calm. The absence of humans returns the land to its natural feel. Desolate unlit parking lots. I've never witnessed such. As I walk in the holy Charleston night, I feel exceptionally safe, no, not safe, mildly excited and tranquil at the same time, as a child gets in the quick sharp cool of a windy night. Winter is coming.
You can't get ANY of this in a car
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Musically-Inspired Geographic Location of the Day
Today, this first day of December, we move to east Tennessee, to Johnson City. The end of the road in Kerouac's novel, the paradise, is Mexico City. The end of the road for me, I think, will be eastern Tennessee, where I find my paradise. I may travel afterwards, but I think I'll find perfect fulfillment from my travels in eastern Tennesse, beneath the banana trees. I looked at some of the things along the NC/TN border, and I saw this one landmark, Round Bald. Its my dream: mountain hills devoid of trees but lush with brush and grass, like the hills of Jerusalem. Maybe I'm very limited by my experiences, I have not witnessed the yellow expanse of the deserts of Arizona, the jungles of southern Louisiana, even the endless plains of Iowa or the savannah of Africa. Here be a tale of a man, told by Old Crow Medicine Show, in Wagon Wheel (adapted from the chorus of Bob Dylan's Rock Me Mama):
I finished reading On The Road (The Original Scroll) around 11:15 on Monday night. It took me the same time to read it as it took Jack to write it: three weeks. I had spent all day on the move, from the Ashley River in its burning blue water, to the Old Navy Base sitting alongside the creek (though only for a moment), and read last of Kerouac's travels during all of this. As planned, I finished the book on a bus. The restlessness of youth. Kerouac lays "IT" out on the road and in his novel here:
We were all delighted, we all realized we were leaving the confusion and nonsense behind and performing our one and noble function of the time, move.
Snapshots of my time on the road Monday. . .
1) The autumn moon brought the salt at my feet, the salt-pluff and salt-reeds, their mixing smells forever conjoined in my mind with the beach. The sun made it all right. A narrow string of trees across the creek showed their festive colors and gave way to a wise, old marsh tree further in the distance.
2) Biking down old meeting street, the MAGIC of the desolate sodium-vapor-lit dark, with moon keeping vigil amongst the cottonball clouds. All of the orange burning light, it disappeared, dispersed all at once. Across the dark field, all the light that was left was the imperial light of the Ravenel towers, miles out in the sea, two pillars of gentle white. It spoke to me, not that I could understand at all, but it gave utterance and it grasped and held my attention
3) THIS is North Charleston in the late night, with all of its decay, and all of its calm. The absence of humans returns the land to its natural feel. Desolate unlit parking lots. I've never witnessed such. As I walk in the holy Charleston night, I feel exceptionally safe, no, not safe, mildly excited and tranquil at the same time, as a child gets in the quick sharp cool of a windy night. Winter is coming.
You can't get ANY of this in a car
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Musically-Inspired Geographic Location of the Day
Today, this first day of December, we move to east Tennessee, to Johnson City. The end of the road in Kerouac's novel, the paradise, is Mexico City. The end of the road for me, I think, will be eastern Tennessee, where I find my paradise. I may travel afterwards, but I think I'll find perfect fulfillment from my travels in eastern Tennesse, beneath the banana trees. I looked at some of the things along the NC/TN border, and I saw this one landmark, Round Bald. Its my dream: mountain hills devoid of trees but lush with brush and grass, like the hills of Jerusalem. Maybe I'm very limited by my experiences, I have not witnessed the yellow expanse of the deserts of Arizona, the jungles of southern Louisiana, even the endless plains of Iowa or the savannah of Africa. Here be a tale of a man, told by Old Crow Medicine Show, in Wagon Wheel (adapted from the chorus of Bob Dylan's Rock Me Mama):
Headed due south out of Roanoke
I caught a trucker out of 'Philly, had a nice long toke
And he's a' headed west from the Cumberland Gap
To Johnson City, Tennessee
And I got to get a move on before the sun
I hear my baby callin' my name
And I know that she's the only one
And if I die in Raleigh at least I will die free
I caught a trucker out of 'Philly, had a nice long toke
And he's a' headed west from the Cumberland Gap
To Johnson City, Tennessee
And I got to get a move on before the sun
I hear my baby callin' my name
And I know that she's the only one
And if I die in Raleigh at least I will die free
When it clicked, long overdue (I do listen to the lyrics but I tend not to piece each line together because I do not read the lyrics. My friend is right: doing so is neccessary), that it is a song about being a hitch-hiker heading for something, my soul leapt. The joy. I smiled so warmly as I type this.
I included the link to the song, but I have the World Cafe EP of this, as I said in a previous blog. It has much more echo and the banjo rings so true. The fiddle is sorrowful and sweet, oh the solemnity of the mountainside when its quiet and there's nothing to do but sit and ponder on that quiet. All of this actually reminds me of my time in Boone, North Carolina, and traveling down to Lake Eden Arts Festival in the middle of spring. The memories are precious aren't they? It's the only thing we can take with us.
I included the link to the song, but I have the World Cafe EP of this, as I said in a previous blog. It has much more echo and the banjo rings so true. The fiddle is sorrowful and sweet, oh the solemnity of the mountainside when its quiet and there's nothing to do but sit and ponder on that quiet. All of this actually reminds me of my time in Boone, North Carolina, and traveling down to Lake Eden Arts Festival in the middle of spring. The memories are precious aren't they? It's the only thing we can take with us.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Red at Night, Sailor's Delight
I must tell you about a drive that I had last night. It was enormous and chilling. Even though I listen to mostly bluegrass currently, I shall let you in on a little secret that my favorite musician to listen to while driving is Gordon Sumner, known as Sting. I was listening to Soul Cages while driving from Goose Creek to where I work, and it was about 5pm. Driving is like a psychoactive dessert to me now that I rarely do so. The sky near the horizon burned an infernal red that grew darker as the night would take over the day. I just sat breathless at 60mph, stealing more glances at the skyfire than the road. I played tracks I often skip over, though they captivated me powerfully this time around. Here they are (perhaps the audio only while reading will let your imagination do its bidding rather than watching the video):
Island of Souls
When The Angels Fall
Angels is so eerie and hauntingly beautiful, and really gave completion to the dusk. It was dark on the interstate, but illuminated by painfully bright construction lighting. I get to work, park the car, dash out the car, leaving the car on, to get the item and jump back in, and rocket off back for home. It is about 5:30pm now. To avoid rush-hour traffic on the "I" going west, a ride up South Aviation is best I was surprised at how I didn't expect the explosion of honest, pure red upon coming up on the place where the trees fall away and there is nothing but open field to the left. You can see the runways of the airport and air force base, and of course the red. The entire part of the sky that was previously hid by the trees was RED. The biggest, purest, solid RED sky I've ever seen in my entire LIFE. and I switched to track two of the CD. I just felt like something to mirror the fun-ness and wonder of what I was seeing
All This Time
and I began to think of the saying "red at night, sailor's delight; red at day, sailor's dismay," furthering my connection of how much Gordon lived the sea. It was certainly delight, but subtle delight that was as pure as the sky. But nature always presents itself in such an emotionally neutral way, that it gives memories that grow so rich, though so subtle at the time you see. As the wall of red was hidden by the hangars, I began to think that driving is such a joy because you get to ride a boat that travels rivers of viscous black phosphate and paint. You can go ANYWHERE you want! I also thought of and agreed with Ben Gibbard's lyric: even landlocked lovers yearn for the sea like navy men. Magic. Like being in an anti-gravity machine.
Island of Souls
When The Angels Fall
Angels is so eerie and hauntingly beautiful, and really gave completion to the dusk. It was dark on the interstate, but illuminated by painfully bright construction lighting. I get to work, park the car, dash out the car, leaving the car on, to get the item and jump back in, and rocket off back for home. It is about 5:30pm now. To avoid rush-hour traffic on the "I" going west, a ride up South Aviation is best I was surprised at how I didn't expect the explosion of honest, pure red upon coming up on the place where the trees fall away and there is nothing but open field to the left. You can see the runways of the airport and air force base, and of course the red. The entire part of the sky that was previously hid by the trees was RED. The biggest, purest, solid RED sky I've ever seen in my entire LIFE. and I switched to track two of the CD. I just felt like something to mirror the fun-ness and wonder of what I was seeing
All This Time
and I began to think of the saying "red at night, sailor's delight; red at day, sailor's dismay," furthering my connection of how much Gordon lived the sea. It was certainly delight, but subtle delight that was as pure as the sky. But nature always presents itself in such an emotionally neutral way, that it gives memories that grow so rich, though so subtle at the time you see. As the wall of red was hidden by the hangars, I began to think that driving is such a joy because you get to ride a boat that travels rivers of viscous black phosphate and paint. You can go ANYWHERE you want! I also thought of and agreed with Ben Gibbard's lyric: even landlocked lovers yearn for the sea like navy men. Magic. Like being in an anti-gravity machine.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Worn Muscles and Memphis
To listen to this song while reading about it in the Location of the Day, right click the title above and select 'open in new tab'. Beware, because its a Lala file, they'll only let you listen to the full song once, so make it count ;)
I need to start by saying I have stopped driving unless I absolutely have to. My muscles were sore for a few days after pulling nearly eighty miles in one day. Once I started bicycling for transportation as well as leisure, I was doing 15 mph for an hour at a time. The first Monday back home, I bicycled back home from downtown, down King street, past all the restaurants, past the decaying older part with its WWII-era houses and simple poor people walking about, past the concrete fields to the left overtaken with vegetation, along the railroad tracks and the interstate, past the factories, over the climactic bringe that passes over the railroad tracks and, at the top you can see all of charleston as it is, in all its unprettiness : what has been condemned as bad neighborhoods sprawled to the right and the roads and fields lay waste and a haven of sorts. Once left alone and neglected, it becomes more natural, and you see the indestructibility of nature and beauty, that it will win your attention through the concrete and halogen light and dirty air. You throw grey liquid on it and cut down all the trees, beauty still flourishes, just a different kind of beauty. After King street becomes Rivers its just city and more city until home. I have been doing a lot of similar fast trips, and they are tearing up my legs. I haven't biked since friday, when I did my first thirty-mile circuit since about six weeks. In short, this bicycle route I take goes north through the 52/78 split (which is open and beautified with bushes on the road mounds, complete with a lone tree in this field), heads down an open expanse of red bank road, then goes up Bushy Park Road for seven miles, then heads down a country road back onto 52.
