Daydreams get away

A quick daydream about sitting by a campfire reminded me of how the Sun looks when it just hits the top of Dallas divide. That somehow triggered a memory of driving to the trailhead of the Blue Lakes Trail. There were some hikers on the road with their fancy sticks and expensive boots that looks rather perturbed as I drove by in my old pickup truck. I had to laugh  as the random trash in the back bounced forward and backward as we went up and down the hills on the trail. That then reminded me of watching the rain storms backed up in Red Canyon or the snow storms slowly rolling down the valley toward Hell Creek. Of course snowstorms reminded me of roustabouting and watching the rig hands put up tarps as the snow came in sideways at 30 miles an hour. Also hard to forget are the late nights pumping water for the frack tanks. The valves on the semis had a tendency to freeze so sometimes we had to torch them open and then when they would blow out the water to clear the valve the area in front of the tanks would turn into a skating rink. It's interesting how easy it is to remember all the sights and sounds and details especially when it just comes from a line in a song. It makes me want to get in the car and go down the highway, not necessarily to get anywhere, just to feel again the motion of going. Even though staying put seems natural you can never quite shake the ghost of a life on the move. Sometimes you have to feed the demon in whichever little way you can.

Perception of place

You do realize you're in charge of your emotions right? I've been telling my coworkers this for a year now and I just heard Ronda Rousey say it in a two year old interview. You get to pick your emotions! You get to pick who has the power to affect your mood! It's not hard! While I'm on the stump, here are a couple more concepts:

1) "Can't" is a four letter word. I don't use it anymore except for example. Can't is a cop out for pussies lacking the intestinal fortitude to achieve at a higher level.

2) the concept of not having time is horseshit. You are in charge of every minute of your day. You choose your priorities and good you use your time, but you do have time.

John Hartup taught me in fifth grade I can do whatever I want to, I just have to realize there are consequences for everything.

I choose whose opinion I care about. This is a tactic I have recently developed that helps a lot. I was raised to be concerned with others opinions of me but lately I've discovered how freeing it is to say "Your opinion of me is of no importance."

I have also figured out that most of the time someone is grumpy with me or toward me it has little to do with me and almost everything to do with them. This helps me separate my actions and reactions from their personal situation.

I don't form opinions on many things that don't matter. As I discussed there are a finite amount of moments in the day, and I'm judicial about what I spend time thinking about. Along the same vein, many things can exist without me forming an opinion on the spot. I guess that's just called but giving a hoot.

I'm not saying these are good or productive ways to approach life or that in some kind of genius, but they have worked for me. Perhaps it'll start a train of thought that could be useful to you, I hope so!

Living mystery novels

I used to read a lot. Growing up, we didn't have television. We didn't live in town either, I grew up in the middle of dirty acres of woods. If you wanted entertainment you read a book, played a card or board game, or went outside and amused yourself any way you could. My two favorite authors were Louis L'Amour and, later, Clive Cussler. Both men wrote basically the same story-one man with a strong sense of morality that wins in the end against all odds, but does it quietly and with dignity. This man knows his ability but doesn't flaunt it, and rises to any challenge put before him.
Now, let's talk about old trucks. They're mystery novels. They have secrets both good and bad. These secrets aren't usually told outright, you have to dig and scratch to discover the true identity of the truck. You can see the trails of the previous owner, discover clues to the sort of life it lived, as you move around on your hunt for clues. I just traded away two old trucks. They had very different lives. I knew nothing of their history before they arrived at my house but when they left I knew a bit more. I may have made some money on the trade, I'm not sure. It's always a gamble. The real value, the true essence of the operation, is not the money made. I do have two reasons to make money but the real endeavor is the reading of the mystery novel. I'd rather live it than read it, and I do so each time I crawl under a new book.

