Kilimanjaro Rocks by Carrie Lynn - draft for review and comment

In September of 2009, Carrie Lynn Marzolf left Phoenix to join fellow members of the Love Hope Strength Foundation in Tanzania. There, they climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, the tallest free-standing mountain in the world.

25 members of this international group climbed to raise funds and awareness in the fight against cancer. They named the event “Kilimanjaro Rocks,” and even now have plans for the 2010 climb: “Fuji Rocks.”

We invite you to learn more about Love Hope Strength here. Or, contact Carrie Lynn on Facebook here.

Carrie Lynn personally dedicated this journey to the memory of her grandmother, Kate, who died from cancer in 1990. This is Carrie Lynn’s story.

*editor’s note – insert hyperlink for LHS Site:
http://www.lovehopestrength.org/site/

*editor’s note – insert hyperlink for Carrie Lynn’s FB page: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#/carrie.marzolf?ref=share

Kilimanjaro. Uhuru, or Freedom, Peak. They call it the roof of Africa, one of the coveted Seven Summits of the world. I stand with fellow members of the Love Hope Strength Foundation, all here because their lives have, in one way or another, been touched by cancer. Yes, we are here to raise awareness, and we are here to raise funds. But for many of us, the meaning of this climb is far more personal.

Kilimanjaro rises 19,341 feet into the sky. You climb through six or seven different vegetation zones. You begin in a rainforest with temps closing in on the 100's and end up in an arctic moonscape with temps well below zero - I mean well below. Kilimanjaro is a bitch and most people know it - probably what makes it one of the seven most coveted. I’m told that only 50-60 percent of the people who climb actually attain the summit. As a matter of fact, a statistic comes out during dinner one night that the people who most often fail... are athletes.

They call it the "lottery of altitude." Apparently, there is no guarantee who will get it, when they'll get it, or why they'll get it. I could suffer through this entire trek, then go to Everest base camp next year and not suffer an ounce of altitude sickness. That's just how it works.

The theme on Kilimanjaro is "pole, pole" meaning slowly, slowly - and they mean it. Speed will get you nowhere here.

We take a more primitive route, one of the less populated ones, along the western breach. The first two days breeze by, and the date becomes 1 October. Today is the anniversary of Kate's death. I have not let her go since her passing in 1990. In fact, her death multiplied the complexity of my life, and I would never view things quite the same again. So...I will set her free...on top of the world. Today, I feel invigorated, better than any time since my arrival in Africa.

The ascent takes us to 13,800 feet. I choose not to take Diamox (the altitude sickness med) at this time, having trained recently at 13,000 and 14,000 feet with no ill consequences. Diamox has side effects, and I want to delay them if possible.

I arrive first at camp that day. It isn’t a race. I just feel that good. This is where "pole, pole" might have served me better. When I wake up a few hours later from a nap, and something is not right.

The musicians perform their concert. My long-time friend Cy dedicates the first song to Kate, a beautiful rendition of Remember Me When I’m Gone. I shed some tears, taking in the panorama of Kilimanjaro, the moon gleaming overhead, and the sun across the horizon.

I sit next to Nick Harper at dinner. I’ve been eating like a champ the entire time. You have too. You burn an exorbitant number of calories each day. But tonight, I can't eat. Nick says, "You have to eat. I know you don't feel like it but you have too." I can't. I don't know what's wrong. I don't feel right.

I am in charge of writing the journal that day. Shannon puts the iBook in front of me to type the daily journal for the entire group and then, just like that, I lose it. I can't type. I run out of the tent and release the entire contents of my gut. It won't stop. My head begins to ache like I can't explain. I struggle to my tent with the help of Mchili. Fortunately, my tent mate, Kelly, happens to be a nurse. She tends to my woes. I’m moaning. My head is killing me. She starts me up on Diamox. Then anti-nausea meds. Then Tylenol. She regulates me through the night.

It’s cold. The moon is bright. I’m weary and sad and confused. What's happening? I wander outside to vomit and end up lying on the ground among the rocks, falling asleep there briefly. In the morning, in even more pain, I am diagnosed with acute mountain sickness.

AMS can kill you. The only remedy is immediate descent. You have the option to stay an additional night at your current site in hopes that your body acclimates. I don't have this option. I’m with 24 other people and 125 porters. We have a guideline. I’m going. I’m going, and that's that.

I can't eat in the morning either. Then, my fellow trekkers step up like I can't explain. Nick Harper follows behind me the entire day and tells me later, "I was going to catch you, if you fell.” Matt takes my pack from me to alleviate my load. He carries both his and mine. Mike Peters and his wife, Jules, consistently offer me their water. Julie, Oli, and others give me "foodstuffs" in hope that I can put something down.

I make it. I make it to 14,300 ft to lava tower, not feeling great, but better than the eve before. As soon as I get to camp, I pass out in exhaustion, and wake up to nausea and a more severe headache. I’m crying. I’m worried.

Kelly calls on Cy to come talk to me. "She needs you. Help her.” I’m lying in 47 layers of clothes in the tent on my back crying. Just crying in pain. Cy naturally speaks beautiful words and encouraging thoughts, much like he has through his music to me since I was 13. He reminds me why I’m here and why I’ll make it. He clears my worries.

