Winning Winsdays 2

v i d e o s

Saw it on Wimp first.... Cool video portrait of George and his boot shop. These kinds of videos are the best. Well done, lads. Well done, George.

George's Boots from farmrun on Vimeo.

I'm going to copy Sonya here, but this Mr. Rogers video is worth it and I want to remember it. What a guy. This other one she posted was touching, too. Super freaking trooper.

b l o g s 
Siren Voices is a blog I ran into several years ago and decided to read again this past week. The gentleman who writes there works on an ambulance, and what I love about it is his writing itself. It's clean, concise. It's descriptive and well-balanced. And the posts are merely a couple minutes of reading—and always interesting little anecdotes. Fantastic writing.


m u s i c
This evening a song was playing in the living room while folks were watching a video. "What song is that!?" I yelled. It was a wimp video.... (I will continue to believe not everything good I come across will be on that site.) Anyway, it turned out to be the band U137, song Dreamer On The Run. Another post-rock band, it turns out. I'm beginning to really be a fan of this genre.




i n s t a g r a m m e r   o f   t h e   w e e k 
[Where I'll post one of my favorite instagrammers, not necessarily one I just started following.]
Bradley Castaneda seems to always be climbing mountains, especially Rainier, and I'm the happier for it. I love his winter pictures of snow-laden trees and rich vistas. A few weeks ago I commented on a photo of his that I was excited his winter pictures were coming back, and he said thanks. Made my day.

THIS IS BRADLEY CASTANEDA'S PHOTO.

Melancholy Mondays 2: Oh, the things I could do

I kind of suck at being an introvert. I don't think I'd ever argue that that's how I'm wired, but I'd definitely argue that I suck at being one. There's so much potential during solitude, and I squander most of that time. And ironically, that's how I spend most of my time. Sort of.

Anthony says coming to our house here at camp is like basically coming to an empty house. It's often true. When you're around us, you're essentially just around your phone, or the book you brought, or with the cats. Or we all might be staring at a screen together if we're feeling really sociable. We don't get over-excited to see you and immediately offer you tea and what game should we play and what should we do tomorrow. So you might see us—me, since that's who I'm always talking about here—and think I must be excellent at spending my time entertaining myself.

And I suppose if that's what you think, you'd be pretty right. I'm good at entertaining myself, I guess. On my phone I play my word games over and over (this is a knock on how I spend my time, but... if you ever want to play Scramble with Friends or Words with Friends, I'm totally down...); I check Instagram over and over and over; I edit pictures sometimes when I'm done with the other two; and then, when it's time to close my eyes, or go do work, or get off the toilet, I'll just check my email, then the weather, and maybe even the news. Then probably a game of Solitaire to round things out.

And if I'm on my computer it's one of these sites, essentially:

And usually only the first half of those. I rarely dabble in the latter half. And the rest of my bookmarks—hundreds: proof I peruse then don't use—I rarely ever look at again. So it's just about half a dozen sites on repeat and refresh, until my neck hurts, or my legs fall asleep, or I'm too fed up with my sloth to continue.

Instead. Instead, I should be taking walks outside. I should be learning about ants and stars. I should be reading in Spanish and trying to learn Norwegian. I should be calling Grandma (Kika, cuando lees esto, espero que ya te habia llamado por lo menos una vez... recibí tu email esta tarde y te debo una conversación! Pero mas que eso, sinceramente me gustaría oír tu voz.). I should be learning to tie knots. I should be cleaning my room. I should be finishing the three books I'm currently "reading." I should be devouring good articles online, or in the magazine I splurged on 10 weeks ago at the store in Ned. I should be trimming my beard, or doing my laundry, or washing the dishes. I should be checking the headlight in my car to see what kind it is and then I should be ordering a new one to replace it. I should be running. I should be taking pictures. I should be writing a poem. I should be reading a poem. I should be memorizing scripture. I should be writing letters to my future wife. I should be making tons of rules for my kids. I should be journaling, or crocheting, or humming. I should be applying for a freaking job.

So, I've come to the conclusion that I'm not so much an introvert as a shouldbe. They are not the same. I'd really like to be an introvert. I mean, after all, I really should be.