Here's a direct chronology of a money trail:
1984 for f150. I'll spare you the redneck details or the importance or origin of the money, but it's important. Paid $2500. I know it's a lot but I told you I'd spare the details so just forget it and follow along.
Traded for 1989 Ford ranger. Better fuel mileage.
Trade for 1990 Jeep Cherokee. Tired of the five speed and needed a family vehicle, preferably four wheel drive. This truck quit running. Here's where it gets interesting. I spent a lot of money on that Jeep trying to resurrect it. We won't bother with all that. However, I learned a lot about those engines and basic diagnostics. Sold for 600. This is a strong loss.
Bought a ford pickup for 600. Put 200 in it, sold it for 900. Later found out it died a week later.
Bought a buck lesabre for 800. Spent 180 on it, sold it for 1800.
Bought two trucks for a total of 1300. Had 1600 in them and just traded for a truck and a four wheeler. Hopefully I can fix and sell these two for a total of $2500.

Now, if you had the choice to read a novel or live a mystery-solving hobby that increases your knowledge and grows your wallet, would you? I still don't have television and still don't need it.

Skype

I just did my first Skype last Friday and its still sticking with me a bit. The best reason I can come up with is it usually takes quite a bit of planning to see someone that lives twelve hours away and I prepare for it over the course of the travelling. The expectation and excitement of the build up culminate in the joy of seeing your friend after so much time apart. Skype, however, feels like the first person to hear someone's voice over a telephone. A long time ago a friend of mine suggested we Skype and I never acted on it but having just experienced it I most certainly think it could become addictive. It's the same old issue as ever though-my day starts at 345 and ends when I go to bed, around nine. In the meantime there's work, commuting, picking up Carson, dinner, dishes, and relaxing with my family for less than an hour, and then bed. There's no time to Skype, pursue hobbies, etc. I've always detested people saying they don't have time. You have time to do whatever you choose. However, my time is down to the nitty gritty, unless you want to Skype while I drive!

Combo platter

Guy who has supernatural experiences that he sometimes dreams about. People who die visit him on their way from this world to the next but he doesn't realize this is what's happening, just thinks it's dreams. A homeless guy says something weird to him and he discovers there are others like him. Then he finds out most mental illnesses are really just variations of people unknowingly helping spirits

Easy rider combined with Down Home Girl

Including people in death make dancing a slow waltz in classic square dance garb... Silently

And a crow following main characters in each scene showing linear movement

Travel on bikes in the Midwest searching for freedom, pure

freedom

Winter as a biker

You never know how things will affect you until they happen-birth, death, divorce, college, jobs, whatever. I didn't go into motorcycle ownership with any other reason than it looked cool and I knew I had to have one. That was thirteen years ago and I went from a trashed out Honda to a ruthless budget bobber sportster, just like the David Allen Coe song. I had no idea the mental and emotional places I'd go, or even the physical locations, but I am starting to understand why I felt such a need for that first bike.
This bike I have now, purchased after my college roommate convinced me I could afford the payments, has been all over the united States, both in the truck and under its own power. I transformed it slowly into the meanest, roughest, nastiest bike that none of my friends will ride. It used to be fairly comfortable. In stock trim I once rode from Payson to McPherson in a day and it only took two days to recover. Last labor day we rode two hundred miles and I was sore for a week.

It taught me, with the help of a shop manual, that I could tackle and accomplish tasks I thought out of my reach. It taught me how to pack a proper tool bag. I learned hitch hiking is still a viable means of transportation.

I'm currently driving an hour one way to work. It's a great way to decompress on the way home and an even better way to start out. Last summer when my truck was broken I learned to not fear thunderstorms but that fenders might be helpful regardless of how uncool they are. I remember other rides too though-to the airport with a loose headlight shining on the tire at 80 mph for an hour after I got the call about grandpa, riding at night with tears flying off behind me. I remember taking our helmets off at the Florida state line, just because we could, and how damn hot it was. Then, a week later, riding Trail Ridge Road at 10,000 feet and being pretty chilly! A high speed burn from eager Arizona to the new Mexico state line just to see what it looked like. A hundred miles with twelve bottles of beer in a backpack. The ride with dad that started out just ten minutes up the road for a root beer at the fruit stand and ended six hours later after we'd visited Michigan.

It's a real conversation starter too, mostly inquiries about it's age and if I built it. My favorite conversations are the nods from older bikers, or the guys that do a double take, then wave. They notice the time, love and effort. The stories Sportster Bob told me about Austin in the 70s and how they'd tear around on bloody Mary Sundays, or how I pulled into Stubby's yard to check out his chop and we ended up drinking whiskey from some old fifth he dug out, Sunday morning, first names only, war stories about bar fights and sharing women. I stopped once over north of Del Norte to look at a guys bike and we talked for three hours, about ABATE, helmet laws, and of course his righteous survivor chop.

