It is safe to assume that as one progresses through life, one’s interests evolve. Some are outgrown, some hit a plateau in that they no longer hold any interest and some just fade away over time. I am not just discovering this, nor is this the first time I have dwelt on this phenomenon. I am fully aware that I can be somewhat compulsive and obsessive and that my attention can be disproportionately diverted to these pursuits. Although not always or even frequently unhealthy, these “hobbies" (for lack of a better word) do represent large amounts of time in the learning and practicing of the given art.
I am fortunate to have had the opportunity to explore a number of areas of specialized interest. Among the more recent are: Skiing, snowboarding, weight lifting, boating, four-wheeling, computers, machining, automotive performance and bicycling, just to name a few. Some have been of a longer duration than others and some are in “cold storage;” they have not been officially retired and I intend to pick them back up when circumstances permit. Some were intentionally pursued and others came by way of happenstance. Once a particular interest has captured my attention, I’ll do what is necessary to become an expert – including further formal education if necessary.
None of that has anything to do with what follows except that it’s a dandy segue to a story that involves the confluence of two of these hobbies. Overlap was not uncommon especially if a particular season was involved. There was a time when boating and four wheeling were prominent activities of mine. Boating, in the fresh water lake and reservoir or “trailer boat” sense, predated my interest in four-wheeling and was an intended pursuit, there was not much involving chance. The four-wheel drive truck obsession sprang from the unplanned acquisition of a four-wheel drive vehicle and grew from there.
Around 1991, I bought a little 13-½ foot runabout with a Mercury 65 outboard motor. The boat was around 20 years old and the motor, built in 1967, was even older. I had owned the boat for about ten years and it was getting very close to the end of it’s life – and what an end it enjoyed. That boat was on the water almost every summer weekend - it probably ran more hours during my ownership than it’s entire previous life combined. The boat was sold for chicken feed about six years ago and my boating “phase” has been in cold storage to this day.
The four-wheeling phase sort of blind-sided me. Although somewhat muted, it is still with me today. In fact, I still own one of the trucks in the following story. It is unfortunately (or not with the price of gas) in storage. Today I drive an old (1983) Toyota SR5 4x4 everyday. It has 225,000 miles on it and still runs strong. About 1999 or there abouts, however, I was driving a 1994 Explorer and I also owned (still do) a 1980 Chevy K30 dually. The Explorer was stock, but the Chevy was (is) anything but. It’s a big, thirsty monster and I didn’t drive it very much.
I was living in Truckee, CA at the time and late one summer – the weekend after labor Day – some friends and I met at Rollins Lake near the Sierra foothills town of Colfax to do a little camping and boating. With my boys, some friends, the camping and boating gear – and the boat, I decided that it would be best to drive both trucks, towing the boat with the Chevy. The Explorer had the seating capacity and the Chevy was good for hauling gear. My buddy drove the Explorer and I drove the Chevy, of course! It was only about an hour drive and the trip there was uneventful.
At that time of the year, after the main summer tourist season is over, the lake is lowered for maintenance, runoff space for the upcoming rainy season, etc. The water was already down quite a bit by the time we set up camp. The composition of the newly exposed shore is mud. Slimy, thick, gooey, gummy mud. It’s the kind of mud that squeezes through your tows like in a Play-Doh Fun Factory. Fortunately the launch ramp went well into the lake and had plenty left to go.
I usually would just beach my boat. I wasn’t concerned about scratching the hull and it was small enough to pull the bow up onto the beach. In the mud, it wasn’t necessary to pull the bow up to beach it, but it was to release it! The mud held it tight. We didn’t really notice the water receding during the day, but by the next morning the lake had dropped at least a couple of feet – enough to leave my boat almost high and dry. This is not usually a problem, but because the mud lent no traction to push it and because it sucked the hull down so completely – we could not budge it.
Finally, after about an hour with three of us pushing, pulling, scooting, shoving and of course slipping, we finally freed her from her muddy trap. It wasn’t until later that day we were informed the water is only released at night – that’s why we didn’t notice it receding during the day. The rest of that day was spent boating, basking, tubing and barbequing. I did not make the same mistake I had the prior night – I put the boat on its trailer. The next morning, after re-launching the boat, our neighbor down the shoreline was having his own problems – not with being stuck, but with a dead battery.
I determined that the best way to help was with my monster Chevy and its dual battery setup and my industrial grade jumper cables. I would drive the truck right down to the water’s edge so that the cables would reach the stern of the boat and her battery. What about the mud? No problem – remember, this truck is a monster. It has 36 inch Super Swampers – the de facto mud tire of the time, heavy duty everything and a track record of never being stuck - never. Ok, ok - once!
That Sunday in mid September made it twice. After successfully jump starting the boat, I put the truck into reverse and hit the gas. The engine roared (did I mention that this truck is heavily modified?) and the tires spun, the mud flew and the truck didn’t move. Ok, I just have to rock it a little, ease on the gas and pull right out. Nope. I tried gunning it – nothing. All it was doing was digging a deeper and deeper hole. And the crowd started to gather, which is usually an invitation to show off, but not this time. Little did I know that the embarrassment was not yet complete.