Getting started was a bit strenuous, my muscles were already sore from previous days of pushing myself. As I passed down 52, there were no colors. Charleston. It is the middle of November and the sun still feels like summer. In my heart I exclaim, "when will there be color," and as I travel further, I see more occasional yellow trees, but it still doesn't feel like fall. One of my favorite points is where there is but a thin veil of trees covering a marshy reservoir on one side and railroad tracks on the other. At one point, it was like the world exploded before me as the sunlight suddenly hit everything. The close forests burst open to fields of brush and tall grasses, and all I could do is pedal as fast as I could, intensely whispering in my heart, "YES!". A lot of the grasses had tall light-tan heads, whose filaments glowed a spectral white when seen through the two-hours-before-dusk light. They stood there in the air like skinny ghosts, all to my right side. Amazing. An open field is a stupendous, captivating thing.
Musically-Inspired Geographic Location of the Day
I really wanted to hit on this one because eastern Tennessee has, since August, been a holy land of sorts to me -- that mystic, seemingly unattainable land where things are even more full of hills, more dramatic, and sun-soaked. Every attempt to go there has been denied me, whether by car, or by bicycle. I am well aware that Memphis is in the opposite corner of Tennesse, but it seems to grasp that invisible pull westward, with its location looming teasingly at the edge of the Mississippi, the great river dividing the two worlds. I really want to visit the musical mecca Nashville, and just chill there for a week or so and really settle into the rhythm of it. I don't know anyone there. Sometimes that yields the best experience. They say you most long for what seems unattainable, but I plan to, after serving a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, buy a Jeep and live in it for a few months, traveling all over, and meeting people on the way, picking up hitch-hikers, soaking it all in on my terms and time frame. Sounds beautiful doesn't it. I wish I could tell you something about Memphis, but I cannot. Just imagine the dusty city with all of its lures and opportunities, and I'd like to cross-reference to another song, Pretty Girls, City Lights by Ralph Stanley, and the chorus goes like this:
Notice the similarities to John Prine's Daddy's Little Pumpkin
I need to start by saying I have stopped driving unless I absolutely have to. My muscles were sore for a few days after pulling nearly eighty miles in one day. Once I started bicycling for transportation as well as leisure, I was doing 15 mph for an hour at a time. The first Monday back home, I bicycled back home from downtown, down King street, past all the restaurants, past the decaying older part with its WWII-era houses and simple poor people walking about, past the concrete fields to the left overtaken with vegetation, along the railroad tracks and the interstate, past the factories, over the climactic bringe that passes over the railroad tracks and, at the top you can see all of charleston as it is, in all its unprettiness : what has been condemned as bad neighborhoods sprawled to the right and the roads and fields lay waste and a haven of sorts. Once left alone and neglected, it becomes more natural, and you see the indestructibility of nature and beauty, that it will win your attention through the concrete and halogen light and dirty air. You throw grey liquid on it and cut down all the trees, beauty still flourishes, just a different kind of beauty. After King street becomes Rivers its just city and more city until home. I have been doing a lot of similar fast trips, and they are tearing up my legs. I haven't biked since friday, when I did my first thirty-mile circuit since about six weeks. In short, this bicycle route I take goes north through the 52/78 split (which is open and beautified with bushes on the road mounds, complete with a lone tree in this field), heads down an open expanse of red bank road, then goes up Bushy Park Road for seven miles, then heads down a country road back onto 52.
Getting started was a bit strenuous, my muscles were already sore from previous days of pushing myself. As I passed down 52, there were no colors. Charleston. It is the middle of November and the sun still feels like summer. In my heart I exclaim, "when will there be color," and as I travel further, I see more occasional yellow trees, but it still doesn't feel like fall. One of my favorite points is where there is but a thin veil of trees covering a marshy reservoir on one side and railroad tracks on the other. At one point, it was like the world exploded before me as the sunlight suddenly hit everything. The close forests burst open to fields of brush and tall grasses, and all I could do is pedal as fast as I could, intensely whispering in my heart, "YES!". A lot of the grasses had tall light-tan heads, whose filaments glowed a spectral white when seen through the two-hours-before-dusk light. They stood there in the air like skinny ghosts, all to my right side. Amazing. An open field is a stupendous, captivating thing.
Musically-Inspired Geographic Location of the Day
I really wanted to hit on this one because eastern Tennessee has, since August, been a holy land of sorts to me -- that mystic, seemingly unattainable land where things are even more full of hills, more dramatic, and sun-soaked. Every attempt to go there has been denied me, whether by car, or by bicycle. I am well aware that Memphis is in the opposite corner of Tennesse, but it seems to grasp that invisible pull westward, with its location looming teasingly at the edge of the Mississippi, the great river dividing the two worlds. I really want to visit the musical mecca Nashville, and just chill there for a week or so and really settle into the rhythm of it. I don't know anyone there. Sometimes that yields the best experience. They say you most long for what seems unattainable, but I plan to, after serving a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, buy a Jeep and live in it for a few months, traveling all over, and meeting people on the way, picking up hitch-hikers, soaking it all in on my terms and time frame. Sounds beautiful doesn't it. I wish I could tell you something about Memphis, but I cannot. Just imagine the dusty city with all of its lures and opportunities, and I'd like to cross-reference to another song, Pretty Girls, City Lights by Ralph Stanley, and the chorus goes like this:
Pretty girls (pretty girls), city lights (city lights)
Just had to play the game
When I got out I didn't have a dime
Didn't even know my name.
Just had to play the game
When I got out I didn't have a dime
Didn't even know my name.
Notice the similarities to John Prine's Daddy's Little Pumpkin
I'm goin' down to Memphis got three-hundred dollars in cash
Yeah I'm goin' down to Memphis got, three-hundred dollars in cash
All the women in Memphis gonna see how long my money can last
Yeah I'm goin' down to Memphis got, three-hundred dollars in cash
All the women in Memphis gonna see how long my money can last
Friday, November 13, 2009
View From The Ravenel and The San-Joaquin
To view the song while reading about it in the Location of the Day, right-click the title above and select 'open in new tab'
I have grown totally tired of downtown Charleston (about eight months ago), and North Charleston too, it becoming drab again after just a week of being back. However, Sullivan's Island has always held a special place in my heart, as well as the drive through Mt. Pleasant to get there. Here is Sully's Island http://tinyurl.com/ydsbljf (right-click, open in new tab). It is a small island that is mostly residential, has no hotels, and is protected by the government (The Park Service if I remember correctly) such that development is kept sustainable and low-impact. My favorite part of the Island is a result of these government land-development regulations: one has to walk through about 500 feet of vegetation (mostly brush, but some pathways to the beach have nice fields at the beginning) to get to the often-unpeopled beach.
Another part of Chareston I am still fascinated and excited by is the Arthur Ravenel, Jr. Bridge. The longest cable-stayed bridge in the western hemisphere, it towers over Charleston, and could easily be the tallest point, not even mentioning the two towers that hold the suspension cables. It is a grand work of architecture, and always arouses the deepest admiration in me (I wanted to be an architect as a 3rd-6th grader). http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Ravenel_Jr._Bridge
Biking to the beach from downtown felt like such freedom. Even with the clouds hiding the great blue from view, being able to see all of Charleston and the complete panorama, seeing many miles up the Cooper River and all of Charleston harbor where, off in the distance, overcast skies ripped open and eerie light flowed down on the water in thin beams. I could see Mt. Pleasant, the lighthouse (which holds much sentimental value) on Sullivan's Island, and the green trees that stretch far beyond all of it, and all of this made me glad I am still in Charleston (but probably not glad enough to miss it when I'm gone). The giddy-with-fear emotion I felt as I looked down at the water from at the highest point of the bridge could be shared with the man who looked down at the sea from a cliff in Edgar Allen Poe's The Maelstrom. After waving to a ship as it passed right under my feet -- it couldn't have been more than 50 feet shorter than the height of the bridge -- I zoomed downhill (top gear and speed, I maxed out sooner than a quarter of the way down), and before I knew it, I was in Sullivan's Island. The closer I got, the more the sky bled light and the more frequently the glorious blue sky revealed itself. My friend was right, its always sunnier in Mt. Pleasant, and I counted on it. I swear, everything got more and more beautiful as I got nearer that bless-ed sandbar. By time I got to the dinky draw bridge that crossed the international waterway, there were shadows and full sunlight. As I got into Sullivan's Island, I made no turns, I went straight down the road until it became grass. By this point, I don't remember there being any sound, just light and clouds and green. Biking the boardwalk over brush and bushes to where it ends in sand, I can only say it was surreal. It was the most beautiful thing in the world. It climaxed here, and the other-worldly beauty of it all held precariously as I bared my feet and walked in the water and continued my gaze at the clouds. I knew I had only a certain amount of time to get back downtown for the earlier bus home, so I was just to put my feet in the water, then bike back out. After immersing my feet in the water, I knew all of that didn't matter. Time disappeared -- its just an illusion anyway. Pick your favorite cloudset, watch it pass across the sun and out to sea. Half of the sky was unclouded by now. Pick your favorite shade of blue, whether it be near the horizon or straight up, and let your eyes soak up the light. After what could have been one minute or half an hour, I walked back to Middle Street and bicycled back downtown.
Musically-Inspired Geographical Location of the Day
Beyond this Location, I feel I have already come to a point where I cannot think of any more places besides the big town (though not as big then) of Atlanta, Georgia, the musical mecca of Nashville, Tennessee, and others that have been sung about enough times and in the same ways as to make them cliche lyrics. Today's location runs in sequence with Kerouac's On The Road, from the madness and sadness of San Francisco to the fleeting love of the San Joaquin valley.
