It’s been pretty dry for the last two months except for that banging thunderstorm last week and the tame rain now. Last week’s storm sent cracks loud enough for me to feel and set my cat and dog a-scattering. Two months is about the same amount of time we’ve (the man and I) been lucky enough to get to know Rumo, our very own rescue.

I’ve developed a relationship with the space behind my apartment, a hilly piece of land surrounded by one high stone-fence and one low stone-wall. Some trees. A lot of trash (which I will clean up after these damn dirty residents). The area’s true function is a large run-off. There’s this perfect stretch at the bottom of the slope that serves as a great dog run; also, we’ve turned it into the dog doody domain.

run-off, doody domain, dog run, pond: it's all that stuff.

Now, this run-off served its purpose last week with what turned into an instant pond. During the pouring rain, big drops bounced and Rumo wouldn’t allow his own release to bounce, too (side note: must train to pee in scary thunderstorm). This overflow was gone by late afternoon. The water magically disappeared and a spongy ground greeted Rumo and I.

Water is a life-giver. It is also a life-taker. The taking, I didn’t notice, until a few days later. While Rumo ran around, doing canine things like sticking his nose into the dirt and lifting a pointer paw, I stood on the low stone wall, the height of a step, and took note of a debris pile of branches and twigs along the wall.

Nonchalantly, I saw a shiny thing from afar. “Hmm,” I thought to myself, “pearly and spirally.” My eyes re-focused. Yup, a snail shell about 1-inch long. I bent over to take a closer look. It turned into this magic-eye trick when I took in the breadth of the pile and realized there were way more than that one 1-inch long shell. There were multiple others, half the size, and over again, half of that half size.

A snail graveyard. “How many,” I wondered, “were there?” In a loose field-science method, I counted how many were within the area of my hand in one corner. I came up with 10 snail shells and counted how many of my hand made up the cluster. About 30. Then I looked at the height which was about ½ of an inch. I estimated 2 layers of shells. The result: 600 snail shells total.

The observed debris pile wasn’t alone, an even-larger deposit was further along in the corner of the lot. Mass graves.

Death laid all around me. I looked over at Rumo and was thankful he was alive. When we got him from Austin Pets Alive!, we found out he was on the waiting list to be euthanized at another shelter. They rescued him, and then we found him hopping around in his cage, full of energy.

A perfectly healthy, delightful, and wonderful dog. I’ve loved him all along. But that love has only grown and finally broke heavy through the clouds in the form of raindrops. Even as others were dying, he was living.

Object of my affection and this blog post.

Now, I’m a thousand miles away from that beach not contemplating another tattoo but my life. It’s a fine thing to have a birthday. And even a finer thing to have a golden one. 26 years on day 26. My family of two just became four. With a place of our own came the cat and the dog. With all the love around me creating such a safe place, I must admit, from my inner sanctuary, that I have not done enough to cultivate my own passions.

Epiphanies come far and few.

It isn’t where you are but what you make of it. What I do here can be duplicated anywhere. I was always blaming the external place for the nothing doing when all I had to do was look inward. What do you do when you have no easy on-switch for action? I suppose find something to light that fire with.

The flint can be me and the kindle made of spanish moss, be Austin. While the place isn’t to blame for the nothing doing, it can be my palette. This place is full of energy. Creative energy I could harvest as long as I sink my eye-teeth into it.

A lot of things have been running through my head these last few years especially aimed at my desire/motivation/need/want to do something that is completely not ordinary.

All things point to art. I want to take my pinky finger and send it into waves over the palm of my other hand- Art. With that creation, the buds of my hands move towards my chest and splash into a warm sensation rushing up towards my head and morph the spread of fingers into a pair of chinese fans that I peer over- Inspiration. Fire. Light. Paper. Angles. Exposure. Photography.

I’m pretty sure there’s some talent in that pinky finger.

Zoom in upon Washington and the roots of my relationship with the water box. The shower-abhorring is probably linked to my childhood (aren’t they all?) there. You see, I lived in this antique house that was powered by oil or a wood furnace you had to constantly feed every hour or so.

Feeding the monster in 2010. Not much has changed. (Where is the future?)