Rather than dig myself deeper and magnify the humiliation, I thought I could save face by using my resourcefulness, showing that being prepared for just such a situation is the better part of valor. I grabbed my heavy-duty tow strap and the Explorer. With the Explorer safely 100 feet up the shore, it would find traction where the Chevy failed and pull the monster just enough to get footing of its own. With everything in place, I signaled my buddy (now in the Chevy – it took an expert to perform this maneuver!) that I would start the pull. I hit the gas, he hit the gas and…
Well, either that Chevy was stuck like the boat the day before or the mud was deceptively gooey just under the surface 100 feet up the bank – probably both. The Explorer spun its wheels and slid sideways towards the left and down hill towards the lake. Quickly determining that this was not going to work and not wanting to get the Explorer stuck as well, I decided to abort and disconnect the truck. I no longer cared about saving face. And the crowd grew; one had a video camera.
After disengaging the tow strap, I nonchalantly jumped into the Explorer to drive it up to terra firma. It had other ideas as gravity assisted the mud in pulling it along the lakeshore and ever so slightly down towards the water, No amount of coaxing would allow it to travel up and out of danger. Now I had one truck hopelessly stuck and another that was not officially, but may as well have been. I also had a crowd of onlookers numbering around 25, most of them looking very amused. My friends were in absolute hysterics. Me? I did not find it the least bit humorous.
One on-looker with an old, beat-up Ford two-wheel drive truck offered to help. The Explorer was close enough to firm ground that the tow strap would allow the Ford to pull it up. Besides, it wasn’t exactly stuck yet, it was just slipping downhill. For the Chevy, that same two-wheel drive Ford truck with the addition of a chain attached to the tow strap to lenghten it allowed it to pull the Chevy out too. As it turns out, once released from the hole I had dug and with a tiny bit of momentum, I was able to power it out creating an impressive spay of mud for about 100 feet. Ah, yes - salvation!
This all happened when the TV show “Americas Funniest Videos” was all the rage. The top prize was a significant amount of cash and I expected to not only see that video on TV, but for it to probably win. I don’t know whatever happened to that videographer or the tape. I do know that it is one of my cherished memories – the weekend I got my boat and both trucks stuck in the mud at Rollins Lake.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Friday, June 09, 2006
Deletion
It’s getting a little easier. Deleting is. Deleting words that are already written has always been a difficult task. It’s as though they somehow represent something greater – they almost become alive. Yet, they are just words. Profound, gibberish or somewhere in between they don’t mean anything unless they’re read, and those just deleted never will be. The context can’t be recreated, even if remembered verbatim. Although the words can be reconstituted, what they were born of is gone.
Inspiration is a fickle thing. It comes and goes and when it goes, it’s gone. Forever. Sure, similar thoughts and words may be born of similar circumstances, but the ones deleted are gone for good. For good? Yes. That could be how it should be viewed. Not all things are meant to be. Even the thoughts represented by these words and the motivation they were born of could be better served by different words and more pronounced experience.
Modern technology makes this process, at least in the physical sense, much easier, perhaps even cleaner – more sterile. In the not too distant past, before the days of computers and word processors, a machine called a typewriter was the wordsmith’s weapon of choice. The most modern were electric and they were able to “delete” some of what had been written via a ”correction” feature, but any wholesale deletions still involved yanking the paper from the platen, crumpling it up and tossing it into an overflowing basket of prior “deletions.”
This historic vision of the frustrated writer no longer applies. The yanking, crumpling and tossing have been replaced with the stoke of a mouse and touch of a button; the waste paper basket replaced with an icon on a computer screen. No muss, no fuss. With a couple of mouse clicks, the garbage is disposed of permanently, in a very eco-friendly manner. The frustration, however, remains.
It takes practice to delete. It doesn’t get easier per se, just more familiar. It is a necessary evil. As difficult as it is to turn back when realizing the direction chosen leads nowhere, so too is eliminating from existence words already composed. But like hitting any dead-end, backtracking – or deletion – is part of the progression. Sometimes knowing the wrong direction is part of knowing the right one; knowing where to go might mean knowing where not to.
And the basket fills; it is overflowing with deleted work. Wasted effort? Not even remotely. It is part of the experience, an integral part of the creative process. It is separating the wheat from the chaff. And today, the ease of deletion in some respects makes it that much harder. The time and effort to create can be erased so completely and effortlessly that it’s value feels somehow diminished. No paper, no ink, no evidence of ever existing remains. The memory lives in the words that survive, each of them rising from the ashes of their deleted brethren.
Inspiration is a fickle thing. It comes and goes and when it goes, it’s gone. Forever. Sure, similar thoughts and words may be born of similar circumstances, but the ones deleted are gone for good. For good? Yes. That could be how it should be viewed. Not all things are meant to be. Even the thoughts represented by these words and the motivation they were born of could be better served by different words and more pronounced experience.
Modern technology makes this process, at least in the physical sense, much easier, perhaps even cleaner – more sterile. In the not too distant past, before the days of computers and word processors, a machine called a typewriter was the wordsmith’s weapon of choice. The most modern were electric and they were able to “delete” some of what had been written via a ”correction” feature, but any wholesale deletions still involved yanking the paper from the platen, crumpling it up and tossing it into an overflowing basket of prior “deletions.”