I wake up crying. Everyone is in the mess tent having dinner, playing, and listening to music. I can't find anyone outside my tent. I reach my arm out when I see Julie in the distance. "Help me, Julie, help me.” Julie, also a nurse, starts a review of my well-being. I pass a test similar to a sobriety test. Another trekker tells a small group that I did not pass, which stirs controversy. The discussions fly around the camp at dinner, "What are we going to do about Carrie Lynn? How are we going to get her down?" They read my pulse-ox after dinner and do not give me the reading. I find out later I was well below the entire group, at about 70% blood saturation.

Day two with AMS. Today's ascent will take us to 16,000 feet - to Arrow Glacier. I am NOT getting better. My body is NOT adjusting. The group is nervous. Shannon says, "Look into my eyes and tell me you are going to make it." I stare at the ground for a moment, thinking, "How can I possibly look at her and tell her that?"

I look up in a half-ass manner and say, "I’m going to make it."
She says, "Convince me you are going to make it up that mountain.”
I take every ounce I have in me and look her directly in her eyes and say, "I AM GOING TO MAKE IT UP THAT MOUNTAIN." …And away we go.

I have little to no memory of the night at camp on Arrow Glacier.

Day three with AMS. The following day, it’s cold and dark as hell. I begin to lose motor function. Mchili helps pack me up and get me out of my tent. Today's trek is long, technical, and runs the risk of falling rock. We must wear helmets. This one is serious. From what I understand, in 2006, several people died on this part of the trail. My fellow trekkers get me to take bits of their various power bars, gels, and jellybeans, and I force the food into my body. Shannon is giving me Tang and Kelly is giving me Propel for my water. I am so cold that my Reynaud’s is in full effect, and I have no circulation in my fingers. I cannot use my hands. Ryan is behind me and grabs my gloves, takes his hand warmers out of his gloves, and puts them into mine. It allows me to continue.

At the Summit Crater at 18,500 feet, I feel just good enough to take photographs and videos. Best yet, I eat at lunchtime. I even take a photograph of it. I manage to eat a meal for the first time in days, but someone at dinner says, “Carrie Lynn is much too quiet. It appears the life has been sucked from her eyes. She seems almost soulless, but continues to function somehow.”

I pass out after dinner and wake up long enough to lose it all again. I wander into the mess tent, walking like a drunk, crying abruptly, gripping my head. "I can't take it, I can't take, it hurts, it hurts so much, please help me." Our guides James and Mchili are concerned. Nothing relives my headache any longer. My mind is slowly slipping away, and my motor function is beginning to disappear. All I can do is cry.

Mchili busts out the "Dexa" as he calls it. We force water and the pill down my throat. Mchili decries, "This should help. This is magic medicine.” I find out later that it is the "last resort," only given to people just before they go into a coma and die!

By now, Kelly is not well either. Glenn is next door coughing horrifically in his tent. Julie and Matt suffer altitude sickness, too. Many others are feeling negative effects. I toss and turn, moan and cry all night long. I get up in the middle of the night to vomit. I stare up at the sky and wonder, "How on earth am I going to do this?" I want to lie on the ground. But, at 18,500 ft, the temperatures are so cold that I might never get up.

I wander in circles around the camp, pleading inside my head for someone to come out and help me. I need help so bad. Someone? Anyone? There is not a sound. No one is coming. The pain is not stopping. I hardly know where my tent is. I have trouble getting in. I can't use my hands at all now. I grip my sleeping bag and try to pull it over my body but can't get it to cover me. I keep trying but I can't use my hands. It’s below zero and I can't get in the sleeping bag. Kelly is finally asleep and I can't wake her up to put me in my sleeping bag. The bag is covering my feet and that is all.

Day four of AMS. It feels like there’s nothing left in me. I wonder how I can continue. Next door, I hear Glenn hacking. Shannon enters his tent and tells him he is getting up that mountain. Like me, he must be thinking, "I’m done. I can't do this anymore.”

He wants a helicopter. I say to myself, "I’ll get on the helicopter with him.” I tell Kelly I can't move.

After that, I’m in a fog. Cy comes in with a poetic speech. Cy and Julie say that all the vomiting was a part of my release, that I was letting go of the sickness of my traumatic childhood. Then, they said, at the top, I will be lighter, and will shed the weight that I’ve carried since then. Mchili assures me I can make it and that a guide will be sent in to assist.

Godfrey helps me put on my last two layers against the horrific cold outside. He packs my gear, puts my boots and gaiters on, grabs my trekking poles, and pulls me from the tent. I see the pain in others too. Altitude is making itself known to more of the group. Me, I am on a first name basis with it.

Day five of AMS. The 800 vertical feet up to the summit is only one and a half hours away. I can hardly hold my poles. I have difficulty putting one foot in front the other, each awkward step slow and agonizing. Often, I stop, double over, and stare at the ground wishing it was all over. I reach my limit and just want it to stop - everything to stop. In the pitch black cold, I can’t see where I am going. Godfrey is my eyes. Godfrey takes my pack and holds my arm so I won’t fall.

And then, at last, the summit.

At the sign for Uhuru Peak sign, I look to the sky and tell my grandmother Kate she is now free. I thank her for being there those 19 years when I needed her. But now, I am on my own. The cycle is complete. We both can move forward.

On 5 October, 2009 at approximately 0630, I stand atop Kili with my 24 Love-Hope-Strength companions. Kili. We can call her that now. We have stood at the summit of her 19,341 ft. To those who've not reached the summit, she remains Kilimanjaro.

The temperature is far below freezing, but we still shed tears. Hugs are passed from trekker to trekker and guide to trekker. I thank Godfrey for his help and ask to have our photograph taken. I want other shots but cannot use my hands! Godfrey kindly takes my camera from me and becomes my personal photographer, too.

