it’s just light-
the pale red sun
makes the still
sea shine like
peach colored stone,
marbled with granite
grey ripples, gentle
lapping waves at the
bow of the dhow
heading north. the sail
taught with an invisible wind.
a lone dolphin dancing
in the wake. everyone
but a young man tending
the rudder are asleep.
there is no land to be seen.
last night a foggy dream:
we must be near tanzania
by now you think falling
back asleep. where did they
say we are going?
Showing posts with label Adventure. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Adventure. Show all posts
November 6, 2021
310/365
October 20, 2021
293/365
as a kid i believed in quicksand.
the terrifying notion that the earth
could swallow us whole kept me up at night.
i imagined an alternate world beneath
the colloid of fine granular material;
or maybe there was silence, a sort of
timeless web of disenchantment beneath.
there was quicksand in my visions
of adventure, it was there in the places
i saw myself uncovering,
discovering, disappearing into:
at one with the yąnomamö or the bambuti.
places beyond space and time.
a (re)connection to true self-
misunderstood in the halls of davidson
middle school or the gap. it was the suction
of the earth into some unnameable space
that would help define what it meant
to be indigenous.
apparently it’s impossible
for quicksand to swallow
humans into the earth.
my people are not in a distant jungle
waiting for my return. they are you
dear reader, hunkered down in the dull glow
of a screen, perhaps gently stirred within
clicking (a) like into the void.
maybe there is quicksand after all.
it’s here in this cyber void,
sucking us all into its idle maw
July 11, 2021
192/365
when i was young
i read a book in which
one of the characters
says to the other:
there are people who
when walking in the rain
try to avoid getting wet,
and another type of person
who pretends it’s not raining.
we’re riding our bikes in rain
(my daughter and i)
when i tell her about this line.
there’s an urge to scream or howl,
we’re both peddling vigorously
smiling. wind and rain
enveloping us in a vortex.
you don’t have to tell me dad.
it was my idea not to wait out the storm
and just get on with it.
adventure is woven into the spirit
through simple acts of uncertainty.
May 24, 2021
144/354
life is the laborious
realisation that
everything plods
toward the inevitable
cliché.
how could one with
such kerouacian dreams,
and rock and roll yearning
succumb to this state
of mid-life crisis.
my dad told me
on the phone
the other day,
that although
he is turning seventy one
this year, he still sees
a young man in the mirror,
whenever he looks—
“i feel like i am still
in my forties or fifties.”
the true spirit of adventure
blooms in the ability to transform
what the average person
sees as obstacles,
into opportunities.
you can’t rely on
the open road
or the ocean
or a raging freezing
himalayan river,
or the alleyways of
foreign streets,
or sunrise at mount kenya
or the gentle waves
of a fire in the wild,
to make you feel alive.
there is heroism
in banality,
it’s the work that
reveals the frenzy
in contentment.
realisation that
everything plods
toward the inevitable
cliché.
how could one with
such kerouacian dreams,
and rock and roll yearning
succumb to this state
of mid-life crisis.
my dad told me
on the phone
the other day,
that although
he is turning seventy one
this year, he still sees
a young man in the mirror,
whenever he looks—
“i feel like i am still
in my forties or fifties.”
the true spirit of adventure
blooms in the ability to transform
what the average person
sees as obstacles,
into opportunities.
you can’t rely on
the open road
or the ocean
or a raging freezing
himalayan river,
or the alleyways of
foreign streets,
or sunrise at mount kenya
or the gentle waves
of a fire in the wild,
to make you feel alive.
there is heroism
in banality,
it’s the work that
reveals the frenzy
in contentment.
March 19, 2021
78/365
i must have constructed at least thirty poems during that film.
rummaging through this wistful ether, saturated in stories,
filling in the vacant spaces of memories, like the first coat of paint
on a twice used canvas, the darker shades beneath,
confessing through the white paint,
the smell of turpentine harvested from living trees,
and mainly pines, battling for our attention.
reminiscing through the rearview,
redwoods,
an ocean,
the badlands,
a hot spring,
the strangers.
used to be wild—
revelling in discomfort and adventure
around campfires,
in tents,
dirt beneath finger nails,
awestruck,
relentless,
fierce.
how can we be expected
to give
any of this shape
with these clumsy tools?