This historic vision of the frustrated writer no longer applies. The yanking, crumpling and tossing have been replaced with the stoke of a mouse and touch of a button; the waste paper basket replaced with an icon on a computer screen. No muss, no fuss. With a couple of mouse clicks, the garbage is disposed of permanently, in a very eco-friendly manner. The frustration, however, remains.
It takes practice to delete. It doesn’t get easier per se, just more familiar. It is a necessary evil. As difficult as it is to turn back when realizing the direction chosen leads nowhere, so too is eliminating from existence words already composed. But like hitting any dead-end, backtracking – or deletion – is part of the progression. Sometimes knowing the wrong direction is part of knowing the right one; knowing where to go might mean knowing where not to.
And the basket fills; it is overflowing with deleted work. Wasted effort? Not even remotely. It is part of the experience, an integral part of the creative process. It is separating the wheat from the chaff. And today, the ease of deletion in some respects makes it that much harder. The time and effort to create can be erased so completely and effortlessly that it’s value feels somehow diminished. No paper, no ink, no evidence of ever existing remains. The memory lives in the words that survive, each of them rising from the ashes of their deleted brethren.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Good Coffee!
It’s 5:28 a.m. and I’ve been up for about an hour. I just finished writing a new installment on my fiction blog and the sun has started to cast its grey early morning shadows on a new day. Wednesday. Mid-week and it will be a busy day. Wait, perhaps I should rephrase that; it sounds too dark and I don’t mean it that way. It’s going to be an eventful day, an exciting day, a day full of opportunity and discovery, by even the most conservative estimation; it ought to be a good day.
It helps to go into it that way. An exceptional pot of coffee doesn’t hurt either. Sometimes it just comes out that way. I use the same “recipe,” the exact same procedure everyday, yet some days it’s better than good – it’s great. So is it the magic coffee that has set up the positive outlook? Indeed, perhaps the glass is half full… of coffee! Ok, I’ll quit deluding myself; all will not be smooth sailing today. If I am to be totally honest, I must acknowledge everything – I can’t possibly be this happy. Time to get real.
Real what? Real miserable? Not on your life! Here’s the deal, the keys to the kingdom, the magic, the stuff, the juice, the happy pills, the – whatever: Why would I want to bring this optimism crashing down? I am not deluding myself – I acknowledge that there will be challenges today. Personally, locally, nationally and globally there are issues that need attention. Today (which is all I’ve got anyway) gives me the opportunity to address these issues. If I feel that there is no hope, if I am negative right out of the gate, if all I see are problems and no solutions – then I might as well go back to bed… forever.
Negativity is a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you want everything to turn to mud, believe it will and it’s guaranteed. There is no chance for success without the belief that it is possible. And anything is possible. Look, I am not unique. Everyone has had and will have challenges to face. Everyone has experienced success and has prevailed over situations that looked completely hopeless going in. Often there was no choice, it was do or die – and we didn’t die. I know I have faced some seemingly insurmountable obstacles and I know of others that have faced even worse – and conquered them.
So when viewed in the sunlight of the past, today ain’t nuttin’. Whatever is there, I’ll make it through. The known challenges and the surprises alike, I’m ready. I am not deluded, I am not in lala land and I am not “only fooling” myself. I know that whatever this day dishes out, I have the attitude that allows for success, not the one that guarantees defeat. Today already is a good day.
It helps to go into it that way. An exceptional pot of coffee doesn’t hurt either. Sometimes it just comes out that way. I use the same “recipe,” the exact same procedure everyday, yet some days it’s better than good – it’s great. So is it the magic coffee that has set up the positive outlook? Indeed, perhaps the glass is half full… of coffee! Ok, I’ll quit deluding myself; all will not be smooth sailing today. If I am to be totally honest, I must acknowledge everything – I can’t possibly be this happy. Time to get real.
Real what? Real miserable? Not on your life! Here’s the deal, the keys to the kingdom, the magic, the stuff, the juice, the happy pills, the – whatever: Why would I want to bring this optimism crashing down? I am not deluding myself – I acknowledge that there will be challenges today. Personally, locally, nationally and globally there are issues that need attention. Today (which is all I’ve got anyway) gives me the opportunity to address these issues. If I feel that there is no hope, if I am negative right out of the gate, if all I see are problems and no solutions – then I might as well go back to bed… forever.
Negativity is a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you want everything to turn to mud, believe it will and it’s guaranteed. There is no chance for success without the belief that it is possible. And anything is possible. Look, I am not unique. Everyone has had and will have challenges to face. Everyone has experienced success and has prevailed over situations that looked completely hopeless going in. Often there was no choice, it was do or die – and we didn’t die. I know I have faced some seemingly insurmountable obstacles and I know of others that have faced even worse – and conquered them.
So when viewed in the sunlight of the past, today ain’t nuttin’. Whatever is there, I’ll make it through. The known challenges and the surprises alike, I’m ready. I am not deluded, I am not in lala land and I am not “only fooling” myself. I know that whatever this day dishes out, I have the attitude that allows for success, not the one that guarantees defeat. Today already is a good day.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Sunday's Reflections
This has been an eventful weekend. Not in a physical sense, nor has it been a particularly mobile weekend; I stayed in town and, for that matter – mostly at home. However, it has been, in some respects, exhausting – no, busy - nonetheless. Furthermore, even though I spent much of this weekend at home, I have interacted with a greater variety of friends, family and acquaintances via a variety of means consistently over a period of time. In short, I have felt more “plugged in” than I do during a normal, busy weekday.