Then, we unveil the prayer flags. As much as I want to go down, I stay to participate. This is a large part of why we are here. We hold the flags in our hands and say prayers for all those touched by cancer.

The concert is about to begin, but I can no longer maintain this altitude. To be honest, I don't care if I die on this mountain. This entire journey is a symbol and a catalyst for my life. And if it means the end...then I am okay with that.

I spend the next several hours descending hand in hand with Godfrey, talking about our lives as my capabilities slowly start to return. Not until somewhere around 12,500 feet do I start to feel like myself again. After our lunch stop, I complete the descent to our camp at 10,000 feet on my own.

Later, I ask James, "Why? Why did you let me keep going?" He says, "Because you always knew who you were. The minute you did not, we were going to have to get you down immediately.”

I know, ultimately, he meant that I was conscious of myself, of my existence, able to hear and respond appropriately to questions. But, when I reflect on those words on a larger scale, I fill with emotion. Maybe my happiness in life lies in these words. May it be so: That I always know who I am and, with that strength, overcome any obstacle or challenge in my life.

Las Vegas Art Museum

sculptures outside the Las Vegas Art Museum. Las Vegas, NV. 2003.



I've worked and volunteered in a lot of offices, but this one had to be the coolest building of all.

The museum is small, as museums go. Don't go to Vegas just to see it. You'd be better off in Chicago, New York, Detroit, or St. Louis for museums - for collections. But it is worth taking a Sunday afternoon to visit. The rotating exhibits in 2003 made great dates for friends and couples.



I can't tell you how much the museum gave me an oasis in the desert of tackiness called Vegas. I spent Sunday afternoons volunteering at the front desk. Not content to simply read a book and wait around, I got some great educational tours, invited friends on a member discount, and started upselling memberships to people who just casually dropped by to "check it out."

Pleased with my initiative, the nice ladies who administered the place took me up on my offer to help out with some things around the office. When things were slow, I read books on chess, and practiced my new skills against the Security Guard on a portable board. I will take an afternoon of chess surrounded by art over a noisy casino any day of the week.

After a couple seasons, I guess I just ran out of things to do!
Shortly afterwards, I moved to Phoenix.

Is it the Future Yet?

Are we in the future yet? Or is it still just now?

When do we celebrate?!

Do we always have to feel behind because people closer to the international date line have been at this new year for so many more hours than us? When it's January 2 there already, and we haven't even finished today, do they think of us as a bit slow?

Let's call those people and take them down a peg or two. Let them know that just because we are a day behind for our entire lives doesn't mean we're stupid. Let them know that our days are better than theirs because we weren't in such a hurry to get them done early. Let's use your phone for this because I'm still on last year's minutes.

How long does the year stay new? Is it annoying to tell everyone Happy New Year next week, or will they just wish I would get over it? Sometimes people stop enjoying the year after a week or two because it isn't so shiny any more.

At a bare minimum, you can keep wishing everyone you see a Happy New Year until the Chinese celebrate theirs. It's the worst kind of ethnocentrism to think that our year is old hat when the Chinese haven't even dropped the ball yet - or whatever they do.

Go ahead and wish people a Happy New Year until the end of June! It's not even half over until then! And if they don't like it, to hell with them. They can go live on the other side of the dateline. Everyone there is bored with the year already.


Up Next: When do I take my lights down? Can't I just turn them off until December? What?

Brian Swimming

After seeing this original post on a friend's collaborative blog, Justin mailed me a large print of the picture he took of me that day. Talk about a time capsule. Justin and I had some fun, weird adventures in Ann Arbor, MI circa 1992-93 and later, unexpectedly, in Olympia, WA 1994-95.




It was just another summer afternoon. Three guys walking around Ann Arbor on some psychedelic mission or other, probably something to do with the Artists' Co-Operative. All I know is that none of us actually owned the pool, and Justin had some cool camera equipment. We were the kind of guys that jumped in someone's pool in our pants in the middle of the afternoon just to get a unique infra red image. And it was the kind of town where that was cool.

Justin snapped this picture of Brian. An image on infra red film in an underwater camera is what you are seeing here, if I remember correctly. But it was just another afternoon. We did some weirder stuff than this later and the next day was usually equally surreal. It was a great summer, all things considered. I had some of the most fun, spontaneous, creative moments of my life in Ann Arbor with people that were like characters out of books.

People ask me where I'm from, and I tell them, "The short answer is 'Michigan.'" I remember Ann Arbor as home, despite my travels and origins elsewhere.

Brian's a dad these days but still has some awesome photographic adventures. http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#/profile.php?id=1100035938

Justin's a dad these days, too, but that doesn't stop him from clowning around.
http://www.jusbytheclown.com

Into the Green Sea

Summers 1995-1997 I painted houses for a living. Along with houses, my crews and I painted farming and commercial buildings and even a church in Saline, MI. I got really good at it for a while, and got as close as I'll ever get to perfecting brush technique. It was no small point of pride to be able to paint trim without tape and to cut one color wall against another color ceiling with nothing but a steady eye and hand. Spraying or rolling siding to leave no lines or roller marks. Details.



But if you spend all day being orderly and precise with huge buckets of colorful liquid, you start thinking it might be more fun to play with it than apply it. I started to wonder what it would be like to have some kind of spontaneous, carefree experience with the paint. What if the paint on the substrate was a record of a really good time you had with paint, instead of creating the representational illusion of a picture or the regular precision of commercial surfaces?