I first heard about San Joaquin in the road-of-life song -- in all of its holy twists and turns that in the end are part of the master's plan -- Wrecking Ball, by Gillian Welch. I've talked about this song before, with its rite of passage in leaving home, perhaps "just a boy passing twenty," making it on ones own, and struggling, but oh the joy of and within that struggle, the simple pleasure of hardship, the inevitable disappointment, one after the other, and failure after failure. Gillian has a wonderful talent in assuming the identity of the song's character, who will narrate their own story (especially considering she assumes the identity of a young man in one stanza, maybe even Jack Kerouac himself) She is often directly or indirectly (in the case of becoming another character, or maybe being "under a pseudonym") speaking about her own experiences. To make clear the relevancy to On The Road, after Jack leaves Frisco, he meets a Mexican girl on a bus and falls recklessly in love with her and they experience struggling together for a few weeks in the San Joaquin valley, among the grape vines. He goes back home to New York in October; for "everyone goes back home in October". Ah, the literary and emotional power of the melancholy.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Jack Jean-Louis and "Frisco"
To listen to the song while reading about it in the Location of the Day, right click the title above, and select 'open in new tab'
After working 10 hours today (sounds tiring, but not that bad), I was anxious to get to this blog. Anxious because I have to be in the right mindset to do it the way I would like. These frames of time where I feel "ready" are fleeting, and when I am in a position that I can pinch it at the top, I hasten. I have to turn the TV off; there has to be little other noises than the clicking of each key, sometimes working up a small sweat if the mind is generous enough to allow idea flow that precipitates exceptionally-intense typing.
I wanted to write tonight mostly because where I am in On The Road dictates that I start to focus on the Musically-Inspired Geographical Location[s] of the day. Unfortunately (for this blog, and somewhat for my reading experience. Kerouac wanted to portray that "life on the road is fast" through On The Road. It simply just takes adjusting to), the pace of the book zooms three-thousand miles across the American continent in a matter of some fifty pages and back east in considerably fewer. I am immensely enjoying my new-found access to Charleston County Library's CD collection, and it is only day one. I quickly realized that only being able to have 5 CDs checked out at a time would alter my experience, but I have found that it helps me listen to those CDs that I especially like a few dozen times. I have already listened to Alison Brown's Fair Weather three times today. I revel in being able to enjoy multiple CDs of musician's I've been wanting to listen to for a long time but whose music I have not had ready access to, such as Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Alison Krauss. There's even a copy of Lyle Lovett's Pontiac at my neighborhood branch that I am especially hankering over after getting a taste of Cash.
Musically-Inspired Geographical Location of the day
This Location on the tenth day of November is San Francisco, California. Before I continue, it would be arrogant and dodgy of me to say that I simply threw a curve ball at the audience (if there's anybody reading. Hello? anybody out there??) by placing the location of "Frisco" in Texas. It is more the case that Kerouac's writing curved me to think that Jack was taking a bus to Texas to spend time with his fellow west-going travelers before hitting the Pacific Coast, because it was written that he would visit Neal and Allen. There is a Frisco in Texas, but Frisco is common-knowledge slang for San Francisco (not common to me, embarassingly). He was of course heading to grand ol' San Fran, and would actually not join with his friends in Texas as planned this time around.
San Francisco has most assuredly had one sentimental air after the other cast on it, from Bob Dylan to Gillian Welch. It needs no introduction; no background information. I focus on the song Wayside/Back In Time. I hold this first Location as beautiful and even holy (in the sense of one's road of life being a holy journey), for Wayside/Back In Time is the first Gillian Welch number that hit my ears, in a small, local music venue on the island of my childhood. There weren't many people there. Joel Timmons, Ward Buckheister (who played a beautiful trombone) and "noodle" were on stage, singing out her mournful, melancholy chant: "back baby, back in time, back. . . when you were mine". There were very few (maybe ten) people hearing their music, and even fewer listening -- heck, probably just me listening, whilst everybody set it in the background to their laughing friends and alcohol (again, that perfect moment: a one-on-one soul-commune, just Joel, Ward, and "noodle's" voice one-ness to me). The lyric goes
After working 10 hours today (sounds tiring, but not that bad), I was anxious to get to this blog. Anxious because I have to be in the right mindset to do it the way I would like. These frames of time where I feel "ready" are fleeting, and when I am in a position that I can pinch it at the top, I hasten. I have to turn the TV off; there has to be little other noises than the clicking of each key, sometimes working up a small sweat if the mind is generous enough to allow idea flow that precipitates exceptionally-intense typing.
I wanted to write tonight mostly because where I am in On The Road dictates that I start to focus on the Musically-Inspired Geographical Location[s] of the day. Unfortunately (for this blog, and somewhat for my reading experience. Kerouac wanted to portray that "life on the road is fast" through On The Road. It simply just takes adjusting to), the pace of the book zooms three-thousand miles across the American continent in a matter of some fifty pages and back east in considerably fewer. I am immensely enjoying my new-found access to Charleston County Library's CD collection, and it is only day one. I quickly realized that only being able to have 5 CDs checked out at a time would alter my experience, but I have found that it helps me listen to those CDs that I especially like a few dozen times. I have already listened to Alison Brown's Fair Weather three times today. I revel in being able to enjoy multiple CDs of musician's I've been wanting to listen to for a long time but whose music I have not had ready access to, such as Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Alison Krauss. There's even a copy of Lyle Lovett's Pontiac at my neighborhood branch that I am especially hankering over after getting a taste of Cash.
Musically-Inspired Geographical Location of the day
This Location on the tenth day of November is San Francisco, California. Before I continue, it would be arrogant and dodgy of me to say that I simply threw a curve ball at the audience (if there's anybody reading. Hello? anybody out there??) by placing the location of "Frisco" in Texas. It is more the case that Kerouac's writing curved me to think that Jack was taking a bus to Texas to spend time with his fellow west-going travelers before hitting the Pacific Coast, because it was written that he would visit Neal and Allen. There is a Frisco in Texas, but Frisco is common-knowledge slang for San Francisco (not common to me, embarassingly). He was of course heading to grand ol' San Fran, and would actually not join with his friends in Texas as planned this time around.
San Francisco has most assuredly had one sentimental air after the other cast on it, from Bob Dylan to Gillian Welch. It needs no introduction; no background information. I focus on the song Wayside/Back In Time. I hold this first Location as beautiful and even holy (in the sense of one's road of life being a holy journey), for Wayside/Back In Time is the first Gillian Welch number that hit my ears, in a small, local music venue on the island of my childhood. There weren't many people there. Joel Timmons, Ward Buckheister (who played a beautiful trombone) and "noodle" were on stage, singing out her mournful, melancholy chant: "back baby, back in time, back. . . when you were mine". There were very few (maybe ten) people hearing their music, and even fewer listening -- heck, probably just me listening, whilst everybody set it in the background to their laughing friends and alcohol (again, that perfect moment: a one-on-one soul-commune, just Joel, Ward, and "noodle's" voice one-ness to me). The lyric goes
Peaches in the Summertime, apples in the Fall
If I can't have you all the time, I won't have none at all
If I can't have you all the time, I won't have none at all
Well I wish I was in Frisco, with a brand new pair of shoes,
'Stead I'm sittin' here in Nashville, with Norman's Nashville Blues
'Stead I'm sittin' here in Nashville, with Norman's Nashville Blues
There's nothing else to say now
Monday, November 9, 2009
Adjustment to Living Indoors
As my sister drives us back home from Orangeburg, where I accepted an offer to be picked up (her home in Ladson, and my home, in North Charleston, but ten miles southeast of hers), I stare at my new copy of On The Road (The Original Scroll) in my lap, deliberately growing the hankering to finally read it. As I said earlier, delayed gratification is the muse of the wise and seasoned. While I don't ascribe those qualities to myself, I feel I am just beginning to develop them. I will discover in the next few days that I have a better ability to budget my time, less laziness, and a greater aversion to television to show for my three-week absence (I will still snag thirty minutes every other day or so, don't get me wrong, but I now tend to read when tired from the day, when once in a blue moon I get bushed enough to read from tiredness). My sister and I talked about her younger years, her youngest daughter and oldest niece of mine, her husband, her job, my plans for the next few days.
Simply put, the adjustment to living indoors. . . there was no adjustment (especially considering I had really been sleeping indoors since last Saturday, though I'd be out the door by 8am). I found myself driving A LOT (some 170 miles Friday the 6th and Saturday the 7th). It just happened. The constant movement of the lifestyle I have had over the last month simply transferred to city life and the schedule I had previous to and again resumed after these journeys.
My plans for the next few days included (I hate getting even a few days behind in blogging. Having to use the past tense is a real bummer. If I write about it the day it happened, I interpret it with that day's mindset, and feel good about using present tense) going to the beach in the early morning, followed immediately by contra (if I would be able to soak up all of the day's sun while at the beach). Things to get done included cashing a check, clearing my fines at the library (again, I really wish I had gotten up this post before posting where my blog would now be headed), and loading up on CDs, books on tape, and, of course, literature (particularly from my reading list of novels that Chris McCandless carried with him on his travels).
Waking up early in the morning, as I am now wont to do (I also usually get to bed before midnight. It's great), I headed out to the beach, listening to my new CD, Short Trip Home, by Edgar Meyer and Joshua Bell w/ Sam Bush and Mike Marshall, which was teary and beautiful for the ride through the island of my childhood. The complexities and rhythmic intensities that the CD also provided were enormously appreciated as well. Falling asleep on the beach, in the warmth of the sun, covered in a blanket, shielded from the wind that would otherwise rob my of comfy heat, was something I had desired for about a week now. I awoke in time to get downtown for a class I like to sit in on. The drive home was slow going. Oh, but that drive home, how I missed it, and how ritual it was to do. The game of it -- taking bursts of speed where the curves hide the car from radar, timing lights to avoid heavy breaking, meandering through the cars like a maze when traffic is just too. darn. slow. I even cherished the slow-going at that ever-so-consistent I-26/I-526 merge, for it allowed me time to read On The Road, gaining sneak insights from commentary and wonderment from the first few five pages, which I had actually already read, if any readers recall. I relaxed the rest of the afternoon until Contra. Contra wasn't exciting until the fun kids showed up.
Simply put, the adjustment to living indoors. . . there was no adjustment (especially considering I had really been sleeping indoors since last Saturday, though I'd be out the door by 8am). I found myself driving A LOT (some 170 miles Friday the 6th and Saturday the 7th). It just happened. The constant movement of the lifestyle I have had over the last month simply transferred to city life and the schedule I had previous to and again resumed after these journeys.