Ok, I think that the question then has been successfully set up – why? What gave this weekend the flavor of a hectic work (or school) week? In a word – interaction. And not just idle conversation either (although some of it was just chit-chat), but meaningful, substantive, intelligent and pertinent discussion. It happened with friends, it happened by email, it happened with family members and it happened on blogs. It occurred between good friends that I see regularly and new friends that I have never met face-to-face. It covered a variety of topics and some may even have lasting effect.
The revelation is that none of these differences, be it means, topic or relationship, had any bearing on the “ranking” of the discussion’s importance. In other words, each conversation held the same or similar status with me – even the chit-chat. It was an intellectually busy weekend and I feel as exhausted as I do relaxed. An interesting dichotomy in that I believed those two feelings to be mutually exclusive.
There was more than just talk, of course. Other forms of non-verbal communication by way of these various vehicles were also apparent. Yes, even through the faceless, silent and often anonymous electronic medium known as cyberspace. “Feelings” can be expressed through text. Through word selection and placement, different understandings and even misunderstandings can manifest themselves. This is not new to me, but does garner my attention occasionally, especially when linked to other events that seem totally unrelated – but the connection suddenly becomes clear.
Then there is emotional non-verbal communication as well. It is identification, in real time, with feelings of excitement, sadness, disappointment, empathy and the like. And not a word has to be spoken. Often it could be tied to a physical experience with the very real smells, sounds and sights of an event such as a radio station’s motorcycle give-away promotion. This is not just a hypothetical example of what could be, but rather the story of what was.
Although my excursions outside my home were short, nearby and limited, one will stand out for a very long time. Like so many experiences, the greater significance of this one did not hit me until I had a moment to reflect – which happened just minutes ago! After my original plans for Saturday morning fell through, my friend called and asked if I’d like to ride down to Sacramento Harley-Davidson with him. It was a short ride (15 – 20 minutes), but it was also a beautiful, tank top riding Saturday morning. Since I no longer had any obligations, I accepted.
I met him at his house and then we rode over to another friend’s to pick him and his son up before all riding over to Sac Harley. The friend who called me had qualified to win a brand new, $30,000 Harley. He was one of just 24 qualifiers, so his chances of winning were pretty good, but still long. There was the radio station’s promo tent and mobile unit, a free barbeque and soft drinks and, of course, a sale. Just after noon, the drawing began. It was a reverse-style, elimination drawing, so the last thing we wanted to hear was our friend’s name. Besides those of us who rode down with him, there were a number of other friends and acquaintances there to participate in the festivities and lend moral support.
Although we all jokingly referred to the bike as his in the days before, it stopped being funny when the drawing started and names began to get eliminated – each loser winning a $100.00 gift certificate. After five, he was still standing; ten, still there. Then 15 names were gone, then 20, then after 22 names had been eliminated, he and one other qualifier were left. As one can imagine, the suspense was at a fever pitch. And we were all there with him, feeling his excitement and suspense – ready to celebrate his good fortune… or console him in defeat.
His name was drawn next. His consolation prize for second place was the same as 24th, a $100.00 gift certificate. It was almost as thrilling as if my own name had been in that drawing. He and the other qualifiers were not with the rest of the crowd – they were near the radio van and the bike – a beautiful 2006 Harley-Davidson Screamin’ Eagle, 103 inch, limited edition Fat Boy. We were not close enough to converse, but we knew. We could feel his heart beating – we felt his ever-growing disbelief as name after name was not his. And when his name was finally called on the 23rd pull, our collective hearts sank.
So close but yet so far, we all felt it with him. Not so unusual perhaps, but the secondary, the “post-traumatic stress” response was equally unified. It was an expression of gratitude. For a hundred bucks? Second to $30K? No, thankful that we were able to take the ride with him, the building crescendo and the fall from the top. The excitement and exhilaration… the disbelief followed by the disbelief. All felt in a single moment; all the same and all together. Isn’t that what it’s really all about?
Ok, I think that the question then has been successfully set up – why? What gave this weekend the flavor of a hectic work (or school) week? In a word – interaction. And not just idle conversation either (although some of it was just chit-chat), but meaningful, substantive, intelligent and pertinent discussion. It happened with friends, it happened by email, it happened with family members and it happened on blogs. It occurred between good friends that I see regularly and new friends that I have never met face-to-face. It covered a variety of topics and some may even have lasting effect.
The revelation is that none of these differences, be it means, topic or relationship, had any bearing on the “ranking” of the discussion’s importance. In other words, each conversation held the same or similar status with me – even the chit-chat. It was an intellectually busy weekend and I feel as exhausted as I do relaxed. An interesting dichotomy in that I believed those two feelings to be mutually exclusive.
There was more than just talk, of course. Other forms of non-verbal communication by way of these various vehicles were also apparent. Yes, even through the faceless, silent and often anonymous electronic medium known as cyberspace. “Feelings” can be expressed through text. Through word selection and placement, different understandings and even misunderstandings can manifest themselves. This is not new to me, but does garner my attention occasionally, especially when linked to other events that seem totally unrelated – but the connection suddenly becomes clear.