So I started throwing paint. Pouring paint. Dripping paint. Painting with my fingers and hands - literally getting a feel for the paint. Applying paint with anything that had an interesting texture - sponges, plastic forks, leaves and sticks. Adding little objects into the wet paint for texture, or mixing the paint with something like dirt, spackle, anything to give it thickness, weight and texture.



Sometimes there is a plan. Sometimes you just wing it and see what happens. Improvise. Let something happen that has never happened before. Quiet the mental chatter until you can go on cruise control with your intuition. In that sense, it's about opening a channel with a part of your mind where insights and creativity reside.

This creative mind is not simply a decorative luxury of the artist. When I paint, I don't think of myself as an artist. I'm just a guy, having an experience, getting in touch with part of his psyche. A lot of people cut themselves off from this experience because they think it is the exclusive realm of some class of people known as artists. Don't believe the hype. Quit worrying over whether it's art or not - or whether it's good or not - and just get into it. Leave all that self judgment behind and, like a child, get lost in play.

Roses for Django

Happy Tree Friends

Sometimes your brain works too well.
Happy Tree Friends fixes that for you.

http://video.google.com/videosearch?q=happy+tree+friends&sourceid=ie7&rls=com.microsoft:en-US&oe=utf8&um=1&ie=UTF-8&ei=sunvSugCia6xA8WdweYC&sa=X&oi=video_result_group&ct=title&resnum=10&ved=0CDQQqwQwCQ#

2 legal briefs - GBS 205, Legal Environment of Business

Scored 10/10 on these two briefs for Business Law class.

FEDERAL CROP INS. CORPORATION v. MERRILL BROS
U.S. Supreme Court (1947)

Facts: Merrill Bros entered into an insurance contract with the federally-mandated agency Federal Crop Ins. Corporation. Drought destroyed Merrill Bros entire crop of spring wheat reseeded on winter wheat acreage in 1945. The provisions of the legislative act mandating the FCIC expressly prohibit insurance of spring wheat reseeded on winter wheat acreage in the year 1945. Further, the FCIC accepted Merrill Bros application based on the recommendation of a private agency which did not disclose that any of the acreage was reseeded. Lower trial courts rejected FCIC’s argument that its mandate precluded its payment of loss to Merrill Bros for this crop.

Evidence submitted to the jury in the Supreme Court of Idaho in the appeal showed that Merrill Bros had no knowledge of this Regulation of their insurance, and further evidence was submitted that the acting agent Bonneville County Agricultural Conservation Committee had misled Merrill Bros by giving them cause to believe their crop would, in fact, be insured. Jury found for Merrill Bros and the Idaho Supreme court affirmed the resulting judgment against FCIC.

FCIC appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court.

Issue: Is the federal government liable for the actions or claims of private agencies acting on its behalf, in the same way a private company holds liability for its agents?

Rule: The federal government holds no liability for ignorance of its agents nor its agents’ customers regarding the binding terms of contracts entered into with the federal government through that agency, provided the contracts were entered into in accordance with the provisions of the Act legislating such contract, or unless Congress has expressly legislated such liability.

Reasoning: The appearance in the Federal Register of the regulation precluding coverage of Merrill Bros crop serves as legal notice of its binding effect as provided by Congress. It is the responsibility of those entering into contracts with the federal government to accurately ascertain the authority and the claims of any agent acting on behalf of the federal government. The federal government and its duly mandated agencies are not in any way liable for errors and omissions made by private companies acting as their agents until Congress has provided for such liability by legislative act. The court determines that FCIC is not liable for loss in this case, regardless of hardship to Merrill Bros or ignorance on their part of federal regulation.



LA CHANCE v. ERICKSON
U.S. Supreme Court (1998)

Facts: Erickson, et. al. were government employees who made false statements to agency investigators regarding misconduct with which they were charged. They were subject to additional adverse actions based on their making these false statements. Both the Merit Systems Protection Board and the Federal Circuit Court of Appeals judged that the employees could not be additionally sanctioned for these false statements beyond the adverse actions already taken for their misconduct. The Court of Appeals principally cited the Fifth Amendment and several cases they considered precedent in their decision.

Issue: Does the Fifth Amendment’s Due Process Clause preclude a federal agency from sanctioning employees for making false statements during agency investigations of employee misconduct?

Rule: Per Title 5 U.S.C. § 7513(a), a federal agency may take adverse action against a federal employee for making false statements in response to an underlying charge of misconduct, and this Title is consistent with the Fifth Amendment.

Reasoning: Three Reasons support this rule. First, the rule is expressly given in the United States Code. Second, the presence or absence of an oath has no bearing on due process inquiries or federal agency investigations. The Court of Appeals’ reasoning that it is acceptable to make false statements during an agency investigation when not under oath are deemed frivolous. Third, the concept of due process does not include the right to make false statements. Rather, it is intended to provide a meaningful opportunity to be heard. Furthermore, the Fifth Amendment provides the employee in question the choice to simply not answer. The employee may remain silent, but making false statements to a federal agency is not constitutionally nor legally protected. This Court reverses the Court of Appeals’ decision and decides in favor of La Chance.

Surgical Sequence & Fun House

They remove the skin from your right forearm in surgery, and then put it back on. They don't sew it back, just put it there in the right place.

