Tweezers

You may have noticed that I smile more these days. You may have noticed that I smell less like dead possum and more like sawdust. You may have noticed that the dog poo on my shoe has been replaced with a spring in my step. You may not have noticed any of these things, but I sure do. I have more energy, and more time. I feel healthier, both mentally and physically. I am inspired to create and share.

It amazes me just how much something so small can either add or subtract to ones quality of life. Like a tiny hardwood splinter deep in a thumb, an irritant in life can fester. That little shard tries to drive itself deeper, following the direction of the grain while your body attempts to reject the invader. Infection sets in and you might even run a constant low fever. Your mood shifts erratically and you feel irritated. Until one day you notice a small white blister on your thumb and you absentmindedly squeeze it. Pushed out on a wave of puss rides the cause of your misery, and suddenly the world is anew. Everyone gets a splinter at some point in their lives. There is a huge difference though in those that pull it out immediately, and those that let the gangrene take over.

Meat and Bones

I went for a long walk in the woods the other day on the far side of Lookout mountain. I was alone and whispering to myself. I had a small saw that I was hoping to use for cutting interesting pieces of dead wood to bring home to make furniture. I came upon a massive root cluster attached to an overturned cedar tree. I crawled into the root cave that the fallen tree had created and immediately got chills. The hair on my arms prickled and stuck out from my skin like a stinging nettle. The smell of cat urine was overwhelming and there were small bones littered everywhere that somehow I hadn't seen before. I backed up slowly and sat with my back against a mossy rock. There was no question in my mind that there was a mountain lion watching me from somewhere, sizing me up and determining whether or not I was a threat to its territory. I folded up my little saw and put it in my pack hastily. I figured that if I was going to be attacked that I would have a far better chance of defending myself with my hands than with a flimsy saw that I would have to figure out how to use as a weapon.
I consider myself to be a pretty brave person, and generally I would say that I am not scared of anything. At that very moment with my back against a saturated rock I honestly felt a cold fear that I've only one other time in my life felt. After a few more moments of shallow breathing and trying to hear over my own cacophonous heart, I stood up slowly and let out the deepest, loudest growl that I could muster. I continued my primal cry as I walked purposefully out of the woods into the trail that eventually would lead me to my car. Now on open ground, my adrenaline leveled out and I stood in the middle of the trail and breathed deeply. As I exhaled, a full grown female cougar walked in front of me no more than 100 ft away. She crossed the trail and looked directly at me. Her expression was one that I can only describe as disgust. It was almost as if she was saying "oh please, like I would even bother attacking you." I stood there a moment longer, trotted back to the car, and drove very slowly home. I have never felt more like prey. I have never felt smaller in a world that I often feel like I own.

We don't own this world. We don't own anything. We are animals. We are meat and bones.

Connecticut homes

I finished reading J.D. Salinger's "Franny and Zooey." for the third or fourth time today. I can remember reading this book for the first time and closing it slowly and thoughtfully. I remember thinking that it was my new favorite book, and I have since considered it my favorite book. It seems important to have a favorite something and for whatever reason this story resonated with me to such a degree that I chose it then and there as my one and only. I closed the book again today and felt nothing like the deep understanding that I felt then. It's been probably six or seven years since I read it for the first time and there wasn't even a hint of nostalgia. In fact, much of the book was unrecognizable and distant to me. Halfway through the book I began to question whether or not I had even read this story before. Now, I'm no stranger head injuries and perhaps I can blame this blank space to some residual amnesia, or maybe some early dementia. I think the answer though is a bit more profound. I think the answer lies in time itself, and its ability to change everything around us. Apparently our bodies regenerate in their entirety every seven years or so. If I believe that dated and probably overly simplified data, then I am literally almost a completely different person than the young man that read the book for the first time. As creatures of habit we tend to take comfort in the constants of life. We create patterns wherever we can find them, and are constantly searching for order among the chaos of the world and beyond. Having a favorite is a comforting thing. Favorites provide an answer and a window into who a person is or who they would like to be seen as. A favorite is generally perceived as being a definitive fact, and it's not supposed to change. Everything changes though, and to ignore that is to ignore reality."Franny and Zooey" is a good book. It is not my favorite book. I do not have a favorite book. I am lost in the chaos and I am satisfied.

Shells

I woke up late today. I rolled onto my side and was shocked to see the time on my phone, especially because there was no discernible difference in light level from when I went to sleep. I put the phone on speaker and let the Mt. Baker snow report loop while I brushed my teeth. Even my dog was skeptical at the 18 in of reported snowfall. So without another thought we grabbed our guns and headed to the north fork for a bit of red necking. After a hundred rounds or so my ears were ringing and Maple was getting annoyed at all the racket, so we packed it up and headed home.

It's nice to live in a place where you can choose to shoot at busted up TVs and beer cans over a powder day, and not feel the least bit guilty.

Tigers

I painted a picture today. It only took me a few hours and I'm not totally satisfied with the outcome but, I did it. This is the second oil painting that I have ever done (the first is a bland landscape that the world will never see) and though I cant foresee this hanging in a gallery anywhere, the entire process was enjoyable. I realize more and more that to be a success at anything is to be productive. Produce art and you are an artist. Talk about producing art and you are just some guy that talks about stuff he never does. Not every painting, drawing, or piece of furniture is going to be a wonderful heirloom, but each piece can serve as a step or an exercise to something better. Every artist that I know and admire has boatloads of work that are painted over or set aside because they aren't quite right. Here's to the second of many more mediocre pieces that will hopefully lead to something great.

Sappy days

Here are just a few reasons why I love the autumn season:



I get a bit nostalgic this time of year and think fondly of my childhood in CT. It's a little damper here in WA compared to a New England fall, and as a result the crunch of dead foliage as you walk is a bit muted. The colors of the changing leaves aren't quite the shocking display that Vermonters and their neighbors might enjoy either.

I scrambled today, with my wife and dog, over treacherously slippery logs and under the cover of the largest trees I've known. I dug deep into the woody mulch with my fingers and crushed a chalky mushroom in my fist. As my dog bounded ahead in pursuit of a chuckling squirrel, I smiled and felt the change settling all around me.

Fall is an aptly named season, because change descends from above and rests around us. It is a more subtle season with a long approach. It is a season for letting go of the past and thinking with anticipation of the future.

boxy

Here is a box that I made recently that I'm only sort of proud of. It has aesthetic elements that alone I like, but together make for a bit of a cluttered and odd look. This is the first time that I've attempted hand cut dovetails and though they aren't perfect, I am fairly pleased with the results. The hinge is a shell from a .223 caliber that I found while hiking. I drilled a hole in it and drove a small brass nail through the top as a stop so that the lid just pivots off of the shell and cannot be pulled off.




Fall tends to bring out the creative and industrious in me. Unfortunately it also brings out the instinctual urge to eat entire platters of pasta and then nap for twenty odd hours. These conflicting desires usually result in me waking up at odd hours full of energy and artistic thought. Because of my close proximity to sleeping neighbors however the resulting manifest is endless Netflix instant play and more pasta. ACK! I sound like a damn Kathy comic.