Then there is emotional non-verbal communication as well. It is identification, in real time, with feelings of excitement, sadness, disappointment, empathy and the like. And not a word has to be spoken. Often it could be tied to a physical experience with the very real smells, sounds and sights of an event such as a radio station’s motorcycle give-away promotion. This is not just a hypothetical example of what could be, but rather the story of what was.
Although my excursions outside my home were short, nearby and limited, one will stand out for a very long time. Like so many experiences, the greater significance of this one did not hit me until I had a moment to reflect – which happened just minutes ago! After my original plans for Saturday morning fell through, my friend called and asked if I’d like to ride down to Sacramento Harley-Davidson with him. It was a short ride (15 – 20 minutes), but it was also a beautiful, tank top riding Saturday morning. Since I no longer had any obligations, I accepted.
I met him at his house and then we rode over to another friend’s to pick him and his son up before all riding over to Sac Harley. The friend who called me had qualified to win a brand new, $30,000 Harley. He was one of just 24 qualifiers, so his chances of winning were pretty good, but still long. There was the radio station’s promo tent and mobile unit, a free barbeque and soft drinks and, of course, a sale. Just after noon, the drawing began. It was a reverse-style, elimination drawing, so the last thing we wanted to hear was our friend’s name. Besides those of us who rode down with him, there were a number of other friends and acquaintances there to participate in the festivities and lend moral support.
Although we all jokingly referred to the bike as his in the days before, it stopped being funny when the drawing started and names began to get eliminated – each loser winning a $100.00 gift certificate. After five, he was still standing; ten, still there. Then 15 names were gone, then 20, then after 22 names had been eliminated, he and one other qualifier were left. As one can imagine, the suspense was at a fever pitch. And we were all there with him, feeling his excitement and suspense – ready to celebrate his good fortune… or console him in defeat.
His name was drawn next. His consolation prize for second place was the same as 24th, a $100.00 gift certificate. It was almost as thrilling as if my own name had been in that drawing. He and the other qualifiers were not with the rest of the crowd – they were near the radio van and the bike – a beautiful 2006 Harley-Davidson Screamin’ Eagle, 103 inch, limited edition Fat Boy. We were not close enough to converse, but we knew. We could feel his heart beating – we felt his ever-growing disbelief as name after name was not his. And when his name was finally called on the 23rd pull, our collective hearts sank.
So close but yet so far, we all felt it with him. Not so unusual perhaps, but the secondary, the “post-traumatic stress” response was equally unified. It was an expression of gratitude. For a hundred bucks? Second to $30K? No, thankful that we were able to take the ride with him, the building crescendo and the fall from the top. The excitement and exhilaration… the disbelief followed by the disbelief. All felt in a single moment; all the same and all together. Isn’t that what it’s really all about?
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Down the Road a Piece
As promised – some reflection: Where I’ve been and where I’m going and the 167 days in between. First off – some statistics:
• According to the Blogger Dashboard, this is post number 102. There are a couple of posts that are saved as drafts, so I’m not sure if they are included or not… I’m not going to go back and count them. The point is that there have been around 100 posts since embarking on this project.
• As I already mentioned, it has been 167 days since my first post. Ya, ya, I know – my May 19th post was titled “Six Months…” Sue me, I can write or I can perform complicated mathematical computations – not both.
• My hit counter will turn 4,000 visits within the next three or four days. Although many of those are my mom and dad (and I’m just tickled that they read my stuff – they never post any comments, but they are my biggest fans!) and plenty are “drive-bys,” many spend a considerable amount of time viewing my blog – and the trends are ever-increasing.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Additionally, I have started two new blogs. The first is called Overflow and contains what its name implies – extra stuff that I didn’t want to post on The 25 Year Plan because it would burry the previous post before I was ready to take it out of the spotlight. Yet, I still had a need to post it so it wouldn’t die in the dark. Hence, Overflow was born. It has the freedom to grow into just about anything, but right now it emulates my main blog in its content.
The other, This is Fiction, is a departure for me. It is an attempt to tell a story based partially in real life (mine and other’s) but with the freedom to embellish and fabricate details as necessary. This blog represents risk-taking and stepping outside the box like nothing else. I have posted two installments so far – both components of the same story. I don’t know yet how it’ll unfold – if those posts are the beginning, middle or end. It should sound somewhat familiar to some of my regular readers, but it important to remember that I do not represent any of it as fact. Sure, some of it is, but in its entirety, none of it is.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I still don’t consider myself a “real” writer. I know I write well and I know that I am not a professional writer (although I will be when I start getting paid for it). To me, a “real” writer is either sitting in a noisy newsroom pounding on a typewriter or on the quiet deck of an isolated mountain cabin. A beachfront bungalow works for me too. He, or she is lost in brilliance as the words virtually write themselves – the author living through each tantalizing moment. Me? Not so much.
It’s not the setting but the attitude – the romanticized, cinematic vision of magic flawlessly flowing from an author’s fingertips. For me, it’s an excruciatingly painful journey to achieve the impossible – perfection. No matter how much I like what I write – and I like most of it initially – the more I re-read it, the more I find wrong with it. It’s not just typos, although they drive me batty too. It’s about flow. I want the reader to be able to just float over the words and know.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One hundred and sixty seven days ago, I didn’t know much about much. I still don't, however, I have stumbled onto a vehicle that has given me the means to discover more about myself than I ever dreamed possible. It’s more than just the writing, I think. It’s the sharing. There’s a certain authenticity that comes from allowing others to peer inside my soul. It’s cleansing and freeing. Indeed, six months ago, I would not have been capable of writing, let alone posting anything in the genre of fiction.