They say not to worry about it. Right. It feels like the pieces of skin are ready to separate and detach every time you move. "Don't worry about it," they tell you.

Finally, someone in a white coat comes to put a layer of brown, stretchy adhesive on your hand. They don't coat the whole arm, but at least it feels a little better.

The next night you're at the fun house.

The fun house is named after the Stooges album. More rooms than you can count pile into the air, becoming tree houses at the very top. It's a fun place to hang out, the fun house - so much so that you've got a room there.

In the room across the hallway, a half dozen or so people in various stages of undress share one king size bed. The door is slightly opened, the sun shines into the room. Guys and girls nap the mid-morning away. You see an old high school friend has joined their cuddle party.

Your lover joins you in your room. She's beautiful. So sad and so beautiful at the same time.

Concert Sequence

The two of you make love in the middle of the afternoon. You go for a drive beside the bay. Water and skyscrapers reflect the sun and sky. It's a beautiful day. She pretends the things you say don't hurt her.

Or maybe they just don't. You two drive together a lot lately. Just a couple of nights ago, she was in the driver's seat.

Derek Trucks plays at this club tonight. He sounds great. How does he get all that sound and speed with a slide? Hundreds of people fill long rows of folding chairs on the dancefloor and on bleachers.

You take out the Little Martin and play along. Derek has a three chord jam going with the band, three major chords hitting Bb, C, and D. It's fun, playing along with Derek. You pay attention now to remember the chords when you wake up.

The little kid in front of you turns around to tell you, "A security guard is coming this way." Kid makes it sound like you are busted for the acoustic jam, right there.

But you look up, and a lot of people are heading for the emergency exit. Somebody might have tripped a silent fire alarm? Security staff helps everyone move out calmly, quietly.

You could say Derek Trucks was on fire tonight.

Columbus Day book review: Conquest of America

Tzvetan Todorov's brilliant examination of the Spanish conquest of Mexico begins with a chapter on Columbus. Aside from revealing deep historical detail, Todorov takes the reader inside the heads of key figures in the drama. He concerns himself not just with external, factual details but also the internal details of the men and women involved: their ethics, their perceptions, and their cultural values.

Todorov's final chapter should perhaps come first, as he makes his ethical preferences very clear in that chapter. He states in plain terms the decisions he made in framing the historical events, of why he dwells so deeply on philosophy, and what we can learn from the situation.

Should you read this engaging and enlightening text, read Todorov's afterword first to get the proper frame of reference. Then, have a dictionary close at hand. Dictionary.com will get you through words like typology, alterity, praxiological, & axiological. Be prepared to apply critical thinking, as opposed to simply following a narrative.

The rewards are a deeper understanding of history, of yourself, of your culture, and much more. The book begs to be re-read. Much of what Todorov says merits lengthy, repeated consideration. But he works on this level constantly, and the impact, the totality, of what he says takes some time to fully sink in.


I got mine at the Phoenix Public Library, whose PhxLib.org makes finding and requesting books a snap.

It's worth buying so you can read it a few times and use it as a reference:
Buy on Amazon

Inglorious Basterds

You find out it's got Nazis in it and you almost don't want to see it.

But wait. We've seen Taratino do Kung Fu. We've seen Taratino do Blaxploitation. We've seen Taratino do Noir Crime. We've see him do B-Movie Horror.

What can he do with the Nazis?

Give them what's coming to them, apparently. A nice couple in their 50's walks out of the movie theater after they scalp the first dude. Poor lady. Well - what did she think she was coming to see? Was this her first Tarantino flick? She missed Kurt Russell and the Stunt Girls in Death Proof? She missed the Crazy 88's vs. the Bride in Kill Bill? She doesn't remember the Gimp?

Lady, people are going to get f'ed up in this flick. It was probably good you left before the....

But not to give it away. What really makes this film tick isn't the liberty it takes with history. If that threw you, check out the opening title: "Once upon a time... in Nazi-occupied France" Tarantino tells you at the beginning it's a fairy tale.

The scenes - presented as Chapters - play like a collection of the greatest war movie scenes ever. Tarantino, with an encyclopedic knowledge of seemingly endless breadth, never sets out to give us a series of jolting "quickies." He lingers. He takes his time. He decompresses the scene in the basement like the Director's cut of Das Boot decompresses the drama of the submarine crew. Right around the time you might be thinking of Das Boot (German for 'The Boat'), up walks the Major with a glass boot full of beer. Doom and tension pervade the scene in contrast to the celebration for a new father in progress. You know how it's going to end way before you see it in the Scotsman's eyes that he knows, too.

You do know how the movie ends. You can tell the intent by the third chapter. What you don't know is who is going to survive and who isn't - who is going to win and who is going to lose - and how they will achieve it. Tarantino throws in enough moving pieces to keep the whole machinery alive and interesting. Some you'll believe could be possible, and some you won't believe at all. But - lighten up. It's just a fairy tale.

The Secret of Human Flight

Douglas Adams has a character reveal the trick to flying in So Long and Thanks For all the Fish: Throw yourself at the ground, and miss.

You think about what Adams said. You start practicing it. Soon you can fly at will. This is it! This time will be different. You know you are dreaming but you go over this secret again and again, practicing the technique until it is at your disposal, ensuring you will remember when you wake up.

Within in seconds of waking, you've forgotten the technique, and spend the rest of the day walking like anyone else. Sometimes resignation and accepting the inevitable are indistinguishable.

Cartwheels

On the way to the abandoned building in the middle of the night, she starts doing cartwheels in the grass.