My plans for the next few days included (I hate getting even a few days behind in blogging. Having to use the past tense is a real bummer. If I write about it the day it happened, I interpret it with that day's mindset, and feel good about using present tense) going to the beach in the early morning, followed immediately by contra (if I would be able to soak up all of the day's sun while at the beach). Things to get done included cashing a check, clearing my fines at the library (again, I really wish I had gotten up this post before posting where my blog would now be headed), and loading up on CDs, books on tape, and, of course, literature (particularly from my reading list of novels that Chris McCandless carried with him on his travels).
Waking up early in the morning, as I am now wont to do (I also usually get to bed before midnight. It's great), I headed out to the beach, listening to my new CD, Short Trip Home, by Edgar Meyer and Joshua Bell w/ Sam Bush and Mike Marshall, which was teary and beautiful for the ride through the island of my childhood. The complexities and rhythmic intensities that the CD also provided were enormously appreciated as well. Falling asleep on the beach, in the warmth of the sun, covered in a blanket, shielded from the wind that would otherwise rob my of comfy heat, was something I had desired for about a week now. I awoke in time to get downtown for a class I like to sit in on. The drive home was slow going. Oh, but that drive home, how I missed it, and how ritual it was to do. The game of it -- taking bursts of speed where the curves hide the car from radar, timing lights to avoid heavy breaking, meandering through the cars like a maze when traffic is just too. darn. slow. I even cherished the slow-going at that ever-so-consistent I-26/I-526 merge, for it allowed me time to read On The Road, gaining sneak insights from commentary and wonderment from the first few five pages, which I had actually already read, if any readers recall. I relaxed the rest of the afternoon until Contra. Contra wasn't exciting until the fun kids showed up.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
A Look into Which Direction This Blog Is Heading
Since I am back home, this blog will focus on, of course, more music. I am going to be expanding my listening palette enormously in the upcoming months. I am clearing my fines at the library -- which come out to about 40 dollars -- in order to stock up on much of the country section of the CD collection. I will be spending much more days doing chinese delivery in the next month for sure, so not only will much new music be available to me, I will have a LOT of time to listen to it all (I listen to music constantly while I am driving deliveries for ten to eleven hours a shift). I like to listen to a CD a dozen or so times before I set it aside for a while. If its really good, I'll listen to it a dozen or so times consecutively, such as Mercury Falling by Sting and This One Is Two by Ralph Stanley II (that album is a rarity for me in its inexhaustible-ness). I might place a nice bike ride route or other moment in travel or imaginings of such to a CD or particular song, but it will usually just be the music.
I will also feature what I will call a 'Musically-Inspired Geographical Location of the Day' most posts. A sneak preview: The first one will be on Frisco, Texas. I include references to a Gillian Welch song and a Keruoac novel (those who are keeping an eye on this blog will be able to guess the novel, and perhaps the song).
I will also feature what I will call a 'Musically-Inspired Geographical Location of the Day' most posts. A sneak preview: The first one will be on Frisco, Texas. I include references to a Gillian Welch song and a Keruoac novel (those who are keeping an eye on this blog will be able to guess the novel, and perhaps the song).
Friday, November 6, 2009
Summary of 10.15-11.05 and Reflections on
Summary
I carpooled with Logan up to LEAF. It was cloudy Friday and Saturday. Contra dancing was wonderful, though I caught the passion of it more on Friday and felt only occasionally on Saturday. I did not enjoy having to volunteer on Sunday (not proud to say, but this schedule was agreed to prior to the festival). It was not in the Spirit of the Sabbath, and I made a resolve to never go to an event that would compromise that. I missed church due to an error on my clock.
(Monday 10.19) I walked to Black Mountain monday morning to get a bolt for my bicycle. I camped on Beaucatcher Mountain that night. (Tuesday 10.20) I biked into downtown Asheville in the morning, and camped alongside the Blue Ridge Parkway that night (mm 382). (Wednesday 10.21)I mostly walked to Mt. Mitchell the next day, on account of the continuous uphill slope, except the last 5 miles which were mostly downhill and when I got a 5-mile boost from a couple in a truck (in order to set up camp along the park's trail before dark). (Thursday 10.22) In the morning, I hiked Mount Mitchell, had my picture taken by a nice couple from Florida, then biked mostly downhill all the way back to Asheville, had the time of my life dancing contra at Warren Wilson, prancing and clapping through the sore shoulders and aching legs. I stayed at the Skroski's house, because I could go no longer and needed a day's rest (had I paced myself a little more, this wouldn't have been necessary). Saturday, I prepared to be on my way, and explored the backwoods trails between their house and the BRP. The colors were beautiful and upclose in the valley. Riceville was in perfect color this time of year. By this point, the most majestic views had been seen and the majority of the tears of awe, joy, or melancholy had been shed. I biked south on the BRP towards where it goes into the Nantahalla National Forest (where one can camp anywhere on it, so long as it is 100 paces from a road and 50 feet from a trail or water source, which translates into a lot less pressure to make a certain location by nightfall). It was a very nice night.
(Sunday 10.25) My bicycle got a flat, and I foolishly did not check to see if everything was in good order with my bike before I ended my travels for the day. I only got to church (5 miles away from my campsite) by the grace of a newlywed LDS couple in Arden. I spent the day with a man named David Dunbar, who fixes bikes for a hobby. He helped me out and sent me on my way. (Monday 10.26) After being dropped off at mm399, a bit beyond where I set up camp Saturday night, I continued and set up camp early, desiring rest. The next day was drizzly, and I set up camp 1000ft or so up the MTS trail very early near mm414 to get out of the rain. I left my bike at the trailhead, not taking time to secure it. The only thing that mattered was getting out of the rain. This is how the bike was stolen. I left it unattended overnight. (Wednesday 10.28) The clouds were below me, and a few peaks jutted out from the clouds. It was a pleasant sight as I walked to the nearest lookout point to proposition a ride to where Brother Dunbar could pick me up. Over the next two days, he took one of his many bikes in the garage and fixed it up, then drove me out to mm414 Thursday night. I gave him twenty dollars for all of his help (ten for the bike, which is the price he usually sells them for at the flea market, and ten for all of the miles he drove in my assistance). I wish I could have given him more.
(Friday 10.30) Bike rides like a champ. It was overcast again the next morning. Rather, the cloud was on the mountainside. I biked to Graveyard Fields (mm 418), enjoyed the dismal beauty of the fields, and had lunch atop Devil's Courthouse (mm 422). I biked down 215, heading out to 281, where I'd see Hwy 11, Lake Jocassee, and all the wonderful memories they brought of my first lone wanderings. However, after the bike's back wheel became wobbly, and I could not fix it, I decided to just head into the Piedmont and see if I could get help fixing it in Clemson. It was a perpetually showering and overcast Friday and Saturday, and at that point, I was much ready to end my journeys. The cloud sucked the beauty out of the land, and while going down 281 and SC 107 to 130, there was nothing to behold but grey. In order to be in Clemson by Sunday and to get to church (which I promised to myself I'd do. I was very regretful at placing myself in a situation where I was unable to keep the Sabbath, such as being at LEAF), I had to ask the help of a friend in Clemson to come some 20 miles to pick me up. I then stayed with someone at Clemson House.
(Sunday 11.1) Church had such a sweet spirit, and I enjoyed the time I spent with the YSAs I had just met. The CES Fireside was very heartwarming and laughter-filled. Monday I searched for a more-reliable back tire (Daryll loaned me a tire that belonged to his room-mate) in Anderson. Tuesday, I tested the back tire, riding up to Hwy 11, Table Rock, and Lake Jocassee, but did not foresee the tire wall giving out. Unfortunately, I required more help in transportation to get back to Clemson. (Wednesday 11.4) The next day, I packed the last of my things in my backpack and took a bus to Anderson, then rode some 40 miles to get to Ninety-Six. I then biked nearly 80 miles to Orangeburg, and instead of laying my tarp out in a cornfield, I accepted a ride back home from my sister. I had come this far, I'm sure I would have easily finished it with a laid-back start in the morning and 10-mile-at-a-time pacing.
Reflection
I rolled into Charleston dirt-broke (.37 in my bank account and pennies in my pocket), just the way I wanted it. This, the fact I mostly completed my trip home on bike, and the first four days (Monday-Thursday. Oh, beautiful beautiful Thursday. Singing from the high, blustery ridges of mountains, and Contra dancing at Warren Wislon, bringing me out near-collapsing from exhaustion, re-energizing my soul, and catching the passion) were about the only things that fully pleased me. I felt the first four days were the only genuine ones. After staying at someone's house for a well deserved rest, it wasn't the same. I was not fully equipped with the knowledge to deal with the problems that arrived in my way (I knew how to replace a tire, and change a tire wall, and I brought replacement tubes and the tools to do all of that, as well as a ratchet and all the sizes needed for any nut on my bike. I did not realize a back tire rim axle would break from just sharp turns). I did not enjoy requiring so much assistance when my bike was only useful for riding downhill. Bike troubles most certainly spoiled the last half of this adventure. My original plan was to enjoy Oconee county (most northwestern county in SC), then head back up and bike in northern Georgia, but after seeing that my new bike might keep breaking, I realized that my wanderings were over, and that it would be smartest to head down and make a beeline for home. I figured I should make the best of this situation, and because I loosely planned to visit friends in upstate SC on my way back, I should stop in Clemson for a few days and just not focus on what went wrong, but make whatever positive experience I could. My alone period ended as I came down from the mountains. That was Friday, October 30th. I wish I could have afforded a better bike, or that I knew how to approach every situation on my own, but I could only have done so much. Though it frustrates me in part to know I had to receive so much help, I thank each and every one of you that helped me get from point A to B to C and so forth, especially David Dunbar, who made absolutely sure I got home by bike. There was always the option to call my parents to come get me, and option they told me not to hesitate to use. I would not do that. Although I had to be rescued 20 miles out twice, I did the best I could with the problems that arose. There were a few instances where I fell victim to my own carelessness, such as the flat tire in Arden, or the faulty tire wall 20 miles north of Clemson, and, of course, the stolen bike. I again give thanks to everyone who assisted me, though I personally thank them as well.