In my archives, there are a number of posts that deal with my motivation to start blogging. If taken at face value, one would think that there was not much “chance” involved. It would appear that I had a desire, knew something about the medium and set out to experiment with it. And although that is not a false impression, it is not the whole story. As with so much else, I feel that “fate” or “luck” or “divine intervention” or “coincidence” played a role as well.
While growing increasingly bored between my first and second semesters (winter break – five weeks) of my junior year, I decided that I needed to do something to keep me writing. It was motivation I was looking for, although I’m not sure I realized it. One of my journalism professors has a blog, From where I Sit, that I discovered by following links from the school and the department. He did not disclose it to his students – it was not used as a teaching tool. It happened to be on Blogger. I decided to follow the “get your own blog” link and the rest really is history. Would it have happened anyway? Who knows?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s the feedback that kept me going. Early on, it was pretty sparse, but as time wore on and I commented on other blogs, people began to read mine – and comment on it. I’ll say this: I get just as excited about reading a new comment as I did about that first one. I now have a group of regular readers (you know who you are) and it’s growing all the time. Some have moved on or otherwise gone away, but the blogosphere is like any other world and that’s life.
Recently, I have been participating in a blog, Sweet N’ Saur, that deals with local governmental issues in Pinellas County, Florida. I find the energy there invigorating – talk about citizens getting involved! I have been lucky enough to have something to add to the ongoing conversation and have applauded their efforts and encouraged their continued discussion as well. This is real, tangible evidence of community involvement in government and it makes a difference.
That’s pretty much all I have to say – I’ve reached my 1,000ish word limit, anything else I may have to say will only be repeating what can be found in my archives. Thanks to all, keep coming back!
~Mike
• According to the Blogger Dashboard, this is post number 102. There are a couple of posts that are saved as drafts, so I’m not sure if they are included or not… I’m not going to go back and count them. The point is that there have been around 100 posts since embarking on this project.
• As I already mentioned, it has been 167 days since my first post. Ya, ya, I know – my May 19th post was titled “Six Months…” Sue me, I can write or I can perform complicated mathematical computations – not both.
• My hit counter will turn 4,000 visits within the next three or four days. Although many of those are my mom and dad (and I’m just tickled that they read my stuff – they never post any comments, but they are my biggest fans!) and plenty are “drive-bys,” many spend a considerable amount of time viewing my blog – and the trends are ever-increasing.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Additionally, I have started two new blogs. The first is called Overflow and contains what its name implies – extra stuff that I didn’t want to post on The 25 Year Plan because it would burry the previous post before I was ready to take it out of the spotlight. Yet, I still had a need to post it so it wouldn’t die in the dark. Hence, Overflow was born. It has the freedom to grow into just about anything, but right now it emulates my main blog in its content.
The other, This is Fiction, is a departure for me. It is an attempt to tell a story based partially in real life (mine and other’s) but with the freedom to embellish and fabricate details as necessary. This blog represents risk-taking and stepping outside the box like nothing else. I have posted two installments so far – both components of the same story. I don’t know yet how it’ll unfold – if those posts are the beginning, middle or end. It should sound somewhat familiar to some of my regular readers, but it important to remember that I do not represent any of it as fact. Sure, some of it is, but in its entirety, none of it is.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I still don’t consider myself a “real” writer. I know I write well and I know that I am not a professional writer (although I will be when I start getting paid for it). To me, a “real” writer is either sitting in a noisy newsroom pounding on a typewriter or on the quiet deck of an isolated mountain cabin. A beachfront bungalow works for me too. He, or she is lost in brilliance as the words virtually write themselves – the author living through each tantalizing moment. Me? Not so much.
It’s not the setting but the attitude – the romanticized, cinematic vision of magic flawlessly flowing from an author’s fingertips. For me, it’s an excruciatingly painful journey to achieve the impossible – perfection. No matter how much I like what I write – and I like most of it initially – the more I re-read it, the more I find wrong with it. It’s not just typos, although they drive me batty too. It’s about flow. I want the reader to be able to just float over the words and know.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One hundred and sixty seven days ago, I didn’t know much about much. I still don't, however, I have stumbled onto a vehicle that has given me the means to discover more about myself than I ever dreamed possible. It’s more than just the writing, I think. It’s the sharing. There’s a certain authenticity that comes from allowing others to peer inside my soul. It’s cleansing and freeing. Indeed, six months ago, I would not have been capable of writing, let alone posting anything in the genre of fiction.
In my archives, there are a number of posts that deal with my motivation to start blogging. If taken at face value, one would think that there was not much “chance” involved. It would appear that I had a desire, knew something about the medium and set out to experiment with it. And although that is not a false impression, it is not the whole story. As with so much else, I feel that “fate” or “luck” or “divine intervention” or “coincidence” played a role as well.