I got into bikes because I thought they were manly, tough, American. I had no idea the whole world that was opened up for me. I pussed out and didn't ride to the Denver premier of Choppertown, thought it was too cold. Zach and Scott showed me I wasn't alone in this world. Now, in Indianapolis, whenever I buy or sell some random part, I met these kinda strange, hairy, wild eyed guys just like me that have the same urge to build, construct, stand back and smile quietly, and then go terrorize the squares. I don't have any catch phrase to close on, just that it's going to be a long damn time till springtime comes around again.

No title yet, just an idea

You ever just want to talk to someone that doesn't know you? Someone that genuinely wants to chit chat but doesn't know a thing about you. Everyone I know that I could call knows me from a certain part of history or another and I think I know how they would respond.

Accidental hipster

I was raised by parents on the fringe of being hippies. They were cool with the counter culture without being deeply immersed. They both had strong farming backgrounds, college educations and traditional careers. We lived in the country, didn't buy many new clothes, raised a garden, and didn't have television. We used our library cards heavily, played board and card games, and played outside. We went to church every Sunday and were taught to care for others as we care for ourselves, not be worldly or selfish, and help out when are where we could. We learned we should be thankful for what we have as there are many who have much less.
There is a wave of people in modern culture now who were raised similarly to me, apparently, and have been saddled with the moniker of hipster. I apparently am one, though I never aspired to be, and don't particularity care to wear the label. My politics are generally left, I enjoy music that's not mainstream, and I never did give a damn to wear the hot fashions. We couldn't afford to be fashionable, so we made our own way. It appears many other kids came up the same way, and now we're the cool ones. Those of us who were never cool by the measure of society have accidentally become the cool, and I for one would rather not attract attention. I don't need your approval, your label, your critique, or your little box in which to place me. I do what I do because that's the way I've always done it. I'm not trying to fit in, and I think that's what annoys me the most. Just because there is a group of people similar to me does not mean I'm part of that group, or want to be. Perhaps I am just by association, but I reject the name while acknowledging the similarity. Don't judge me by my appearance, my musical tastes, my bookshelf or my beer preference. Judge me on my character, how I treat others, and how I conduct myself in the face of adversity. Judge me on how I view the world and why I view it that way. Judge me on my ability to make the best of my situation. Don't call me a hipster unless I give you permission. I am an individual. There may be many like me, and I may be like many, but I am me and there is no one else exactly like me. I don't want to be in your hipster grouping for the sake of belonging. I don't need to belong. I want to associate with other individuals who are like minded and approach life in a similar manner but if there are none to be found, I will move forward on my own, and no worse off for doing so.

Clocks and time

A guy asked me what time it was the other day. I told him it was whatever time he wanted it to be. The measure of time is, after all, a creation of man. And, I add, the source of stress. Other than concerns regarding the procurement of essential life needs, stress is primarily created by watching the time. Consider your daily life if you weren't concerned about what time is was at any particular moment. I watch the clock from the moment I wake up, to when I wake up again, to when I reach the kitchen, leave for work, arrive at work, wait for breaks, get home, etc etc. Without the clock I would be more free!

Soft spot for morons

Well I went and did it again. I lost a bunch of money on a motorcycle deal. You'd think by now I'd learn I'll never make any money dabbling in old Japanese junk. I had about 500 bucks wrapped up in a pretty nice old Honda with no title. It was just taking up room in the garage and I wanted it gone. I took the first serious bite I got on a trade. First off, the kid drove an hour to get here. Second, he's a fairly broke country boy with a love for motorcycles. He was a harmless kid, lives at home, twenty years old, drives a beater s10 with a rebel flag painted on the roof. Well, I shouldn't have been in such a hurry but I didn't figure I'd get another bite on the bike so I went ahead with the deal and now I have a hundred year old Belgian double barrel shotgun that someone scotch-brited all the bluing off. Now if you spend a few moments online you'll discover this gun ain't worth shit. You can't shoot modern shotgun shells in it, there aren't any parts available, and a gun with the bluing removed isn't worth much regardless of age. The market was flooded with cheap Belgian shotguns around the turn of the century and they just don't have much of a value. But, the kid was so excited and reminded me of myself just a few short years ago, I couldn't help but go ahead. The enjoyment he'll get out of messing with that bike is payment enough. That's what I keep telling myself anyhow. I could use the money but the problem with money is you just spend it and then it's gone. Ahh, you only live once I suppose. I went through the hassle of getting a title on this bike and learned how confusing that process is. Tyler and I had a lot of fun messing with it and annoying the neighbors when he was here for the 500. It's good to have a bike around for times like that but I'd prefer it be a Triumph next time. Maybe I can pawn this old shotgun off on some bike owner with a soft spot for dumb, enthusiastic 32 year olds that like junk bikes, old guns, and used to be redneck farm boys.