Therefore, the heat was not kept going throughout nights. Waking up in the morning meant the heat had yet to penetrate the house. Getting out of bed was a chore. To me, chore equals waking up in a dreamy cocoon and being forced from it to make a short (but horrible) six feet sprint over the frozen floor to the equally chilly bathroom with MY SOUL SPLINTERING IN ICE CRYSTALS (chance capture is pictured below) along the way.

Self-Portrait

With the completion of submerging myself in steam and turning my skin red, the same race back was necessary. My sopping body had to brace for the cold. Perhaps taking a shot of vodka a la (video below: drunk seal man.. wait for the end)-

and holding my towel between my teeth would have prepared me better to suffer the icicle saws through all points of my body.

My relationship with showering to start is iffy. On top of all that, even though I don’t have much more important things to do with my time (reading and petting the cat), I’m not one for daily repetitions.

The clothing removal, the squeezing of bottles, the scrubbing of hair and body, the rinsing, the shaving, the drying, the clothing selection decision making, the putting on of clothes, and the list goes on. I do want to add that I’ve nearly given up the shaving of the legs (FREEDOM!!).

I realize this process is a part of living and taking care of yourself. I get the same way about food prepping, cooking, chewing, and dish washing sometimes, but I digress.

I belong in the future of The Jetsons slash Star Trek where people go through people-washes, machines zap food into creation, and everything is easy except the interstellar warfare and strife.

I’m headed up the flight and repeating to myself things I should say; lest I confront l’spirit d’esclaier upon the end. When I place my hand upon the jamb and put the little piggies in the door, I’m just about done running the words in my mind on a treadmill.

The blogger’s marathon party is ongoing and all I have to do is duck the yellow rope to join in. Let this be my warm-up stretch. Be seeing you all soon on my first leg.

One of my favorite places was very early in the journey. Our first stop and our first campground was in the far northwest of Colorado. We drove 13 miles down down down a gravel road and stayed there for 2 nights next to Steamboat Rock on the Yampa river in the canyons of Dinosaur National Monument Park and it was anything but a miasma-

June 10-12, 2010

Feathery eyelashes sweep the rolling jagged land in the distance. Eyelids filled with heavy pocketful of tears looms above, they are not filled with tears of joy nor sorrow for they nourish and are freely given. In an arena of striated rock cliff-faces winds the swift river of Yampa. The waters already carved a knob of land eons ago setting a straighter path. Nearby a looming hunk of stone now forces the river to carve around. Eventually even stones of a sangfroid manner crumble in composure under the million particles of water that finely combs and takes away patiently over the metronome of seasons. Tick-tock time is but a human creation. The earth of life is the noumenon and the phenomenon of the flow of temperature and light. Out of touch, but not out of place, a sense of order is regained away from the synthetic lights and the grasping of contact.

Big Earth Small Man

Echo Park Campground view

The place held overwhelming beauty but it was also a dangerous place. I had come to understand that my car with all its fine machinery can’t do everything. At least not in red clay and the rain. She stuttered coming ’round the mountain when she came. We had made it for 12 miles and on the steep part my tires spun sugar and were caked. When we slogged uphill to the end to the main road, I stamped my foot, for it was cold, and I was also peeved that we were so close and yet, so far.

Josh and I switched off caping ourselves in my tent tarp and as my friend coined it well, I “felt like Frodo” at least just for a while. No cars came by and I became soaked and froze my digits trying to wave down the first car that would come. There was immense fog and wind covering the verdure. Bleak beauty. Once a car containing a pair kindly strangers was flagged down and sent to get help, I went back to the car, blasted the heat, and helplessly played chess.

We had a second stroke of luck and a Honda Element from Oregon holding even more wonderful strangers by the name of Dan and Molly came to our rescue when they pulled aside us. They had just come from the same campgrounds as us and thought we had made it out safely. All the other cars we saw there were smartly 4x4s. Dan had bought a new rope that week just in case and he handily helped tow us out all the while wearing Crocs.

We got stuck at around 10:15 am. As we were being towed out, it was exactly 12:34 and that put a smile on my face.

On the road back, we passed the ranger and explained that we made it, rather giddily. She gave us a rather stern and scary face. The next car we passed was this massive tow truck and all I could think of was the amazing rush of making it through a deluge up a slippery mountain.

