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.
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