July 17, 2016
Swim To Ant Island
The kids had all eaten dinner and it was lightly raining outside. I was in the middle of grilling some dinner and my second G&T. I had made a proclamation earlier in the week that when anyone wanted to jump in the lake, I would join them.
“Daddy, I want to go for a swim. You want to go?”
Minutes later, she had her suit and life jacket on and was in the water on the way to Ant Island. It was cold, drizzling and getting darkish and there was my little girl swimming into the wind. I jumped in and we were off!
The swim there was no problem. We talked about doing stupid things, like swimming in the cold, and how not everyone does things like this, but how it is important it is to sometimes push yourself to do weird and uncomfortable things. She was like a tiny puppy swimming, but she was determined and persistent. We made it to Ant Island and quickly swam back but about a quarter of the way back she panicked.
It was too cold. She was tired and, “I want to be back.” I talked her down from the ledge and we swam back, with her on my back, shivering and talking all the way back.
Back in the cabin we took a warm bath together, revelling in our shared experience.
It was beautiful.
The rest of the day was great meals, friends enjoying friendships, a fire and smores, a drizzling sunset and a day spent changing between swimsuits and pyjamas. Tomorrow, we are off to Bellingham and back to the world. I will be sad to leave Levitt Lake. Thank you Dan and Angie for having us. This was a memorable and wonderful week in this amazing place.
“Daddy, I want to go for a swim. You want to go?”
Minutes later, she had her suit and life jacket on and was in the water on the way to Ant Island. It was cold, drizzling and getting darkish and there was my little girl swimming into the wind. I jumped in and we were off!
The swim there was no problem. We talked about doing stupid things, like swimming in the cold, and how not everyone does things like this, but how it is important it is to sometimes push yourself to do weird and uncomfortable things. She was like a tiny puppy swimming, but she was determined and persistent. We made it to Ant Island and quickly swam back but about a quarter of the way back she panicked.
It was too cold. She was tired and, “I want to be back.” I talked her down from the ledge and we swam back, with her on my back, shivering and talking all the way back.
Back in the cabin we took a warm bath together, revelling in our shared experience.
It was beautiful.
The rest of the day was great meals, friends enjoying friendships, a fire and smores, a drizzling sunset and a day spent changing between swimsuits and pyjamas. Tomorrow, we are off to Bellingham and back to the world. I will be sad to leave Levitt Lake. Thank you Dan and Angie for having us. This was a memorable and wonderful week in this amazing place.
May 15, 2016
Skate Or Die
Skateboarding was kind of a big deal in the late 1980’s in San Rafael CA. And as a seventh grader at Davidson Middle School, it quickly became apparent that my failed attempt at assimilation by wearing tan leather Sperry top-siders, would only be rectified if I did the following: Started wearing Jimmy’z shorts, $30+ Gotcha T-shirts, and Vans. It was also clear that I need a board. Trouble was I knew nothing about boards, so my foray into the world of skaters was a blind and pathetic one.
Even after I talked my parents into shelling out more money than they wanted or could afford for the shorts and the shirts, I was able to use a birthday to get my own $150 board, which at the time for us was a massive expenditure. I don’t remember the brand, and I just spent twenty minutes trying to find it online. Even though I thought the yellow color and the jester graphics, and yes the matching plastic side rails, were super cool, I realized quickly that it was not. I had somehow in my haste bought the wrong board. It was heavy and wide and apparently the trucks were lame and the wheels too _______. On the rare chance that I was even able to show my board to anyone that mattered, it became clear that I was what in the parlance of those times was called a poser. A wanna-be.
Yup. I wanted to be cool. I wanted to be good at something that people considered cool. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted to shred.