Sunrise on the mountains

As I gazed blankly out the window early this morning, my hands wrist deep in dishwater, I noticed the sun was illuminating only the town water tower, about half a mile west and a little higher than our apartment. As I watched, the tops of the trees across the river turned pink as well. I knew the warm morning sun would soon be shining on all around me, and I recalled my days as a carpenter in Telluride, watching and waiting impatiently as the pink dawn crept down the opposite face of the whitecapped mountains, on its way to my frigid location. I'm not sure if the temperature actually went up, but when the sun finally reached me it felt like the day had officially started; I was warmer, happier, and I would live to make it till lunchtime.

Reflections in ripple pond

When I look back on what little bit of my short life I can remember, one of the only decisions I would most certainly change is one time when I grabbed a handful of front brake instead of clutch. It was more reaction than decision, but when viewed in relation to the vast number of quite possibly not quite perfect decisions, the fact that's at the top is curious. However, with that bike out of my life, I was probably better off. I was about to sell it, which may have been handy, but maybe the lesson about brakes will come in handy someday. Maybe I'll tell the boy about it and it'll save his life.
I'd be pretty happy if the afterlife was an examination of our life on earth but with the ability to see the outcome of each different decision we could have made, it's impact on us and those around us. Also how other's decisions affected our life could be analyzed. Then, after we've exhausted each possibility, we get to return to life in a new body and have another go at it--and this time, we don't wreck the bike.

Habits

I'm to that age where I've been doing some things longer than I haven't been doing them. A decade seems so long when you're young. I'm still young. Graduated college ten years ago. What has happened since was for a time quite a hard ride to hang on to, but now it's settled down into a more normal situation. I've given up the youthful ambition to an abnormal life. Its just a show march to the end now, hopefully with some high points along the way. This may not be the end of the world, but I can see it from here.
If you could see the future would you want to? If you could wake up tomorrow and know the rest of your life? The losses, the low points, the high points, the end moment?
Sometimes I feel surrounded by the spirits of the ones that have died already, and sometimes the spirits of those still alive, just far away. Some days it's like a cloud around me, other days it's like a cloak.
At any rate, getting older is mostly boring. I've seen a lot of what can happen. What's the point I wonder? It's not so hopeless to pull the trigger on a brain drain, but it certainly does make you want to absorb each tiny second of joy as it passes you by. However, simultaneously, my feet are weighted down by a severe case of the ho-hums. I suppose all this is normal. The ability to think for oneself can be such a drag.
It's weird to think of how long you've known someone. Say you meet when you were fourteen. Now you're thirty one. When you met them it was so exciting and fresh. Now you've known them longer than you haven't known them. You grow accustomed to new habits, like a new neighborhood, a new house to zig zag through in the dark and find the cups without a light, a new liquor store with new local beer.
You can give up so much of yourself so swiftly without even noticing. The statue of future you, built by your teenage self, slowly eroded and chipped away to only the iron core in a mere fifteen years. Added to, surely, in unseen ways, and chipped away at, surrendered, for the concept of the common good, until you're not even sure what you started out as, what you are now or how exactly you got here.
And here we sit. Idly wondering, curious, not entirely concerned, just intrigued. The farther down the rabbit hole we fall, the less we recognize! The more you experience the more you realize you'll never comprehend.
At any rate, it's different. The situation itself is not different than it ever was, just the prism through which you view it has been modified, as will it continue to be. In the end it's a chair in the sun by a window.