that's all. (words would detract. besides, i'm already over 1000.)

the minute (and the mountain)

"I am always fighting for the next

minute," I tell my wife.

then she begins to tell me

how mistaken I am.

wives have a way of not

believing what their husbands

tell them,

the minute is a very sacred

thing.

I have fought for each one since my

childhood.

I continue to fight for each one.

I have never been bored or

at a loss what to do next.

even when I do nothing,

I am utilizing my time.

why people must go to

amusement parks or movies

or sit in front of tv sets

or work crossword puzzles

or go to picnics

or visit relatives

or travel

or do most of the things

they do

is beyond me.

they mutilate minutes,

hours,

days,

lifetimes.

they have no idea of how

precious is a

minute.

I fight to realize the essence

of my time.

this doesn't mean that

I can't relax

and take an hour off

but it must be

my choosing

to fight for each minute is to

fight for what is possible within

yourself,

so that your life and your death

will not be like

theirs.

be not like them

and you will

survive.

minute by

minute.

-Bukowski

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The whole carpe-ing our diem thing seems so ridiculously cliche I almost don't want to comment on things. But besides flying into dangerous us-vs-them territory, Bukowski points something out here that I kinda don't want to miss. How much time do we spend just waiting for the next thing to happen? Time is a precious commodity (not to use such language, but it's true). We watch tv, do crossword puzzles, fill up our time with time-fillers. The obvious question is what could we be doing instead of this, not just anticipating, but actually filling the minutes with things, deliberately. Instead of anticipating the next thing, to fill up the minutes with things worth doing in and of themselves. Admiteedly, Bukowski seems incredibly pretentious(perhaps just reading Bukowski seems incredibly pretentious as well)--and clearly not caring about the lives of the people around him--but the idea of using every minute is kinda captivating.

[That being said, I have incredibly fond memories of going to the movies with friends and family, doing crossword puzzles with the same, seeing my relatives, I think picnics are AWESOME, and I'm pretty sure I'm in some kind of travel mode at the moment--so who is he, who am I, to say that any one moment is more precious than the next?? Perhaps it's in the way that we enjoy and treasure the minutes, rather than the task of what it is we're doing, that could be important]

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I'm also currently reading the characteristically cliche (for the stereotypical stuff white people like type), Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and Pirsig, for his part, has ideas about this, too--

"Mountains should be climbed with as little effort as possible and without desire. The reality of your own nature should determine the speed. If you become restless, speed up. If you become winded, slow down. You climb the mountain in an equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion. Then, when you're no longer thinking ahead, each footstep isn't just a means to an end but a unique event in itself. This leaf has jagged edges. This rocks looks loose. From this place the snow is less visible, even though closer. These are the things you should notice anyway. To live only for some future goal is shallow. It's the sides of the mountain which sustain life, not the top. Here's where things grow."

But maybe the anticipation makes that singular moment, when the top of the mountain is attained, that much better, that much more incredible. When the entire time your focus is on the peak, the peak becomes even more than that, even more transcendent. Could this be? Or could it be that when the collection of minutes before the peak, in the growing on the way up, combine together along with the moment at the peak, that is the more transcendent experience? (And who's to say "transcendence" is the point, anyways?)

Perhaps to figure this out, I should go to a peak this weekend. Oh wait, I am! Stahl peak, here I come, pretentious philosophies and all. (Though I seem to lying in anticipation of said peak, and in this minute, not considering the minute at hand, but the ones in the future...hmmm. We'll see, I guess.)

There are two distinct thought processes

...that come about when a 2,000-pound buffalo is charging at you from far away.

The first is, roughly, "WHOA that is such an amazing buffalo. And it's really close! And HUGE! Wow, it's coming across the road! This is so COOL!"

The second, also highly entertaining, and with a faster heartbeat to go along with it, is, again, roughly, "HOLY SHIT THERE'S A BUFFALO HEADING RIGHT FOR ME AND IT'S SO CLOSE I CAN SEE INTO ITS EYES AND--MOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE!!!!!!!!!!!".

I learned this today. Firsthand. Yeeeeeah Montana.

I really like trees

"Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you." -David Wagoner

I spent most of last weekend in the wilderness of the Kootenai National Forest. Doing what? Mostly identifying weeds and scat. It was awesome.

In the almost nonstop rain (worst-looking laundry I've ever seen, pre-wash), and plenty of fire (laundry with the smell to match it) there's so many of those epic moments that for some reason, often get lost in the academia and self-centered focus of that normal life thing.

In 24 hours, the serenity of a clear blue mountain lake and seeing a bald eagle fly. Talk about a Rocky Mountain High, Montana.

Then thinking a flower is really cool-looking, seeing it near everywhere, and asking what it is, to find out that not only is it edible, but also rather delicious.

Hundreds of awesome-looking rocks in the creek (crick, in Montanan), and a sweet quartz-infused black one up the trail, near our bear hang (which took two hours to figure out, gotta say).

Looking up scientific names of all those ridiculously cool flowers and alders and weeds and trees, newfound knowledge filling the gaps I knew my brain was saving for something great.

Speaking of which, since when were scientific names interesting to me in the least bit? I don't remember a time when bio really made sense or brought wonder--it was always an AP test to take or the reason I woke up at 5:30. But outside, looking closely and seeing that every leaf means something different, being able to tell a spruce from a fir when one of them bites back--there's wonder in it.

A wonder that shouldn't be dismissed by taking science classes purely for the "Sc" credit on the transcript, only to rush into another humanities course because "they're so much cooler". That's not to say I'm wholeheartedly devoted to science, but I've remembered not to dismiss it. In the words of Emerson, to believe and adore--that which is incredible, though oftentimes ignored for its ubiquity.

And the wonder that comes in the forest, that feeling I've always seemed to have outside, maybe this science thing, this forestry thing, is the opportunity to learn more about it, to stand in awe and wonder at the trees and rocks and wildflowers and RAIN (so much rain. seriously.), letting that newfound wonder rush in like the waterfall above those trees and stand wide-eyed, thirsty for more.

Oh science. You've got me again.