But I never did. I never was. I only wanted to be, until I out grew the clothes and left the board to rot in some corner of my room, with the echo of my mom’s voice everytime she saw it or when I asked for another expensive object, “Remember that skateboard. You only rode that thing once.” Which of course was not true, but she was right in that I never mastered it. Not even close. I rarely took it out. Because riding a skateboard by yourself on the sidewalk is no way to become a skater. I had no access to ramps or other skaters and their culture. I wasn't hungry. I didn't read Thrasher. For me it was about a false identity not for the love of a sport. I was a poser and didn’t know how to be anything else.
These were my thoughts this morning as I sat at the skatepark near our house watching Kaia at her first lesson. It never occurred to seventh grade me or my parents apparently, that just having the stuff did not make me skater. I needed access. I needed ramps. I needed a teacher or at least a chance to watch and practice and learn. This morning I was watching people of all ages doing ali’s and rail slides and dipping in and out of ramps. I felt the camaraderie that I yearned for. People of all ages, sweating in the sun, some helmeted and geared up, while other risked their bones going shirtless. Pockets of small posses chatted each other up, while others skated in silence- the only sound- the wheels like ocean waves carving up the cement inclines.
This space. This culture is what seventh grade me needed. I am sure there were parks and ramps in San Rafael, but I had no idea where they were and I wasn’t connected enough to sniff them out. I didn’t really want to be a skater. I just wanted to be. And that is why I never found the ramps to soak up the culture. I know that now, and part of me feels like it might be too late, but the other wiser part thinks screw it- it is not to late. I am not too old. I don’t need all the stuff. I am not looking to fit into any group, but as a forty-two year old, I want to learn the basics.
I don’t need to shred or doing anything dangerous, but I could gently skate the mellow ramps. I could learn some basic starter moves. I could be out there every weekend with Kaia chatting up the other old dudes who seem so calm and gentle and mellow and zen. Me, the scrawny, tanned, white-bearded old dude might finally be a skater. I wonder if we are finally able to become our true teen-age selves at forty two.
So I am on the hunt for a board. Doesn’t need to be cool, but it has to be the right board for me. I was chatting Chris up today at the park (He is a regular and although he doesn't know it my future mentor and skating teacher) and it is clear I need something between a ramp and a long board, a hybrid- with loose trucks and big soft wheels. I want to be able to cruise East Coast park and ride the ramps on the weekend with Kaia. If anyone out there has any suggestions please let me know. Also if you know the skate board I mentioned earlier- Yellow with a blue jester please let me know. Skate or die dude. Skate or die.
…
I have to be at school tomorrow at five-thirty. I am off to Tioman island off the coast of Malaysia for a week. As the head of grade six in waiting, it was decided that it might be a good idea for me to go on this trip and scope things out, so I have first hand experience when I need to organise the trip and comfort worried parents next year. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it; I am just glad that person is me. I am looking forward to a few runs on the beach. Some time in the ocean and getting familiar with hanging out with six graders again, It has been a while and I am excited to reacquaint myself with that age group, before I do it full time next year.
Apparently there is wifi in my cabin, so I look forward to continuing to write every night while I am away.
Even after I talked my parents into shelling out more money than they wanted or could afford for the shorts and the shirts, I was able to use a birthday to get my own $150 board, which at the time for us was a massive expenditure. I don’t remember the brand, and I just spent twenty minutes trying to find it online. Even though I thought the yellow color and the jester graphics, and yes the matching plastic side rails, were super cool, I realized quickly that it was not. I had somehow in my haste bought the wrong board. It was heavy and wide and apparently the trucks were lame and the wheels too _______. On the rare chance that I was even able to show my board to anyone that mattered, it became clear that I was what in the parlance of those times was called a poser. A wanna-be.
Yup. I wanted to be cool. I wanted to be good at something that people considered cool. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted to shred.
But I never did. I never was. I only wanted to be, until I out grew the clothes and left the board to rot in some corner of my room, with the echo of my mom’s voice everytime she saw it or when I asked for another expensive object, “Remember that skateboard. You only rode that thing once.” Which of course was not true, but she was right in that I never mastered it. Not even close. I rarely took it out. Because riding a skateboard by yourself on the sidewalk is no way to become a skater. I had no access to ramps or other skaters and their culture. I wasn't hungry. I didn't read Thrasher. For me it was about a false identity not for the love of a sport. I was a poser and didn’t know how to be anything else.