This will probably happen again, and next time I'll know how to address every problem that might occur. I will also have my own camera.
I carpooled with Logan up to LEAF. It was cloudy Friday and Saturday. Contra dancing was wonderful, though I caught the passion of it more on Friday and felt only occasionally on Saturday. I did not enjoy having to volunteer on Sunday (not proud to say, but this schedule was agreed to prior to the festival). It was not in the Spirit of the Sabbath, and I made a resolve to never go to an event that would compromise that. I missed church due to an error on my clock.
(Monday 10.19) I walked to Black Mountain monday morning to get a bolt for my bicycle. I camped on Beaucatcher Mountain that night. (Tuesday 10.20) I biked into downtown Asheville in the morning, and camped alongside the Blue Ridge Parkway that night (mm 382). (Wednesday 10.21)I mostly walked to Mt. Mitchell the next day, on account of the continuous uphill slope, except the last 5 miles which were mostly downhill and when I got a 5-mile boost from a couple in a truck (in order to set up camp along the park's trail before dark). (Thursday 10.22) In the morning, I hiked Mount Mitchell, had my picture taken by a nice couple from Florida, then biked mostly downhill all the way back to Asheville, had the time of my life dancing contra at Warren Wilson, prancing and clapping through the sore shoulders and aching legs. I stayed at the Skroski's house, because I could go no longer and needed a day's rest (had I paced myself a little more, this wouldn't have been necessary). Saturday, I prepared to be on my way, and explored the backwoods trails between their house and the BRP. The colors were beautiful and upclose in the valley. Riceville was in perfect color this time of year. By this point, the most majestic views had been seen and the majority of the tears of awe, joy, or melancholy had been shed. I biked south on the BRP towards where it goes into the Nantahalla National Forest (where one can camp anywhere on it, so long as it is 100 paces from a road and 50 feet from a trail or water source, which translates into a lot less pressure to make a certain location by nightfall). It was a very nice night.
(Sunday 10.25) My bicycle got a flat, and I foolishly did not check to see if everything was in good order with my bike before I ended my travels for the day. I only got to church (5 miles away from my campsite) by the grace of a newlywed LDS couple in Arden. I spent the day with a man named David Dunbar, who fixes bikes for a hobby. He helped me out and sent me on my way. (Monday 10.26) After being dropped off at mm399, a bit beyond where I set up camp Saturday night, I continued and set up camp early, desiring rest. The next day was drizzly, and I set up camp 1000ft or so up the MTS trail very early near mm414 to get out of the rain. I left my bike at the trailhead, not taking time to secure it. The only thing that mattered was getting out of the rain. This is how the bike was stolen. I left it unattended overnight. (Wednesday 10.28) The clouds were below me, and a few peaks jutted out from the clouds. It was a pleasant sight as I walked to the nearest lookout point to proposition a ride to where Brother Dunbar could pick me up. Over the next two days, he took one of his many bikes in the garage and fixed it up, then drove me out to mm414 Thursday night. I gave him twenty dollars for all of his help (ten for the bike, which is the price he usually sells them for at the flea market, and ten for all of the miles he drove in my assistance). I wish I could have given him more.
(Friday 10.30) Bike rides like a champ. It was overcast again the next morning. Rather, the cloud was on the mountainside. I biked to Graveyard Fields (mm 418), enjoyed the dismal beauty of the fields, and had lunch atop Devil's Courthouse (mm 422). I biked down 215, heading out to 281, where I'd see Hwy 11, Lake Jocassee, and all the wonderful memories they brought of my first lone wanderings. However, after the bike's back wheel became wobbly, and I could not fix it, I decided to just head into the Piedmont and see if I could get help fixing it in Clemson. It was a perpetually showering and overcast Friday and Saturday, and at that point, I was much ready to end my journeys. The cloud sucked the beauty out of the land, and while going down 281 and SC 107 to 130, there was nothing to behold but grey. In order to be in Clemson by Sunday and to get to church (which I promised to myself I'd do. I was very regretful at placing myself in a situation where I was unable to keep the Sabbath, such as being at LEAF), I had to ask the help of a friend in Clemson to come some 20 miles to pick me up. I then stayed with someone at Clemson House.
(Sunday 11.1) Church had such a sweet spirit, and I enjoyed the time I spent with the YSAs I had just met. The CES Fireside was very heartwarming and laughter-filled. Monday I searched for a more-reliable back tire (Daryll loaned me a tire that belonged to his room-mate) in Anderson. Tuesday, I tested the back tire, riding up to Hwy 11, Table Rock, and Lake Jocassee, but did not foresee the tire wall giving out. Unfortunately, I required more help in transportation to get back to Clemson. (Wednesday 11.4) The next day, I packed the last of my things in my backpack and took a bus to Anderson, then rode some 40 miles to get to Ninety-Six. I then biked nearly 80 miles to Orangeburg, and instead of laying my tarp out in a cornfield, I accepted a ride back home from my sister. I had come this far, I'm sure I would have easily finished it with a laid-back start in the morning and 10-mile-at-a-time pacing.
Reflection
I rolled into Charleston dirt-broke (.37 in my bank account and pennies in my pocket), just the way I wanted it. This, the fact I mostly completed my trip home on bike, and the first four days (Monday-Thursday. Oh, beautiful beautiful Thursday. Singing from the high, blustery ridges of mountains, and Contra dancing at Warren Wislon, bringing me out near-collapsing from exhaustion, re-energizing my soul, and catching the passion) were about the only things that fully pleased me. I felt the first four days were the only genuine ones. After staying at someone's house for a well deserved rest, it wasn't the same. I was not fully equipped with the knowledge to deal with the problems that arrived in my way (I knew how to replace a tire, and change a tire wall, and I brought replacement tubes and the tools to do all of that, as well as a ratchet and all the sizes needed for any nut on my bike. I did not realize a back tire rim axle would break from just sharp turns). I did not enjoy requiring so much assistance when my bike was only useful for riding downhill. Bike troubles most certainly spoiled the last half of this adventure. My original plan was to enjoy Oconee county (most northwestern county in SC), then head back up and bike in northern Georgia, but after seeing that my new bike might keep breaking, I realized that my wanderings were over, and that it would be smartest to head down and make a beeline for home. I figured I should make the best of this situation, and because I loosely planned to visit friends in upstate SC on my way back, I should stop in Clemson for a few days and just not focus on what went wrong, but make whatever positive experience I could. My alone period ended as I came down from the mountains. That was Friday, October 30th. I wish I could have afforded a better bike, or that I knew how to approach every situation on my own, but I could only have done so much. Though it frustrates me in part to know I had to receive so much help, I thank each and every one of you that helped me get from point A to B to C and so forth, especially David Dunbar, who made absolutely sure I got home by bike. There was always the option to call my parents to come get me, and option they told me not to hesitate to use. I would not do that. Although I had to be rescued 20 miles out twice, I did the best I could with the problems that arose. There were a few instances where I fell victim to my own carelessness, such as the flat tire in Arden, or the faulty tire wall 20 miles north of Clemson, and, of course, the stolen bike. I again give thanks to everyone who assisted me, though I personally thank them as well.
This will probably happen again, and next time I'll know how to address every problem that might occur. I will also have my own camera.
Ninety Six
I woke up at eight forty-two AM. Forty-eight miles out of Anderson, I arrived in Greenwood, just nine miles west of my destination with just enough sunlight to make it. My pack weighed forty-two pounds, and my body weight had decreased thirteen. I accepted to be picked up at the County Library, to allow more time to spend with my friend. After looking through many many libraries, a copy of On The Road was to be found here, and, sitting down to read it and slowly enjoying the first five pages, I awaited my friend's arrival. It had been a patient endeavor to come in contact with this book, said to be the sojourner's bible. It is said that patience is rewarded by making the eventual happening sweeter and more savor-able. I was definitely feeling that.
The next day it was eighty-one miles to Orangeburg. I hit North at nightfall. Onto Orangeburg. It was my first time really riding long distance in the dark.
The next day it was eighty-one miles to Orangeburg. I hit North at nightfall. Onto Orangeburg. It was my first time really riding long distance in the dark.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
(Almost) every song that flowed through the chambers in my mind during the last three weeks
(Okay, so a lot of these songs embody the adventurous spirit, and a lot of them don't, at least for me. You decide which fill your soul with the desire to roam. Oh, and they're alphabetized by artist name now!)
Alison Krauss - Down in the River to Pray, I Will, I'll Fly Away (w/ Gillian Welch)
Bob Seger - Against The Wind, Old Time Rock and Roll
Church Hymns: Carry On, Our Savior's Love, True To The Faith, other sacrament hymns.
Doobie Brothers - Black Water
Earl Scruggs - 'Til The End of The World Rolls 'Round
Edgar Meyer and Bela Fleck w/ Mike Marshall - Big Country
Gillian Welch - too many to mention all, but Wrecking Ball, Black Star, Acony Bell, Ballroom Girls, Everything is Free, Annabelle, One More Dollar (A long time ago, I left my home, just a boy passing [the age of] twenty), My Morphine, I'm Not Afraid to Die, Hickory Wind
Grandpa Jones - Turn Your Radio On
Herp Pedersen - Cora Is Gone (including the breakdown, oh yeah!)
Jim VanCleve (with Mountain Heart) - Devil's Courthouse
Jimmy Buffett - Everybody's Got A Cousin in Miami, Fruitcakes
Joel Timmons - Orangeburg
John Prine - Picture Show, Daddy's Little Pumpkin, I Want To Be With You Always
Kenneth Cope - More, Father's Child (this song always makes me feel God's love big time, and it reminds me of going to Lake Norman out of Charlotte. It makes me think of heaven), Tell Me
Ralph Stanley - Pretty Girls City Lights, Shady Grove (upon seeing a street sign of that name)
Ralph Stanley II - L.A. County, Georgia (although I never got to go) Lord Help Me Find The Way, Carter, Loretta (the contra-dancing theme for me), They Say I'll Never Go Home (Will I ever see the old homeland, smell honeysuckle in bloom, and walk down by the river, and love me for I love the moon? How can they treat me so wrong, they say I'll never go home)
Rhonda Vincent - Is The Grass Any Bluer?