While growing increasingly bored between my first and second semesters (winter break – five weeks) of my junior year, I decided that I needed to do something to keep me writing. It was motivation I was looking for, although I’m not sure I realized it. One of my journalism professors has a blog, From where I Sit, that I discovered by following links from the school and the department. He did not disclose it to his students – it was not used as a teaching tool. It happened to be on Blogger. I decided to follow the “get your own blog” link and the rest really is history. Would it have happened anyway? Who knows?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s the feedback that kept me going. Early on, it was pretty sparse, but as time wore on and I commented on other blogs, people began to read mine – and comment on it. I’ll say this: I get just as excited about reading a new comment as I did about that first one. I now have a group of regular readers (you know who you are) and it’s growing all the time. Some have moved on or otherwise gone away, but the blogosphere is like any other world and that’s life.
Recently, I have been participating in a blog, Sweet N’ Saur, that deals with local governmental issues in Pinellas County, Florida. I find the energy there invigorating – talk about citizens getting involved! I have been lucky enough to have something to add to the ongoing conversation and have applauded their efforts and encouraged their continued discussion as well. This is real, tangible evidence of community involvement in government and it makes a difference.
That’s pretty much all I have to say – I’ve reached my 1,000ish word limit, anything else I may have to say will only be repeating what can be found in my archives. Thanks to all, keep coming back!
~Mike
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Neighborhood Watch & Post #100!!
Fair Oaks, California is a sleepy little community on the eastern edge of unincorporated Sacramento County. It borders the American River, the Nimbus Dam and
it’s reservoir - Lake Natoma. Its better-known neighbor, the city of Folsom, is just to the east and upstream. Folsom is much like Fair Oaks except bigger in every way. A bigger dam (Folsom Dam), a bigger reservoir (Folsom Lake), both banks of the American River, a larger population and geographically it is larger both physically and politically, as Folsom is an incorporated city. Nonetheless, the two municipalities are quite similar and share a common heritage.
Folsom has attained recognition not only from its very real and appealing physical qualities, but also from its landmark, Folsom Prison, made famous from the movie “Walk the Line.” Fair Oaks holds no such infamy. Although both Folsom and New Folsom prisons are a very short distance, the crime rates in Fair Oaks, Folsom and the surrounding areas are not exceptionally high. Indeed, when paroled, the former inmates are taken far from here.
Fair Oaks is about as economically diverse as an upper middle class community can be. Within it are pockets of very upper middle class homes. I have lived in such a neighborhood for exactly one year to the day. It is, by all accounts, a very safe neighborhood, especially in light of the fact that it is not a “gated” community. There is a homeowner’s association, but no amenities and very low fees. Fees that, as far as I can tell do nothing but pay to administer the collection and management of those fees – but that’s a rant for another day. The point is that my neighbors are not used to crime in their backyard.
Until recently. Last week there were two home invasion robberies in this area. They were the real deal – not just bored kids throwing eggs. The bandits were armed, physical, bold and dangerous. Although the victims were not severely hurt, the potential was there and it was real. Both amusing and sad, the ramifications are already apparent. My neighbors are acting kind of funny. They are getting more neighborly.
Yesterday, while writing in my office (just adjacent to my front door), someone came up to my front door and slipped something into the handle. Then he left - no bell, no knock, no cordiality – and I was obviously home. I opened the door as he was on his way down my driveway off to the next house. It was then that he explained the nature of the flyer and if I had heard the news about the crimes. He thinks it would be a good idea to get a phone list of the neighbors in the immediate area and maybe watch out for each other. He lives very close and across the street, the last two digits of his address are 36 – mine are 43. It was the first time I have ever seen this man in my life!
When I opened my front door this morning to get my newspaper, a woman was jogging past the front of my home. This is a common sight around here. This time, however, there was an obvious and ominous difference. In addition to her water bottle, she carried with her - tucked under her left arm with her hand clasped around the end – a Louisville Slugger. That’s right, a baseball bat. I don’t think she was on her way to play baseball! In and of itself, maybe just an anomaly, but it triggered other heretofore disconnected observances that are now starting to make sense.
There are notices posted on every pole in the neighborhood. Warnings, descriptions, what to do, who to call – these were not put up by law enforcement but by residents. There is a genuine fear that this could happen again and it has ignited a call to action – it has forced the kind of neighbors that are used to keeping to themselves to talk to each other. What a concept! Although the motivation may by purely selfish, this kind of safety net can only be accomplished through cooperation. To meet a self centered ends – individual protection – a community means must be employed. They have to talk to each other.
And I am smiling to myself. You see, they already had my cooperation and didn’t even know it. I have been watching out for them since I moved in – even that next-door so and so that I can’t stand – even her. I am home more than most; I write from an office that has two very large windows facing the street; I am observant bordering on nosey. Those punks that committed these crimes would be begging for the police if they fell into my sphere of influence – and all my neighbors (except one) haven’t a clue.
The irony is this: Until these crimes were committed, I was the one they were worried about. A longhaired, tattooed, motorcycle riding non-conformist was the bane of their existence. I don’t look like them and I knew it coming in. I’m ok with that; I am certainly not hurting for friends. I think, however, that I may have personalized the ambivalence. It would appear that none of my neighbors know each other. Could it be that in the quest for the good life, while striving for ever increasing levels of safety and comfort that they have left those very elements secured by the community behind? Perhaps they are only now realizing that they can’t do it alone.