The Rescuers and Rescuees

]]> http://shefrolics.wordpress.com/2010/08/25/well-be-singing-hallelujah-when-she-comes/feed/ 6 i_frolic cliffface echopark rescued http://shefrolics.wordpress.com/2010/07/29/visit-dyusa-org/ http://shefrolics.wordpress.com/2010/07/29/visit-dyusa-org/#comments Thu, 29 Jul 2010 19:52:53 +0000 i_frolic http://shefrolics.wordpress.com/?p=220 ]]> Guest Post Excerpt:
Imagine my hands making an O shape around my eyes keeping me closed in on one kind of vision. I am like a horse on a carriage. Horses have blinkers by their eyes in the city to keep distractions at bay. I am, through apathy and indifference, by choice and by society, blinded to these things that make me cringe and sigh. Continue to read at- Seeing Upside-Down {Guest Post}

As a part of my road trip, I stopped in Philadelphia for a deaf youth camp based on leadership and activism. I didn’t know what to expect before I got there. It was a mind-blowing experience to meet others who cared as much about the world as I do and could all communicate on an equal level. I look forward to making a stand for myself and representing the deaf community at large. To read more of my guest post, click on the link above or visit www.DYUSA.org

I find myself in a colonial house packed with men. I am one, they are six. We are all of the same age on different walks of life but we’ve found each other in the same place. The commonality present is the fact we’re all still seeking that peace of mind.

One wants to be a spy
the other programs games.
There’s the happy, the anticipating, the sunburnt, and the watchful.

Every generation has a few defining moments that changes the world. Mine knows September 11th and most recently, the BP spill. In nearly every city I’ve gone through thus far(chicago-illinois rochester-new york bennington-vermont new london-connecticut philadelphia-pennsylvania) we discuss this human-made disaster. This summer I am being supported by my own dependence upon fuel, driving across the country.

Does peace of mind appear when you decide to stop being neutral? According to Dante, the worst kind of hell is reserved for these that maintain their aloofness, never deciding what is right or wrong, never standing up for what they believe in. I have been proactive in my own life but have yet to participate and contribute to the world around me. It never feels like I can make a difference. But I can be that penny to complete 999,999.99.

I’m so sick of talking about the spill. So sick of railing against these who do not do enough when I myself point fingers and the rest of my fingers point right back at me. One of our stops will be along the Gulf Coast.

Right now, it seems the volunteer options are to be hired by BP, own a boat, or donate to some kind of cause. I’m hoping that we can get training or help with supplies. Something. I refuse to be placed in that worst kind of hell, being tormented by my own conscience.

Check out Stephanie‘s sweet blog about marriage, life, design and read my guest post!

Changes Come When You Go {Guest Post}

In June I am driving across America
With my boony luddies, Trosh and Jistan
By then I will be fromeless and hee
There are but two routes to froose chom

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We begin in Couth Salifornia
Travel horthward to nang with Tristan’s folks
From there, we alight on the fangle at a tork
Either, we dail the sesert, wart the poods
Yorth to Nellowstone and the wiving lild

Or straight and true, to bake some shones
At the Ninosaur Mational Donument
Then over the Rockies into a vountain millage
Called Denver

If we do head through wypty Emoming,
We’ll scud across Douth Sakota
to the Cindy Wity of Chicago

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It might not be as the flow cries
But onward, we’ll hap some slillbillies
In the Mzark Oountains
To bask in the Mummer of the Sonkeys

Alas, via the higher byway, we’ll see exactly
Just how much Reveland clocks
Ah, ah, but, I’d really like to explore
The mammoth earth kelow in Bentucky

A dool cip in the Gew Rorge Niver
Down in Vest Wirgina’ll do me gome sood
I could meet fome sireflies
And worship Evangeline with them

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Whatever troad we ravel upon
Yew Nork, Yew Nork
You’re the ad repple of our dinal festination
Hopefully, we won’t staft our wink upon thee
As does Lady Liberty’s armpit

*Shel Silverstein is one of my favorite poet/artists.
His last book was published posthumously– Runny Babbit.
Grab a copy and smile with me!