Ricky Skaggs - Walls of Time, Uncle Pen (another contra-dancing theme)
Something Coporate - North (upon seeing a sign marking a town of that name)
Steely Dan - Reelin' In The Years
Sting (also, a little of The Police) - Don't Stand So Close to Me (both versions), Why Should I Cry For You, Little Wing, Wild Wild Sea, Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot, The Hounds of Winter, Fields of Gold
Union Station - The Boy Who Wouldn't Hoe Corn
Van Morrison - Sweet Thing
Yonder Mountain String Band - Half Moon Rising, On The Run
Soldier's Joy
more to come as I think of all of them
Alison Krauss - Down in the River to Pray, I Will, I'll Fly Away (w/ Gillian Welch)
Bob Seger - Against The Wind, Old Time Rock and Roll
Church Hymns: Carry On, Our Savior's Love, True To The Faith, other sacrament hymns.
Doobie Brothers - Black Water
Earl Scruggs - 'Til The End of The World Rolls 'Round
Edgar Meyer and Bela Fleck w/ Mike Marshall - Big Country
Gillian Welch - too many to mention all, but Wrecking Ball, Black Star, Acony Bell, Ballroom Girls, Everything is Free, Annabelle, One More Dollar (A long time ago, I left my home, just a boy passing [the age of] twenty), My Morphine, I'm Not Afraid to Die, Hickory Wind
Grandpa Jones - Turn Your Radio On
Herp Pedersen - Cora Is Gone (including the breakdown, oh yeah!)
Jim VanCleve (with Mountain Heart) - Devil's Courthouse
Jimmy Buffett - Everybody's Got A Cousin in Miami, Fruitcakes
Joel Timmons - Orangeburg
John Prine - Picture Show, Daddy's Little Pumpkin, I Want To Be With You Always
Kenneth Cope - More, Father's Child (this song always makes me feel God's love big time, and it reminds me of going to Lake Norman out of Charlotte. It makes me think of heaven), Tell Me
Ralph Stanley - Pretty Girls City Lights, Shady Grove (upon seeing a street sign of that name)
Ralph Stanley II - L.A. County, Georgia (although I never got to go) Lord Help Me Find The Way, Carter, Loretta (the contra-dancing theme for me), They Say I'll Never Go Home (Will I ever see the old homeland, smell honeysuckle in bloom, and walk down by the river, and love me for I love the moon? How can they treat me so wrong, they say I'll never go home)
Rhonda Vincent - Is The Grass Any Bluer?
Ricky Skaggs - Walls of Time, Uncle Pen (another contra-dancing theme)
Something Coporate - North (upon seeing a sign marking a town of that name)
Steely Dan - Reelin' In The Years
Sting (also, a little of The Police) - Don't Stand So Close to Me (both versions), Why Should I Cry For You, Little Wing, Wild Wild Sea, Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot, The Hounds of Winter, Fields of Gold
Union Station - The Boy Who Wouldn't Hoe Corn
Van Morrison - Sweet Thing
Yonder Mountain String Band - Half Moon Rising, On The Run
Soldier's Joy
more to come as I think of all of them
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Quotes on Insanity
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results
- Albert Einstein
If we couldn't laugh we'd just all go insane
- Jimmy Buffett
Laughter is but a mild form of insanity
- John Kotab
I don't suffer from insanity. I enjoy every minute of it
- Anon
They danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled as I've been doing all my life after people that interest me, for the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirious for everything at the same time, who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars
- Jack Kerouac, On The Road
- Albert Einstein
If we couldn't laugh we'd just all go insane
- Jimmy Buffett
Laughter is but a mild form of insanity
- John Kotab
I don't suffer from insanity. I enjoy every minute of it
- Anon
They danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled as I've been doing all my life after people that interest me, for the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirious for everything at the same time, who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars
- Jack Kerouac, On The Road
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Clemson, Air Pressure, and Clouds Make Me Happy
After two more days at 81 Blake, I got back out on the Blue Ridge Parkway. As I could guess, I had become domesticated from the time of plentiful food and indoor rest. I awoke in a cloud. I know I got a late start because of it. I had to walk down the trail to the road to realize that it really wasn't raining. Although the fog seemed to stretch time and to dampen progress, I came to really like it, so much so that I wished it had stayed. It adds a surreality and beauty you can't without it. It made Graveyard Fields perfect. Solemn, slightly morbid, barren and moist, a beautiful eeriness. The idea of a field covered in burnt oranges and tans and dark browns is the most amazing thing to me. The mist and occasional gnarly, bleached, denuded dwarf trees tranced my mind to a very contemplative state. It was a barren, beautiful wasteland covered in cloud and past endeared memory. It was actually very similar to a dream I had as a young teenager.
The previous night, I biked for the first time under a bright moon, with a rather unnatractive view of the valley towns beneath: dirty, dingy, actually brown. The sky was wonderful, and biking alongside a mountainside, blasted-away rock sections ashine from the precious lifewater bleeding from them. I sang so loud, my bike screaming down the hillsides as well. 3rd gear, speed 6 (3;6) was unlike any speed I've experienced on two wheels.
Things were constant trouble for my new bike as I roared down 215 and towards Whitewater Falls (on 281 just north of the NC/SC border). Back wheel became wobbly, and by the time I got to the end of 215, I could only ride the bike downhill (an all-too-familiar situation). I was appalled that everything was uphill on 64, and luckily got a ride from one Russel in a maroon truck, because I was caught short of Whitewater Falls some 6 miles, and had to set up camp in a very conspicuous spot between the road down below and a private drive above. A dog protested my presence while I set up my tent and tarp in the near dark. The clouds kept overhead, and filled the fading day with a grey I swiftly tired of. That night, as the water still partly made its way in, I dreamt of being driven home from James Island and being with my sister's family, and I was glad to finally be back home. I swore I had made two trips back home by time morning came (which was just a lighter grey, how I tired of that color). I knew my adventures were done and going downhill would end my adventures and give way to much sore-inducing travel by bike, as soon as I was in Clemson.
The trip to Salem was mostly a 4-hour walk. As I type this, the song Hickory Wind , by Emmylou Harris, makes me think of the pines and scenery that changed with just having come out of the mountains. My friend picked me up in Salem Saturday, and we were in Clemson in a matter of minutes it seemed, and the traffic (both of rubber and leather) was immense but surprisingly not overwhelming. The game between Clemson and Coastal Carolina had just finished. I was still wet (I had been such for almost 2 days now, I was beginning to forget what it was like otherwise, but I'm glad I had Dunbar's tarp to keep my backpack relatively dry. Sunday was wonderful. Much spiritual nourishment, and I truly enjoyed my peers' company. The day was mostly filled with church service and a CES broadcast. Absolutely wonderful. Warm smiles and laughter were abound from Dieter F. Uchtdorf's inspired words.
Monday and Tuesday revolved around making sure my bike was suitable for the ride home. Monday, I took a bus to Anderson and looked in the thrift stores for a back tire. I stayed at Daryl's place Monday and Tuesday (nicest guy in the world btw), and biked to Table Rock via 133. The cloud that rolls down from the mountains every morning, combined with the air sucking moisture off the lake, open dew-soaked fields (with an occasional lone tree -- so perfect), and mountains in the distance, made the ride there everything I had hoped it would be. Of course, the tire wall was too weak (it had seen many many miles) and on the way to Lake Jocassee, the air pressure forced the tube through the hole in the tire wall and popped. Called Daryll, had him come and get me (it was his tire that got me into this mess anyway, though he was right, I could have biked around closer to Clemson), and while walking to Hwy 11 (with hills one mile from one crest to the other), the clouds in the late afternoon sun were amazing. Hot reds paired with white blues at a different altitude. I couldn't help but be in awe and smile. There's not much more to say. . .
The previous night, I biked for the first time under a bright moon, with a rather unnatractive view of the valley towns beneath: dirty, dingy, actually brown. The sky was wonderful, and biking alongside a mountainside, blasted-away rock sections ashine from the precious lifewater bleeding from them. I sang so loud, my bike screaming down the hillsides as well. 3rd gear, speed 6 (3;6) was unlike any speed I've experienced on two wheels.
Things were constant trouble for my new bike as I roared down 215 and towards Whitewater Falls (on 281 just north of the NC/SC border). Back wheel became wobbly, and by the time I got to the end of 215, I could only ride the bike downhill (an all-too-familiar situation). I was appalled that everything was uphill on 64, and luckily got a ride from one Russel in a maroon truck, because I was caught short of Whitewater Falls some 6 miles, and had to set up camp in a very conspicuous spot between the road down below and a private drive above. A dog protested my presence while I set up my tent and tarp in the near dark. The clouds kept overhead, and filled the fading day with a grey I swiftly tired of. That night, as the water still partly made its way in, I dreamt of being driven home from James Island and being with my sister's family, and I was glad to finally be back home. I swore I had made two trips back home by time morning came (which was just a lighter grey, how I tired of that color). I knew my adventures were done and going downhill would end my adventures and give way to much sore-inducing travel by bike, as soon as I was in Clemson.
The trip to Salem was mostly a 4-hour walk. As I type this, the song Hickory Wind , by Emmylou Harris, makes me think of the pines and scenery that changed with just having come out of the mountains. My friend picked me up in Salem Saturday, and we were in Clemson in a matter of minutes it seemed, and the traffic (both of rubber and leather) was immense but surprisingly not overwhelming. The game between Clemson and Coastal Carolina had just finished. I was still wet (I had been such for almost 2 days now, I was beginning to forget what it was like otherwise, but I'm glad I had Dunbar's tarp to keep my backpack relatively dry. Sunday was wonderful. Much spiritual nourishment, and I truly enjoyed my peers' company. The day was mostly filled with church service and a CES broadcast. Absolutely wonderful. Warm smiles and laughter were abound from Dieter F. Uchtdorf's inspired words.
