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.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

...I don’t. Well not usually. Cause I don’t run.

Generally, it’s because I’m afraid I won’t be fast enough, won’t keep up. Or I’ll be out of breath or red in the face, something like that. Even when I play sports that involve running, I try not to run too much. Played a non-running “sport” for all of high school, and always come up with an excuse not to go to the gym when suitemates ask or the opportunity presents itself. You could definitely say I’m lazy about it, or even just scared of trying something new, something that could possibly not work out or even be painful (gasp). My family isn’t typically the kind that runs much (with the key exception of my amazing brother, who ran the LA marathon this year)--they'll bike or hike or something like that. Always kinda wished I could run, though, be more in shape (who doesn’t, I guess), but shied away from any attempts to actually do something about it. Being an outdoorsy type, one who is decent at sports, I never tell anyone about it—come up with another excuse and make another comment most of the time, avoid signing up for IMs that require too much of that running stuff, things like that.

BUT they say it takes 21 days to form a habit and I’m on day 18—not running every day, but exercising all of em, and running at least every other day, with lots of other cardio in-between. It’s not perfect; I usually wait for everyone else to clear out of the workout room (comparing your newfound ability to run to a smokejumper who has it in their job description to do so for an hour a day is not the most pleasant of experiences), or make sure the trails outside aren’t too full of people. It’s definitely brought out plenty of sweat (and if you ask my parents, they’ll tell you I’ve never particularly enjoyed that aspect of a hot summer day) and a few days when I just didn’t want to, or was nice and sore the next morning.

I’ve come into kind of a routine with it, though—bout a half hour after I eat dinner, go for a run on the trails outside the jumper center or (more likely given how often it’s been raining) on the treadmill. Shower after that, read or watch seasons of tv shows I like that I’ve missed out on during school before I head to bed. I’m not normally one for routine, but it seems to be working (so far, that is).

Thought I’d hit a *major* bump in the road on the day when my mp3 player died, not even turning on given the lack of battery power. However, as often happens, when one thing goes wrong it leads to new discoveries, and that day I realized that I can read while I run (if I have a large enough print book and the lights are on, that is). Helps to focus on something else, and I can get a good deal of reading done in the workout room—conveniently enough two doors from my dorm room here.

Still don’t run well, don’t run fast, don’t even run that much, but I get the sense that that’s not the entire point. I remain proud when I can run a solid three miles without stopping—that’s a good day. Not quite a marathon, but hey, it’s better than I’ve ever done before. And I'm still working on it.

The question, of course, is whether or not this will stick—not just for the rest of the summer but into that crazy crazy school year thing, when I no longer have leisurely nights to spend as I please and time to run and shower and relax every day. Leaves me wondering if I can manage some kind of routine when I get back to the hectic world of school, with something to do every minute and a boatload of those excuses keeping me from the gym still well within reach and solidified in the muscle memory of my vocabulary. Hopefully the muscle memory of my, well, muscles, will win out instead. We’ll see, I guess.

A day in Missoula, by the numbers

7 days I’ve been here, and

1 gorgeous one without any rain (today)

3 bookstores visited

2 books checked out from

1 library

0 dollars spent on the bus (free for election day)

15 on a bike, for

30 days (and likely a few extra, cause the guy was really nice)

8 (or was it 9? -ish) random awesome stores perused, and

1000s of cool things looked at in them

Dozens of restaurants passed by, just

1 eaten at, though (the Hob Nob, pretty solid veggie burger, with apricot chutney)

7 hours (I think) spent going around a huge city of

68,000, (which in Orange County would be something like the

18th in size, and even in Connecticut, the

11th)

Here and now, though, I'm in Montana. Utterly gorgeous Montana. Missoula, Montana, to be exact. It’s a tree-hugging, Rocky Mountain lover’s paradise, and I’m relaxing on that desert island. Or, rather, mountaintop.

i-n-s-p-i-r-e-d

.
What's in a word--especially one like that. INSPIRED. It's one of those words that seems like it could change a whole life if it wanted to. Epic, somehow. But I tend to think that little things, 5-minute-things, inspire the most. Maybe not world-changing, but those moments that leave you reeling, leave you feeling, writing in your head, changed in some perhaps imperceptible way. Not Tony Robbins, syrupy-sweet, inspired, just...well, far more than pedestrian?

And in the midst of an epic academic year that, at least this semester, has left me academically less-than-well-motivated and overdoing everything else (as usual), those moments that leave apathy in the dust of the pickup truck on a country road? Those are worth it. Like, say, some Saturday afternoon when I had who-knows-how-much work to do and who-knows-how-many unwritten papers.