PS: Yes, Sonya, like Mr. Rogers. I wish I could be like Mr. Rogers, too.

Upon Reflection

I'm turning 26.75 tomorrow. I've thought about that for the past couple weeks and it actually feels kind of like a milestone. There is potential in this time. What could I look back on? These months could change my life. Come birth day, I could turn around and marvel. Or go fetal in dismay. Or just a sweet mix of both—looking back on the disappointments, but allowing them to stand me up out of bed and dream at the day ahead.

Winning Winsday 1

I see Winning Winsdays as my chance to keep record of the things that stuck out to me most throughout the past week. It'll be fun to look back on, I imagine, and hopefully fun for you to share with me. Welcome to Winning Winsdays.


articles

"Inside the World of the Double-Crossing Fake Hitman"
by Jeanne Marie Laskas, GQ
via Instapaper

A fascinating glimpse into the life of a "hitman" who works covertly for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. He is a man who looks like death, but saves people from it instead.

“Tell me what you want done,” the hit man says. “Do you want something done?”“Oh, I want something done. I want that bitch's face cut.”...The hit man has ice blue eyes that don't wander, don't shift or pierce with disdain. “So you don't want her dead, you want her scarred up?”

videos
The wimp.com video posted the other day ago about what it's like to have a mustache, by some Argentines for a Buenos Aires Festival, I found to be very entertaining. I think in part simply because they were Argentine. And just for the record, I spent what I felt was a fair amount of time searching for the original posting of said video and could not locate it. So... wimp it is. (And a version from YouTube.)





Another wimp video... Called "3 Queens" by Matt Bieler
This one was from today and based on the stats shown on its original vimeo page, today was the day it shot through the roof (or the start of it, at least). I like the simplicity of it, and the editing seems well-done and the music well-chosen. Go moms.

3 Queens from Matt Bieler on Vimeo.



Bernd Heinrich talks about why he runs. And he says it so well.

"I get broken up when I even think about it." "I'm moved by others' dreams; by their devotion and courage—pursuit of this excellence." "Of course, I'd... I'd really like to be a bird, but uh, running is a close second."

Melancholy Monday 1: The Grisly Mop

I've grown my hair out pretty long several times in the past, and for about 5-8 months of that time I wake up every morning bemoaning my existence.

"Woe is me," I say when my eyes open. "My life is but a sludge. A mire, a muck, a morbid mud to be revolted by. Woe is me."

Then I get out of bed and try to go the rest of the day without ever catching my reflection in a mirror, or a dark glass, or the eye of my beholder. It is the least I can do for my own sanity, my own safety.

Unfortunately, those others with whom I share my daily repertoire of duties are not so lucky as I. For they, try as they might, cannot but help their misfortune. For to their eyes, I am not merely a mirror to avoid, but an ever-present source of misery.

I'm sorry, world. I'm so terribly sorry. I wish that there were in this universe the button to press that might speed along our mutual misery. But there is not! No, not! There's nought but to suffer through, to persevere—to defy the torturous blend of hellions and imps before us.

Truly, for 5-8 months I am nothing but a grisly mop of unkept crazy hair. Woe, woe is me.

Something's Building

It kind of hurts my pride a bit to be happy and have a good day after a day of self-belittling. But such is my life. Today was a happy and good day, and I felt things building again inside. I rambled on and on to a couple co-workers this evening about things I'd come across today or things I've liked recently. Then I started teaching one of them to crochet. Three of us had tea, shared songs and Instagrams, and laughed at the cats.

Maybe I'll start some regulars on this ole blog here of mine. I was thinking Melancholy Mondays, followed by Winning Winsdays. That way I can get all the sourness from the last week out, tastefully, of course, and then follow it up with a varied collection of things I thought were cool from the past week. I don't know, we'll see. Likely it will end up like all my other ideas: idon'tas.

I'm sleeping in the living room tonight by the fire. But I see the cats have tried to lay claim to my bed. Time to go take back what's mine. Good night.

Invincible

Is it okay to feel invincible every once in a while?