She’s the most amazingly beautiful lively vibrant fascinating engaging captivating thing ever. Witness this pivotal moment here, around which your entire life revolves like a wheel from adolescence until the end, defining everything that comes before and after.

This isn’t a story you can tell your friends. No narrative shines any light upon the characters or brings them to life. It’s an impressionistic painting. Fuck the thousand words and give me the picture, a photograph of a mosaic in which every tile reflects the light from every other tile.

When you die, that mental picture and all the music and memories and feelings connected to it will vanish into thin air: one moment of incredible beauty that no one else in the universe has or has ever had or will ever have because the only place it lives is inside your neural network. When those cells run out of electricity, they are going to die, and that memory will vanish like it was never here.

This is why guys paint pictures of women and make sculptures of women: because to know that defining moment will just vanish is almost too painful to bear. That moment should live on somewhere, like a diamond, perfect, never decaying, never eroding, outlasting the planets in their orbit, outlasting humanity, outlasting the ability of anyone or anything to even access it and appreciate it, spinning its own self-contained universe of wonder, a fractal generating an endless repetition and mathematical variation of itself over and over again, reflecting itself on all of its surfaces and containing the generative power of everything within itself.

That’s why people create art. Anything else isn’t art; it’s just some nice bullshit to look at. That’s what guys are talking about when they talk about their muses. That’s what drives them to create objects of beauty that will outlast their mortal lives: an obsession, a denial of the limitations of mortality, an irrational belief that something living only between your ears should somehow outlive you.

Campus Sequence

You and your buddy, as played by Ben Affleck, uncover a conspiracy. Walking down white hallways with gray marble tile floors, you discuss your options. The blurry background of a photograph provides a clue: the lockers.

You and Ben find the lockers, opening all of them, not exactly sure what you are looking for. Ben figures it out. One locker has a small magnet on the inside door, a round black magnet encased in some protective layer, a waxy substance like you might expect to find on a circuit board component. He's certain this is what you need. Although you don't discuss the details, your mind races to fill in an explanation for the magnet. Probably, you think, it contains encrypted data that will bring this whole conspiracy down.

The afternoon light is fading to dusk. You head back down the hallway where Ben dashes up a flight of stairs and disappears. You try to follow him. The stairs are white, a narrow spiral leading to a small hole in the ceiling. How did he get through there? You try to squeeze through without falling off the tiny stairs or losing the magnet. The narrow opening pins your arms to your side.

On the other side of the hole, you emerge slowly and uncomfortably through the floor of a second level. The room is a cross between a library and the kind of control room you'd expect to see in a science fiction movie, a command and information center lit by dozens of screens and thousands of tiny lights. Three men sit at desks in a central station, watching you conspicuously emerge from the floor. You make jokes about hoping you don't hurt yourself, trying to look like a regular guy having a problem instead of someone suspicious. They don't seem happy but they make no move to stop you.

But you and Ben are discovered. You are in danger. The two of you go back to the lower hallway as the twilight fades further into night. Soldiers are coming. You run down the hallway and find a side door that branches off in two directions. Ben takes the left and disappears into darkness. You take the right and end up in some kind of bathroom or mop room - it's hard to tell in the dark grey light. Everything is the same dark grey color.

After a short time of silence, you can't resist the urge to peek out and see if the coast is clear. Slowly you advance, out of the room, moving towards the hallway, hesitantly. Something or someone slams into you. You can't see who it is, but it scares the hell out of you. It's the last thing you remember.

You wake up briefly and your chief questions are: who was it, and what happened next? Going back to sleep, you try to resume the dream, only to find out that it was an episode, like a TV show, that centered around the campus-like setting. The next episode begins, picking up in a different place, with a different story, leaving the mystery unsolved.

early memories - part 5

Even as an adult, I still loving bathing outdoors. Perhaps, seeing this pic, you can blame Grampop for getting me on this kick. I also seem to have inherited his preference for wearing nothing but a pair of black shorts all summer long!

This little back porch is unfamiliar to me. By the time my memories start to really form, this area has been replaced by a screened-in patio where my sister and I used to sleep on OH summer nights when the weather was nice, and where we'd have lunches and dinners with Grammy & Grampop.

In the backyard Grammy had a small stone bird bath. I guess I wasn't the only one who liked a bath in the yard! The bird bath was always planted with some flowers and mint. I remember Grampop picked some mint and told me I could eat it. He was quite the jokester and I didn't believe him at first. But heck, I tried it anyway. It was good! After that I would enjoy picking some fresh mint every now and then and having a taste.

Grampop always liked a good joke. He loved a hearty laugh. I remember he and Dad would get to telling stories and sometimes he'd laugh so hard he'd cry at the dinner table. That sense of humor was passed on to me, too.

I'm not sure what line of work Grampop was in when this picture was taken. Before he became the neighborhood mailman, which is what I remember most clearly, he worked at NCR - National Cash Register. Remember them? I doubt it. But in 1974, when I was 1 year old, they commercialized the first bar code scanners. They also announced the first fully transistorized business computer in 1957, and one of their guys, John Lanning, invented the Liquid Crystal Display (LCD) in 1968.

If I recall my family history correctly, Grampop worked with Grampa at NCR before my Mom & Dad started dating in high school. That's how it was in small town America in the 1960's, regardless of what you might have seen on all the goofy documentaries about the decade. Xenia, OH never had a counter-culture movement or whatever the hippies remember of the 1960's. It was just your basic slice of small-town Americana. It still is! I would go out of my mind with boredom if I had to live there today, but in the summers of my childhood it was a cool place to hang out.