Monday and Tuesday revolved around making sure my bike was suitable for the ride home. Monday, I took a bus to Anderson and looked in the thrift stores for a back tire. I stayed at Daryl's place Monday and Tuesday (nicest guy in the world btw), and biked to Table Rock via 133. The cloud that rolls down from the mountains every morning, combined with the air sucking moisture off the lake, open dew-soaked fields (with an occasional lone tree -- so perfect), and mountains in the distance, made the ride there everything I had hoped it would be. Of course, the tire wall was too weak (it had seen many many miles) and on the way to Lake Jocassee, the air pressure forced the tube through the hole in the tire wall and popped. Called Daryll, had him come and get me (it was his tire that got me into this mess anyway, though he was right, I could have biked around closer to Clemson), and while walking to Hwy 11 (with hills one mile from one crest to the other), the clouds in the late afternoon sun were amazing. Hot reds paired with white blues at a different altitude. I couldn't help but be in awe and smile. There's not much more to say. . .
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
"Humping It" and Hitchhiking
My hands feel frozen at five-thousand feet, but they are just cold and wet. I can feel the damp chill crawling up my arms, down my neck, towards my core. I leave my bike at the foot of the trail and hump it up the trail to set up camp, for much-needed dryness. Its a short walk, but, being heavy with pack, it is a stenuous uphill climb.
From the long wet, drowzy afternoon, enduring an aqueous assault on all of my belongings, all within my seemingly-porous tent, I think about my bike, fearing it being stolen, no -- having a vision of it -- by some dishonest band of guys in a pickup truck. Witnessing it in my mind, but too preferred to the damp (rather than the wet) to care. One moment of hasty (or maybe relaxed. There was certainly nobody going to come around the bend to see their act) petty theivery. Just like that
Pools of water forming on the corners of the tent, poking holes in the tent to relieve them, allow them into the ground, where they long to go. Sleeping bag soaked at the bottom, dampness creeping up, an ever-decreasing island of dryness wherewith to lay on and rest on. Legs curled up, too uncomfortable to sleep. Either that or too wet for the body to allow slumber. Sleeping bag stains body with its dyes. I shift between one and the other, disconecting myself from my discomfort. It is another person going through this, and I am just vicariously experiencing it alongside him. Rather the processes of an extremely-bored mind than a weak constitution. I don't believe any sleep came. With the howling winds which always seem to follow, I hang my wet clothes (which I soon realize to consist of all socks, undergarment, breeches, and jacket), and morning eventually comes. The clothes will take a morning and afternoon to dry and my sleeping bag, perhaps longer. I leave them along the trail to continue on towards my desired destination. They have nowhere to go. They will be there when I come back this evening.
My dry socks and wet shoes will carry me to where I need to go. All I have is time -- it is just a matter of using more of it and getting less distance in return.
The clouds are below me, only a few hills high enough to win my view, standing as islands in a sea of mist, as far as the eye can see.
From the long wet, drowzy afternoon, enduring an aqueous assault on all of my belongings, all within my seemingly-porous tent, I think about my bike, fearing it being stolen, no -- having a vision of it -- by some dishonest band of guys in a pickup truck. Witnessing it in my mind, but too preferred to the damp (rather than the wet) to care. One moment of hasty (or maybe relaxed. There was certainly nobody going to come around the bend to see their act) petty theivery. Just like that
Pools of water forming on the corners of the tent, poking holes in the tent to relieve them, allow them into the ground, where they long to go. Sleeping bag soaked at the bottom, dampness creeping up, an ever-decreasing island of dryness wherewith to lay on and rest on. Legs curled up, too uncomfortable to sleep. Either that or too wet for the body to allow slumber. Sleeping bag stains body with its dyes. I shift between one and the other, disconecting myself from my discomfort. It is another person going through this, and I am just vicariously experiencing it alongside him. Rather the processes of an extremely-bored mind than a weak constitution. I don't believe any sleep came. With the howling winds which always seem to follow, I hang my wet clothes (which I soon realize to consist of all socks, undergarment, breeches, and jacket), and morning eventually comes. The clothes will take a morning and afternoon to dry and my sleeping bag, perhaps longer. I leave them along the trail to continue on towards my desired destination. They have nowhere to go. They will be there when I come back this evening.
My dry socks and wet shoes will carry me to where I need to go. All I have is time -- it is just a matter of using more of it and getting less distance in return.
The clouds are below me, only a few hills high enough to win my view, standing as islands in a sea of mist, as far as the eye can see.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Formulation
I will spending the next week and a half in the bless-ed gentle forests of Nantahalla. I will be much happier and more relaxed now that I can set up camp anywhere at least 100 paces away from a road. Beforehand, I had to push myself beyond the point of relaxation, beyond the point, of discomfort, beyond the point where my muscles could not recover. No more of that. I wandered the back trails along on one of the hills of Riceville, NC (about 3-4 miles northeast of Asheville), and, after having time to think, I realized I direly needed to plan my travels not by distance, but by whether the altitude would encourage biking speed (10-15 mph) or force hiking speed (1-3 mph). I have done so, and am ready to go onwards! Things are looking relaxed, and the colors are GORGEOUS!!
Ralph Stanley II - L.A. County
Ralph Stanley II - L.A. County
Friday, October 23, 2009
Wrecking Ball
Yesterday, I hiked Mount Mitchell, rode 30 miles down the parkway (thank goodness it was almost all downhill), did contra for 3 hours, and walked an hour to the place I stayed for the night. I've been going going going for a week now and, with aching legs, sore Achilles's tendon, and right shoulder so sore to lead me to think it damaged, can go no longer. I am resting all day inside the abode of a wonderful family I met in Asheville some ten months ago.
During the two days on the parkway, the one song that never failed to come to mind every other hour or so was Gillian Welch's Wrecking Ball. (I have two recordings in my head: the one from her ever-so-appropriately-titled album, Soul Journey, and a World Cafe EP version, which holds the most memory for me). The violin's melancholy melodic phrasing made the view of the powerful mountainside watery and distorted. The question that pervades my thoughts as I head back down from Mt. Mitchell is this: am I a wrecking ball?
During the two days on the parkway, the one song that never failed to come to mind every other hour or so was Gillian Welch's Wrecking Ball. (I have two recordings in my head: the one from her ever-so-appropriately-titled album, Soul Journey, and a World Cafe EP version, which holds the most memory for me). The violin's melancholy melodic phrasing made the view of the powerful mountainside watery and distorted. The question that pervades my thoughts as I head back down from Mt. Mitchell is this: am I a wrecking ball?
I met a lovesick daughter on the San Joaquin.
She showed me colors I'd never seen
Drank the bottom out of my canteen
Then left me in the fall
Like a wrecking ball.
Standing there in the morning mist,
And tug a cord at the end of my wrist.
Yes, I remember when first we kissed,
Though it was nothing at all
Like a wrecking ball.
She showed me colors I'd never seen
Drank the bottom out of my canteen
Then left me in the fall
Like a wrecking ball.
Standing there in the morning mist,
And tug a cord at the end of my wrist.
Yes, I remember when first we kissed,
Though it was nothing at all
Like a wrecking ball.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Slow Going
(won't be talking in third person until I really get on my way)
So, it is day 2 of my bicycling trek, and I am only in Asheville. Yesterday late afternoon, I walked up (as the switchbacks were far too much for my tired legs) Beaucatcher road to Windswept road, as a leather tramp suggested some 6 weeks ago (the last time I was up here), and found a quite flat, quiet, and dry spot nearly at the top of the mountain. At the top of the Windswept community, I discovered a excellent viewing point (as about as good as you can find on a tree-covered mountainside. After a certain altitude, perennials give way to hardy conifers that become more sparse the higher you go) where I also happened to meet one Brett, a sporty, friendly, man in his mid-twenties (who owned a 24-speed mountain bike so sleek and nice that I couldn't believe it when he told me it was second hand) who gave me a good spot of information on many trails and wildernesses that I have longed to visit ever since I discovered western North Carolina some 9 months ago. The views were just as pleasant in the morning, and the shortcut road off the mountain had me occasionally fearing I would break my bike or fall off. My legs seemed to be weaker from LEAF (all that contra dancing), not to mention my now 35 pound backpack (was 40+ pounds before LEAF and at least 40 pounds before I donated half of my clothes and what must have been a 3 pound jar of peanut butter this morning to the Rescue Mission on Patton Ave.) After that and a more close-to-body and compact backpack arrangement, things seem more manageable.
For now, I am taking it easy in downtown Asheville, exploring the fine art, enjoying shops and bookstores that make those of Charleston appear dull and uninteresting. I was most impressed with the Grove Arcade. Though most of the stores therein had a finesse and sophistication I have not until now experienced (such as the Biltmore antique shop, the Jazz Giraffe, or the meat and cheeses shop, where the generous cashier gave me a 1/3 pound block of pepper jack cheese on top of the 1/3 pounds of pre-sliced pepperoni I purchased), it was the architecture of it that entranced me. There I was, with a sizable backpack, staring as straight up as I could, admiring the incredible stonework, more so as a whole than in detail, though the crumblings in the stone were a fantastic detail (though I can be deliberate in getting attention by, most of the stares and double takes I surely get are just a product of my natural peculiarity).
Recently, I have spent a good hour or so in an excellent cozy establishment intended to give the feel of being in one's own study, enjoying wine and good literature (though I of course relished in the literary portion), and am now in the UNCA Library, having been fed up with the Buncome County library system, for its painfully-limited selection and non-free internet, but will soon be headed back towards the Folk Art Center to obtain the best maps of the area and pitch camp for the night.
Note: I won't be updating nearly as much after I hit the Blue Ridge Parkway to Mount Mitchell. It will isolate me for about two and half days. Also plan to visit Graveyard Fields during the end of my time in North Carolina (Oct. 27-29) to allow for the best colors. Everything else is relatively unplanned thus far.
bike troubles:
10/8 unsuitable pedal (replaced)
10/15 stripped pedal thread (fixed)
10/18 pedal dislodged from crank (fixed)
10/19 increasingly-loose pedal-to-crank connection (will soon fix with thread sealant)
as one can see, each one of these problems lead to another
every other system of the bike is in working order
I worry about my caloric intake. Fear I am not eating enough. Feel fine about my fat and protein intake though. Will require much more food per day once I start biking my planned 20-30 miles per major travel day.