We watch the teens and tell them to be wary. Slow down, don't be stupid, watch out, that's cray. You just feel invincible, don't you? That's all. But you're not. Remember that I told you that later, when you've broken your arm or gotten 16 stitches in your forehead. Silly kids, they'll learn.

Thus I stifle those feelings sometimes, telling myself I shouldn't feel that way. It's a knock-on-wood moment. What if I jinx myself and then ruin it all? What then? I'll feel dumb, that's for sure. Who feels invincible anyway, it's for the kids. It's for the immature and inexperienced. The naive.

But I felt invincible for a moment today and I'm going to tell you about it. It's another running story.

***

I needed to mail something from Nederlands, so I figured I'd just run while I was there and get to experience a new place. I did some recon, driving around for a few miles on a route I suspected might be good. It would do. Finished with the little shopping I wanted to do (Ramen, popcorn, frosted shredded wheat, you know, the essentials), I drove back and parked the jeep beside the road.

It's windy here in the Colorado mountains. I daresay more so than in Spangle, Washington, which seems crazy. Perhaps not so constant, but the gusts pack a punch and gather en force every couple days for a power struggle between air and legs. Such was the case today here on camp and in Nederlands as well.

The first ten minutes was just the softest incline, an introduction to the surrounding area and road surface. Then I hit the goal: a two-mile uphill stretch to the entrance of the El Dora ski resort with an average pitch of just over 7%. Nothing crazy, but enough to require some effort.

After the first quarter mile, icy snow patches began to swath the road, able to exist due to their proximity to the cliff on my left which blocked the sun most of the day. Temperatures were probably in the 40s, wind chill much lower. Elevation around 8,500 feet. Snowflakes whipped about. Little bursts of wind speckled my way, making me lean in and slow down. Bring it.

Okay.

I noticed the gusts picking up as I ascended. Stride shortened, body felt heavier. Breath mechanical, saliva accumulated faster, beard getting crispy with freezing condensation. Bring it.

Okay. Try this one.

I was momentarily stalled, both feet planted, leaning far in just to stay upright. Whoa. But was that it?

Gazing out to my right, the valley was dropping steadily below me. A moody sky in front of me, sunlight still coming through, illuminated everything behind with a dull fade. The snowflakes were flying through the mountains from the sky a few miles ahead, finally reaching me after their long journey, and biting me in the face. The ears were feeling hollow, the pressure changes and crispness of the air factors in spite of my hat. Arms hung low, just like coach taught me to do when ascending. Feet churned steady, now and then the rhythm disturbed by Wind. Head bent determinedly, as if to drive through the thick air regardless.

I thought of the cold, windy runs I'd had in Washington. When my wrists froze up and it took several minutes for my fingers to thaw enough to be usable again. When the constant whooshing past my ears made me sick for silence and the occasional lull of the wind suddenly sprung me ahead with a new stride. I knew how it went.

Up, up I went. Another minute, another minute. Another curve, another gust, another bite. Not enough to stop Chris Clouzet.

Then came the crest.

After one last curve, there was a small lake on the left, and the road leveled out for about a quarter mile. The lake ran nearly parallel to the road, but just diagonal enough so that when I turned my head to about 11 o'clock I was looking down its length. It had choppy little waves and constant rippling sheets that were evidence of fast-moving gusts exploring its surface. Toward me.

Here, the noise of the wind is constant and strong. The swirls of snow dust tornado quickly across the road, flying under my feet. I am thankful for the sunglasses I am wearing, better for wind-blocking than visibility in this already-low-light environment. I sense the big hit is coming. The open space of the lake a meeting ground for winds from all four corners of the earth to congregate and join forces and gain momentum and rush into whatever is in their way. We're coming. I could see them, the winds, laughing fiercely, aiming for the kill. You've made it this far, but from here, You Shall Not Pass. Nearer, nearer. Now, the leap...

Impact.

The hit. The blow. The rip. The roar. The bite. the chew, the swallow.

But also...

The doubling over. The digging in. The slow motion. The crooked smile.

Then two fingers of defiance up in the air. Head raised, turned to 11 o'clock. Eyes steely. And the loudest yell of profanity this runner could muster.

Is that all you got? I whisper with a mighty sprint.