P.S. According to the Blogger Dashboard, this is my 100th post! I don't usually see the Dashboard unless I am editing, and not even always then, but as I passed through that screen earlier it confirmed that this milestone has indeed passed. It caught me off-guard... I have nothing prepared save this: Thank you all for taking time out of your life to read my work. I will post more on what all this means once I figure it out - probably in tomorrow's post**. Until then, have a wonderful day,
~Mike
** UPDATE
It's now tomorrow, abeit not by very much. Enough, however, to know that the above mentioned 100th post reflection piece will not be written today. I did post a new installment on This Is Fiction, so if fiction is your bag, well it's not mine, but I'm trying...
Peace.
it’s reservoir - Lake Natoma. Its better-known neighbor, the city of Folsom, is just to the east and upstream. Folsom is much like Fair Oaks except bigger in every way. A bigger dam (Folsom Dam), a bigger reservoir (Folsom Lake), both banks of the American River, a larger population and geographically it is larger both physically and politically, as Folsom is an incorporated city. Nonetheless, the two municipalities are quite similar and share a common heritage.
Folsom has attained recognition not only from its very real and appealing physical qualities, but also from its landmark, Folsom Prison, made famous from the movie “Walk the Line.” Fair Oaks holds no such infamy. Although both Folsom and New Folsom prisons are a very short distance, the crime rates in Fair Oaks, Folsom and the surrounding areas are not exceptionally high. Indeed, when paroled, the former inmates are taken far from here.
Fair Oaks is about as economically diverse as an upper middle class community can be. Within it are pockets of very upper middle class homes. I have lived in such a neighborhood for exactly one year to the day. It is, by all accounts, a very safe neighborhood, especially in light of the fact that it is not a “gated” community. There is a homeowner’s association, but no amenities and very low fees. Fees that, as far as I can tell do nothing but pay to administer the collection and management of those fees – but that’s a rant for another day. The point is that my neighbors are not used to crime in their backyard.Until recently. Last week there were two home invasion robberies in this area. They were the real deal – not just bored kids throwing eggs. The bandits were armed, physical, bold and dangerous. Although the victims were not severely hurt, the potential was there and it was real. Both amusing and sad, the ramifications are already apparent. My neighbors are acting kind of funny. They are getting more neighborly.
Yesterday, while writing in my office (just adjacent to my front door), someone came up to my front door and slipped something into the handle. Then he left - no bell, no knock, no cordiality – and I was obviously home. I opened the door as he was on his way down my driveway off to the next house. It was then that he explained the nature of the flyer and if I had heard the news about the crimes. He thinks it would be a good idea to get a phone list of the neighbors in the immediate area and maybe watch out for each other. He lives very close and across the street, the last two digits of his address are 36 – mine are 43. It was the first time I have ever seen this man in my life!
When I opened my front door this morning to get my newspaper, a woman was jogging past the front of my home. This is a common sight around here. This time, however, there was an obvious and ominous difference. In addition to her water bottle, she carried with her - tucked under her left arm with her hand clasped around the end – a Louisville Slugger. That’s right, a baseball bat. I don’t think she was on her way to play baseball! In and of itself, maybe just an anomaly, but it triggered other heretofore disconnected observances that are now starting to make sense.
There are notices posted on every pole in the neighborhood. Warnings, descriptions, what to do, who to call – these were not put up by law enforcement but by residents. There is a genuine fear that this could happen again and it has ignited a call to action – it has forced the kind of neighbors that are used to keeping to themselves to talk to each other. What a concept! Although the motivation may by purely selfish, this kind of safety net can only be accomplished through cooperation. To meet a self centered ends – individual protection – a community means must be employed. They have to talk to each other.
And I am smiling to myself. You see, they already had my cooperation and didn’t even know it. I have been watching out for them since I moved in – even that next-door so and so that I can’t stand – even her. I am home more than most; I write from an office that has two very large windows facing the street; I am observant bordering on nosey. Those punks that committed these crimes would be begging for the police if they fell into my sphere of influence – and all my neighbors (except one) haven’t a clue.
The irony is this: Until these crimes were committed, I was the one they were worried about. A longhaired, tattooed, motorcycle riding non-conformist was the bane of their existence. I don’t look like them and I knew it coming in. I’m ok with that; I am certainly not hurting for friends. I think, however, that I may have personalized the ambivalence. It would appear that none of my neighbors know each other. Could it be that in the quest for the good life, while striving for ever increasing levels of safety and comfort that they have left those very elements secured by the community behind? Perhaps they are only now realizing that they can’t do it alone.
P.S. According to the Blogger Dashboard, this is my 100th post! I don't usually see the Dashboard unless I am editing, and not even always then, but as I passed through that screen earlier it confirmed that this milestone has indeed passed. It caught me off-guard... I have nothing prepared save this: Thank you all for taking time out of your life to read my work. I will post more on what all this means once I figure it out - probably in tomorrow's post**. Until then, have a wonderful day,
~Mike
** UPDATE
It's now tomorrow, abeit not by very much. Enough, however, to know that the above mentioned 100th post reflection piece will not be written today. I did post a new installment on This Is Fiction, so if fiction is your bag, well it's not mine, but I'm trying...
Peace.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)