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1:07 (ish) pm. Collecting money to keep the overflow homeless shelter open for the fall.

I hate fundraising. Say that all the time, with that half-meaning-it, want-to-get-out-of-doing-fundraising-work (especially-when-it's-on-the-weekend) mantra. "I'm a doer, not a fundraiser." Whatever bs that is. "I'll just leave it to fundraising coordinators--they're so good at it! Me? Just another Dwight Hall kid, like the service, hate the money aspect of it."

Alas, of course, this weekend, with all the work I have to do piling up my brain cells; "We're fundrasing, guys--one last hurrah, Saturday and Sunday, all I'm asking is half an hour from each of you."

Crap. I've gotten out of almost everything thus far in the asking-for-money category. Here goes nothing. Out into the half-raining New Haven Saturday, two of us on the 12:30 to 1:30 shift. Par-tay.

Back to 1:07 (ish). Almost everyone just walks by, occasionally half-smiling an apologetic "Sorry--no cash on me". Totally true, best of intentions, still leaves no dinero in the jar. Less often (and more frustrating), complete ignorance. As if they thought if they could just avoid eye contact, then any hint of that pesky guilt would just wash itself away.

Along the way, a few shows of generosity that send our hearts jumping a bit--5 bucks and a "thanks for doing this, it's really important", an army officer who spends a good 3 minutes digging through his pockets to give "whatever he can"--seeming to search for some spare change or a few ones, only to find a $20 and hand it over, without a second thought. Good moments. But on the whole, mostly empty stares. "Sorry, not today"s and the sidewards glance of a rushed college student off to the gym or a conference attendee wondering why New Haven has such issues with homelessness when it clearly has plenty of money at that big ol' Ivy League school (we wonder this, too).

Kind of out of nowhere comes a man, clearly down on his luck (or whatever the most convenient/PC euphemism for it is nowadays), and asks, "but isn't the overflow closed? Closed a few days ago..." Says it like someone who knows the place well, has been there--perhaps that few days ago.

"Yeah, it just closed, we're raising money to keep it open this fall, so it doesn't happen again..." Our response, clearly rehearsed, meaningful nonetheless.

He ponders this for a minute, and as he says "ahh, I see" we catch a glimpse of the half-toothless smile he dons, no doubt setting off a chain of reactions in our heads about asking this perchance homeless man for money to "help the homeless", however pure our intentions.

Then, just as my brain starts churning, wondering if he'll be one of those "I'll-hang-around-and-talk-for-the-rest-of-the-afternoon" types--not uncommon, and certainly not unwelcome, just one we know well--the guy digs into his pocket, slowly pulls out two dollar bills, kind of weighs 'em in his hands to see if he can give out of this complete inabundance, and as he starts to place a dollar in the jar, goes,

"Any way I could get 75 cents back?"

"Wha--yes, yes, of course, um...here, let me grab some quarters for you...thank you so much, thank you," stumbles one of our voices as our hands fumble through the jar to finds the coins and hand them to him.

"Yeah, I might need it," he says, and goes on his way, up York street on what's likely been another rainy day without much shelter.

Jess, my fundraising buddy for the day, and I look at each other as he walks away, and both know we're thinking the same crazy thing.

"I'm seriously starting to cry right now," she says, then proceeds to completely empty the contents of her wallet into out jar--an act which, for some reason, hadn't occurred to either of us up until that point.

Me? I'm speechless. Stuck there, hands halfway to do the exact same thing when I realize there's no wallet in my bag (who needs one for brunch and fundraising, really?), still not comprehending what's just happened.

There's this mixed bag of feeling both utterly helpless at what just happened and wanting to yell at everyone on the street and ask why oh why can our abundance not help?

The only thing left to do at this point, at least from my perspective, is to beg and plead with everyone on the street now for every cent they can give. All the discomfort and "I hate fundraising", nice and quiet Andrea aside, it's all "Sir, please would you donate today? The shelter just closed and it's really important..." Left, right, and center.

No one's really giving any differently. Still a bunch of blank stares, half-grumbles about "I give through my church" (again, true and fantastic way to give). A bunch more "Really, if I wasn't paying with my credit card, I'd..."

Nothing that noticeable, giving-wise. We probably raised less than 70 bucks in that hour.

Jess and I, though, didn't even see the money in the jar at the end of our hour. That guy, that 25 cents, seeing him talking to us and then walk up York street like...well there's nothing to compare it to, really. The image is still stuck in my brain.

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I don't think inspiration even has to be a positive thing. Maybe just straying from the humdrum of the everyday. Something that makes you think, makes you do things differently, makes you less apathetic. Like a homeless guy giving money to the shelter. It's good stuff.
.