Grampop always seemed to be well known in the community not only because he delivered the mail but because of his involvement in the church. He was an honest, hard-working man who treated people - his friends, his family, his wife, and his community - with kindness and respect.

In later years, he set up a wood shop in the basement where Monica and I used to play, creating a gorgeous series of shadow boxes and jewelry boxes for family members. I recall that when a local church closed its doors, he scored a bunch of the pews. They were made of solid oak, and he put them to good use in his wood shop.

I also remember that he made his own wine in the basement. He grew grapes in the backyard and had jars of wine fermenting in the basement. He was never a big drinker though. I hardly ever saw him drink, and never saw him drunk. He just seemed to enjoy the process.

Grampop would tell us stories from his childhood every now and then, and it really put things in perspective for me. He was one of many children, though I don't recall meeting them except at his brother's funeral with Dad in my teens. Grampop was a kid during the Great Depression of the 1930's. They did not have indoor plumbing, which seemed like a whole other universe to a child of the 1970's. It is no wonder that his quaint and comfortable house in the little town of Xenia was such a comfort to him after a childhood of poverty and hard times. When people complain to me these days about how hard they have it or whatever little thing they are freaking out about, I recall my grandfather and his childhood, and wonder if we really have any right to complain - or even worry.

Grandparents are like history books. Ours watched nearly the entire 20th century unfold in all its chaotic, rapidly changing glory.

Hotel Sequence

Someone stole the steak. That wasn’t right. First, it arrived in glistening plastic wrap with a plate full of food and then? Vanished.

Seems par for the course for this crappy hotel room again. The cubby hole in the vaulted wall, a double desk crammed into the space. After the bed, there isn’t much left over. You have to laugh. The hotel, quaintly picturesque from the outside, reveals this crappy old room again. But it’s not a totally bad room. You can live with it for a little bit.

Check this out. You’ve got a roommate. Maybe he stole the steak. Maybe it was Liz, at the foot of the stairs, discussing computers enthusiastically. But, no - she seemed genuinely interested, and the entire party in the ballroom downstairs was quite supportive.

Then you see her picture. This girl you knew… when? It was the last time you were here. You’d forgotten it, like a dream. But it comes back to you, like a dream. You said good bye to her on the balcony of the hotel. You loved her then, and you love dreaming her memory now from this photo.

You couldn’t help but leave and it was okay. It had something to do with the atomic bomb you worked on, living in this coastal paradise, enjoying the weather, building the bomb with the professor and the genius. Times were simpler than, in the days of the bomb.

But that was years ago. Back when you and Joe Pesci stopped in the street to discuss his newspaper – a touching moment. Or the time you and Dave joked about the Presidio but you were nowhere near. And the car disappeared, but you carried on piggyback. Those were good times.

This hotel. It’s different from the house. The house has hidden levels, too. Places you have trouble finding again. You find a door to it from somewhere else every now and then, a place revealing itself connected to a distant room in the house. Sometimes you only realize later that two unrelated settings are connected by doorways to the house.

Sometimes you find yourself in a room in the house for which you find no door. You know you’re in the house, but not how the room connects to anything else. The door in the fire room leads downstairs through a claustrophobic’s nightmare, but the walls don’t close in. They lead to the basement. It’s hidden, but you can get there more than once. It’s just the strange location, the out of the way spot, the featureless hallway with the closet door that masks the fire room.

Writing Assignment - Persuasive paper

Here's my final assignment in Composition 101. Interestingly, the instructor provided a list of forbidden topics - most of which I would have loved to tackle. It was tempting to submit a revised "Let the Robots Do It." But I chose this rather safe topic, knowing that she's a cat lover. I was tempted to take the negative side of the argument - it's a plot to chip everyone, man!!! - but government conspiracies were on the forbidden topic list. Minimum 1 citation in MLA format; minimum 700 words.

Microchips Reunite Pets and Owners Safely, Conveniently, & Affordably

A New York City couple lost their dog Sadie for weeks. The dog travelled 63 miles away where it was found and kept tied up. Hamilton Township Animal Control staff, responding to a concerned call, scanned Sadie for a microchip. Sadie’s owners’ contact came up in the national database, and they soon reunited with Sadie. Like millions of pet owners in America, they believe “that this story would have probably not had the happy ending it did if it were not for this invaluable service” (Sadie Thanks HomeAgain). Microchipping reunites pets with pet owners when they need each other most: when a pet gets lost. A convenient neighborhood clinic now offers a safe, affordable way to microchip pets, including a 24-hour hotline and pet insurance to cover any medical emergencies for lost pets.

Pet owners want to know how the device becomes implanted, and whether or not it causes safety concerns. Many people fear the procedure is surgical. However, the procedure at the neighborhood clinic is based on “injection, not incision” (Walsh), and only stresses a pet as little as any routine vaccination. The small size of the microchip further reduces owners’ fears about discomfort to their animals. The microchip for pets is only about 12mm wide – the size of a grain of rice. This innocuous device causes no irritation or discomfort to pets. Furthermore, the neighborhood clinic uses a successful method proven first in clinical trials and, eventually, in neighborhoods all across America. The microchip is considered so safe that in the United States alone “more than 8 million pets have had microchips implanted, resulting in more than 8,000 pets being returned to their families each week” (Proulx 1). The neighborhood clinic also holds accreditation with the AAHA, The Standard of Veterinary Excellence.