So, it is day 2 of my bicycling trek, and I am only in Asheville. Yesterday late afternoon, I walked up (as the switchbacks were far too much for my tired legs) Beaucatcher road to Windswept road, as a leather tramp suggested some 6 weeks ago (the last time I was up here), and found a quite flat, quiet, and dry spot nearly at the top of the mountain. At the top of the Windswept community, I discovered a excellent viewing point (as about as good as you can find on a tree-covered mountainside. After a certain altitude, perennials give way to hardy conifers that become more sparse the higher you go) where I also happened to meet one Brett, a sporty, friendly, man in his mid-twenties (who owned a 24-speed mountain bike so sleek and nice that I couldn't believe it when he told me it was second hand) who gave me a good spot of information on many trails and wildernesses that I have longed to visit ever since I discovered western North Carolina some 9 months ago. The views were just as pleasant in the morning, and the shortcut road off the mountain had me occasionally fearing I would break my bike or fall off. My legs seemed to be weaker from LEAF (all that contra dancing), not to mention my now 35 pound backpack (was 40+ pounds before LEAF and at least 40 pounds before I donated half of my clothes and what must have been a 3 pound jar of peanut butter this morning to the Rescue Mission on Patton Ave.) After that and a more close-to-body and compact backpack arrangement, things seem more manageable.
For now, I am taking it easy in downtown Asheville, exploring the fine art, enjoying shops and bookstores that make those of Charleston appear dull and uninteresting. I was most impressed with the Grove Arcade. Though most of the stores therein had a finesse and sophistication I have not until now experienced (such as the Biltmore antique shop, the Jazz Giraffe, or the meat and cheeses shop, where the generous cashier gave me a 1/3 pound block of pepper jack cheese on top of the 1/3 pounds of pre-sliced pepperoni I purchased), it was the architecture of it that entranced me. There I was, with a sizable backpack, staring as straight up as I could, admiring the incredible stonework, more so as a whole than in detail, though the crumblings in the stone were a fantastic detail (though I can be deliberate in getting attention by, most of the stares and double takes I surely get are just a product of my natural peculiarity).
Recently, I have spent a good hour or so in an excellent cozy establishment intended to give the feel of being in one's own study, enjoying wine and good literature (though I of course relished in the literary portion), and am now in the UNCA Library, having been fed up with the Buncome County library system, for its painfully-limited selection and non-free internet, but will soon be headed back towards the Folk Art Center to obtain the best maps of the area and pitch camp for the night.
Note: I won't be updating nearly as much after I hit the Blue Ridge Parkway to Mount Mitchell. It will isolate me for about two and half days. Also plan to visit Graveyard Fields during the end of my time in North Carolina (Oct. 27-29) to allow for the best colors. Everything else is relatively unplanned thus far.
bike troubles:
10/8 unsuitable pedal (replaced)
10/15 stripped pedal thread (fixed)
10/18 pedal dislodged from crank (fixed)
10/19 increasingly-loose pedal-to-crank connection (will soon fix with thread sealant)
as one can see, each one of these problems lead to another
every other system of the bike is in working order
I worry about my caloric intake. Fear I am not eating enough. Feel fine about my fat and protein intake though. Will require much more food per day once I start biking my planned 20-30 miles per major travel day.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Reality
The music of Gillian Welch floods my head, and accompanied (and continues to do so) my 5 mile walk to downtown Black Mountain from Lake Eden. My pedal came loose because of a foolish removal of a bolt that fastens it to the crank. I have gotten that fixed at the bike store (man was kind enough to go inside the store and fetch me a bolt for free, even though the store was closed on monday).
Even with that fixed, the immensity of distance is still overwhelming. I leave Black Mountain soon.
Even with that fixed, the immensity of distance is still overwhelming. I leave Black Mountain soon.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Day Before LEAF
Hello again,
It is one day before Lake Eden Arts Festival, a music and arts festival in Black Mountain, NC that stands out from most other festivals in that it is very dancing centered. There are opportunities to dance in zydeco, cajun, salsa, latin, and contra forms along to their fitting bands.
I bought food for the trip this morning, and am preparing both my backpack and my mind. On the way back home, I listened to the music of Gillian Welch from her Hell Among The Yearlings album -- perfect album for a rainy day. I am also going to my half-sister's house to pick up copies of On the Road by Jack Kerouac and Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer.
There are many different kinds of scenes that evoke that adventurous spirit in me -- multitudinous facets to the same object. During an overcast day where visibility is lessened, and it is drizzling, the song One Morning by Gillian Welch comes to mind.
My plan is to carpool up to Black Mountain, taking my bicycle and backpack, which will weigh some 37 pounds (which will luckily get lighter as eat more and more of the food in it), and after LEAF, I will bike up the Applachian mountain chain, probably doing at least 20 miles a day on bike (I do expect to be walking some of the mountain roads that will be too steep to bike much faster than I walk) until I get to Ashe County in NC or up in Tennessee, depending on how much distance I make, then head back down, spend 4 days or so in my soul home (Salem SC and Oconee County, SC) while breaking for some human interaction in Greenville, then exploring north Georgia, and finishing the journey through Ninety-Six on towards Charleston, SC. I'm going to do my best to bring a camera and a few data-storage CDs and hit a county library from time to time to update and use Google Maps to get an idea of how good of distance and time I'm making and change my plans accordingly.
More songs that evoke the adventurous spirit
Ricky Skaggs - Walls of Time
Bela Fleck with Edgar Meyer - Big Country
It is one day before Lake Eden Arts Festival, a music and arts festival in Black Mountain, NC that stands out from most other festivals in that it is very dancing centered. There are opportunities to dance in zydeco, cajun, salsa, latin, and contra forms along to their fitting bands.
I bought food for the trip this morning, and am preparing both my backpack and my mind. On the way back home, I listened to the music of Gillian Welch from her Hell Among The Yearlings album -- perfect album for a rainy day. I am also going to my half-sister's house to pick up copies of On the Road by Jack Kerouac and Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer.
There are many different kinds of scenes that evoke that adventurous spirit in me -- multitudinous facets to the same object. During an overcast day where visibility is lessened, and it is drizzling, the song One Morning by Gillian Welch comes to mind.
My plan is to carpool up to Black Mountain, taking my bicycle and backpack, which will weigh some 37 pounds (which will luckily get lighter as eat more and more of the food in it), and after LEAF, I will bike up the Applachian mountain chain, probably doing at least 20 miles a day on bike (I do expect to be walking some of the mountain roads that will be too steep to bike much faster than I walk) until I get to Ashe County in NC or up in Tennessee, depending on how much distance I make, then head back down, spend 4 days or so in my soul home (Salem SC and Oconee County, SC) while breaking for some human interaction in Greenville, then exploring north Georgia, and finishing the journey through Ninety-Six on towards Charleston, SC. I'm going to do my best to bring a camera and a few data-storage CDs and hit a county library from time to time to update and use Google Maps to get an idea of how good of distance and time I'm making and change my plans accordingly.
More songs that evoke the adventurous spirit
Ricky Skaggs - Walls of Time
Bela Fleck with Edgar Meyer - Big Country
The Adventurous Spirit
Hello,
My Name is John Kotab. I won't really introduce myself, because I don't expect (though I wholeheartedly welcome if so be it) strangers to read this.
I actually started this only to post my adventures and travels, be them long distance or a pleasant local bike ride. I suppose it IS important to note that I live in North Charleston, SC, which is a triangular area of land above the Charleston peninsula that has only recently become developed. Although some of the houses on Dorchester road nearest to I-26 were around since the 40s and 50s, during that time, it was primarily country, and very pretty country at that. This is not the case today. It is the epitome of urban decay: mostly unmanaged, below the poverty line, polluted, and labeled as having high crime rates (though I don't argue the statistics, I argue the level of danger people imply from them)
More information on North Charleston
Formed from the borders of the Cooper and Ashley rivers, and Goose Creek and Ladson city limits, North Charleston has an area of about 77 sq. mi. To give you a frame reference for this, downtown Charleston is a little less than 2 miles long -- though many consider the actual downtown area to be about 1 mile long (from the battery to the "crosstown") mostly because beyond the "crosstown" there live people that don't consume like only the middle class (as a whole) can and have decent housing aren't considered important by most people, so it seems (dispensable in their eyes, if I may wax bold) -- and an average of 1.5 miles across
Already you can guess (for those wholeheartedly-welcomed strangers that have stumbled upon a slice of my world), I am quite apprehensive of the government -- more so the government in large cities or anywhere were little land is shared between an enormous amount of people. As you could probably also guess, the placement of legality over morality leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I believe that in big cities or areas of high population density, circumstances brought on by said population density encourage or force local government to make morally-objectionable policy. With this, I lead in to my love of open space and low-population-density areas in general. I am a Chris McCandless (who had a book, Into the Wild, written about him and his travels) of sorts. (I don't know if all of these characteristics speak of him) I value freedom and being true to one's own intricate and varied whims and fascinations, such as leaving town for a few weeks by oneself and camping, biking, and just being, or just standing at command to a sunset or expansive vista, in enjoying in its fullest BOTH the solidarity of nature and the excitement and duty of deeply connecting with other souls, and in treating all people with acceptance, emphasis on those people some people seem to exclude in their scope of who is humane, such as the homeless. I now wander into the adventure portion of this blog.
The title of this series of dissertations, Emersonian essays, descriptors, snapshots of emotion, travelogues, insights, and geographic is called The Adventurous Spirit
If you want to understand my adventures, you have to listen to the music behind it and give place to it in your heart, and most importantly, you have to experience Appalachia in a slow, personal, and pedestrian way.
I call the music that inherently describes the longing to explore new lands. . . the music that calls you up the mountain. . . the music that makes sedentary-ness painful and makes home to be wherever there is beauty and openness. . . I call it music that embodies the adventurous spirit.
To begin with this (for those that want to get in my head), listen to One More Dollar by Gillian Welch.
here is the song, set to a PERFECT photo show.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4NI6JFZpTE&feature=related
One more important thing to say to those who hunger to catch the adventurous spirit, lyrics are paramount, especially geographic references and descriptions of the culture. Find the reference point in terms of time and place in each song, such as mid-to-late-19th century homesteaders in the west (as in One More Dollar)
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