Climbing, writing, devolving

Listening to: “Lump Sum” – Bon Iver

Ever since the Rains of All Summer departed from Massachusetts last week, long shadows have entered our little editorial enclave each evening around 5:30ish. When my coworkers behind me get up to leave, I can see their silhouettes dancing fitfully across my computer screen. Really, they’re just packing up their bags, unplugging their headphones, checking their cell phones. But from watching the shadows on my screen (Allegory of the Cave, anyone?) it all looks ritualistic, shamanaic.

I’m gonna climb another one of the Presidentials in NH tomorrow with J and Tuck–Mount Jefferson. The summit (5,712 feet) looks over the Great Gulf–a giant cirque between Jefferson and Washington. Love that term, cirque–a glacier-formed valley, shaped like an amphitheater and flanked by mountains. Geographical terms in general, really–isthmus, chaos terrain, fjord, steppe, estuary, hanging valley–so sexy.

Did you know there are 14 Mount Jeffersons in the United States? (What would I do without you, Wikipedia.) 2 in Virginia alone. I wish that the NH one was the tallest, but its ass gets totally kicked by the ones in Idaho, Nevada, and Oregon. Oh well. Now wouldn’t that be a project–climbing all 15 Jeffersons, all the way from the 11,941′ giant in Nevada down the to the sissy 489′ hillock in Arkansas. I dig it. I gotta climb these big mountains out West sometime. The Northeast just can’t hold a candle, I tell you whut.


The terrain of life lately: Loud ambient music, hermitism, the questionable purchase of I-could-kick-the-shit-out-of-you-if-I-wanted-to,-just-sayin’ boots, marathon sessions of watching Veronica Mars, sunglasses falling down public toilets, mild abuse of mild substances, worsening insomnia, sunny days, dead-end writing sessions.

Oh, and how awesome is Miranda July? So awesome:

“That is my problem with life, I rush through it, like I’m being chased. Even things whose whole point is slowness, like drinking relaxing tea. When I drink relaxing tea, I suck it down as if I’m in a contest for who can drink relaxing tea the quickest. Or if I’m in a hot tub with some other people and we’re all looking up at the stars, I’ll be the first to say, It’s so beautiful here. The sooner you say, It’s so beautiful here, the quicker you can say, Wow, I’m getting overheated.”

Been too distracted/abstracted to read much lately (Sorry, Midnight’s Children, you’re too slow), but No One Belongs Here More Than You. is just my pace right now.


As for my own writing–poor “The Price of Rootlessness” is quickly devolving into a string of endless pseudo-noir dialogue; hopefully there’s a plot waiting at the end of the rainbow.

“Are you gonna tell me what I need to know, or are you gonna make this difficult?”
“It is the finest of flowers that blooms in adversity.”
(*Roundhouse KICK!*)
“Yeah, well this desert rose could use a little moisture. So spill it, Rainfall.”

See what I mean? Yeesh.