Pets are treated well while they are at the clinic, but they feel safest at home. Will it be convenient for owners to drop off and pick up their pet? The good news is that microchipping a pet takes only a few hours, and pets need no medical attention – just some good rest and time with the family. Neither do pets need any special preparation for the procedure due to its non-surgical nature. The simple, non-invasive process passes very quickly. Pet owners who have had their pets microchipped report that they “picked up [their] dog about 2 hours later” (Hidder). Both local Humane Society branches and private clinics offer the service, making it easy to obtain in almost any city. Microchipping at a neighborhood clinic makes the process very convenient for both pets and their owners.

While it may seem that such a beneficial process could only come at great expense, it is actually quite affordable on any budget. The neighborhood clinic normally charges $65.00 which “includes $14.99 to register with the service [HomeAgain] and activate your membership” (Walsh). That $14.99 annual fee keeps owners registered in HomeAgain’s national database for a year, a database easily renewed with current contact information by phone or online, and also includes lost pet insurance. HomeAgain provides members with a 24-hour hotline for lost pet or immediate pet health emergencies. This month, the neighborhood clinic offers 50% discounts on microchipping pets. Additionally, new clients to the neighborhood clinic receive 50% off coupons for complete medical exams. Pet owners should definitely take advantage of this affordable opportunity to insure their pets’ health and future safety now.

While the clinic believes the procedure and the microchip itself present little to no risk, one study implies otherwise. This single study, conducted by Keith Johnson in 1996 at the Dow Chemical Co. in Midland, MI, led the research team to believe that the transponders in RFID (radio frequency identification device) microchips induced malignant tumors in some lab mice and rats. Despite these troubling findings, the FDA approves the devices for implantation in human beings. Little to no evidence exists to back up this single study. “In fact,” says Scott Silverman, VeriChip Corp.’s chairman and CEO, “for more than 15 years we have used our encapsulated glass transponders with FDA approved anti-migration caps and received no complaints regarding malignant tumors caused by our product” (Lewan). The FDA has never recanted its endorsement of the microchip.

In the final analysis, microchipping a pet at the neighborhood clinic this month just makes sense for a pet’s health and safety. The procedure presents minimal health and safety concerns and enjoys widespread public acceptance. The conveniently-located neighborhood clinic provides inexpensive microchipping and partners with a national service to provide discounted insurance and registration. Pets are treated well and home soon. Most importantly, pet owners can rest assured that if their pet ever gets lost, they have a far greater chance of reuniting.


Works Cited

Hidder, Joseph, dog owner. Telephone interview. 25 Oct. 2009.

Lewan, Todd. “Chip Implants Linked to Animal Tumors.” Washington Post. 8 Sep. 2007.

Proulx, Dr. Jeffrey. “Your pet's safe return may depend on what type of microchip he has.” Oakland Tribune. 22 May 2004

“Sadie Thanks Home Again.” Home Again > Reunion Stories. 20 Sep. 2009.

Walsh, Jennifer, administrative staff, East Maryland Animal Hospital. Telephone interview. 25 Oct. 2009.

Three Poems

1. Steam Train Saxophone

Squawking, squealing
Soaring, surging, he rides four chords
All the way to the end of the world and back

In a haze of bass, beer, and blues, it feels a lot like
Fucking, and dying, and being born for the very first time
Without stopping to think or question

“Fascination without rationalization,” he likes to say
Holding the iron horse to his mouth
And becoming its god


2. 600 Miles

From 600 miles away I catch
A crystal-clear breath of
Ann Arbor Indian Summer
Icicle colors rushing through my blood

Down South U at sunset
The air as fresh as being born
The sky catching fire
On the wick of the Sun


3. Autumn Sister

Autumn Sister, I know the color of your inner burning flame.
I have looked into your heart with all my senses.

Yours was the hand encircling my head when I was born,
Guarding me from harm through that world into this.

Seeing your face at that moment,
I could tell the place where it stopped and my own began.

Your fingerprints have been recorded more carefully than ink.
Leaves in piles on the ground.

The scent of leaves borne on the wind,
Swirling in chaos before they ever settle.

Burning wood. The smell of smoke.
The color of your spirit.

Autumn Sister.
Midwife.
Moon Sister.
Love.

Three Views

1. Klamath Overlook

Who says the ground is silent?
Ask the ones who live inside her to tell us what they hear.
Fire elicits song, but the song, once sung, will fall to earth
Joining the cells of every story ever told.

Who says the ground is silent?
She holds it all inside her, nothing ever lost.
Each life is her tongue,
Every stone, her syllable.

2. I-70 Sunset

Running west forces the sun back into the sky
Ascending backwards upon its arc
A cracked egg, fluorescent
Dripping into the bowl of god’s breath

Liquid movie, time reverses
The sky catches fire on the wick of the sun
If we all hold hands and run
We force the sun back into the sky


3. Mississippi River from an Airplane

O timeless rapture of the Mississippi,
With what gleaming eyes would
Twain have witnessed thee from on high!

You are our Ganges, blessing us with your mercy,
Though bloated with the bodies of the dead,
Having confessed their frailty to the well-spring of the divine.

Below, the streets are etched into the forest-land
Like the tunnels of insects
Revealed beneath the peeling away of bark.

Leisurely hurtling towards Atlanta,
Gracing the tops of clouds,
At last we break the cover, ascending.