These were my thoughts this morning as I sat at the skatepark near our house watching Kaia at her first lesson. It never occurred to seventh grade me or my parents apparently, that just having the stuff did not make me skater. I needed access. I needed ramps. I needed a teacher or at least a chance to watch and practice and learn. This morning I was watching people of all ages doing ali’s and rail slides and dipping in and out of ramps. I felt the camaraderie that I yearned for. People of all ages, sweating in the sun, some helmeted and geared up, while other risked their bones going shirtless. Pockets of small posses chatted each other up, while others skated in silence- the only sound- the wheels like ocean waves carving up the cement inclines.
This space. This culture is what seventh grade me needed. I am sure there were parks and ramps in San Rafael, but I had no idea where they were and I wasn’t connected enough to sniff them out. I didn’t really want to be a skater. I just wanted to be. And that is why I never found the ramps to soak up the culture. I know that now, and part of me feels like it might be too late, but the other wiser part thinks screw it- it is not to late. I am not too old. I don’t need all the stuff. I am not looking to fit into any group, but as a forty-two year old, I want to learn the basics.
I don’t need to shred or doing anything dangerous, but I could gently skate the mellow ramps. I could learn some basic starter moves. I could be out there every weekend with Kaia chatting up the other old dudes who seem so calm and gentle and mellow and zen. Me, the scrawny, tanned, white-bearded old dude might finally be a skater. I wonder if we are finally able to become our true teen-age selves at forty two.
So I am on the hunt for a board. Doesn’t need to be cool, but it has to be the right board for me. I was chatting Chris up today at the park (He is a regular and although he doesn't know it my future mentor and skating teacher) and it is clear I need something between a ramp and a long board, a hybrid- with loose trucks and big soft wheels. I want to be able to cruise East Coast park and ride the ramps on the weekend with Kaia. If anyone out there has any suggestions please let me know. Also if you know the skate board I mentioned earlier- Yellow with a blue jester please let me know. Skate or die dude. Skate or die.
…
I have to be at school tomorrow at five-thirty. I am off to Tioman island off the coast of Malaysia for a week. As the head of grade six in waiting, it was decided that it might be a good idea for me to go on this trip and scope things out, so I have first hand experience when I need to organise the trip and comfort worried parents next year. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it; I am just glad that person is me. I am looking forward to a few runs on the beach. Some time in the ocean and getting familiar with hanging out with six graders again, It has been a while and I am excited to reacquaint myself with that age group, before I do it full time next year.
Apparently there is wifi in my cabin, so I look forward to continuing to write every night while I am away.
February 11, 2015
Daraja Here We Come!
Tomorrow night, Friday morning, at 2:00 am I will be boarding an airplane to fly to Kenya. I will be leading a school trip to The Daraja Academy for girls. I have been to this school twice before. The first time I went, Kaia was only this big...
The other time I went, we were literary painting the walls...
...and hiring teachers...
There were no students and the campus sat expectant, heavy with ambition and promise. I remeber sitting on Jason's (the founder and my best friend since we were 15) deck talking about how I might be able to help him design a Wordpress blog to promote the school. We were so naive and innocent. Well, I was. Jason had a fire in his eyes and a vision that must have been crystal clear, because since that first trip, not only did the school open, but it is now filled to capacity with over 250 girls from grade 9-12 and has graduated at least one class. Their website is stunning and they are a fully sustainable and operational school. We will be arriving a few weeks before Daraja's fifth anniversary.
...seeing this guy again, after so many years.
And relaxing on his deck and talking about what it feels like to be forty and sitting on the grounds of a school that was born in our dreams. Together. Talking about the students he has hand picked from across Kenya. He will tell me about the tough young women his school empowers everyday to make a change in Kenya and beyond. Perhaps we will reflect on the work I have done at UWCSEA to stay connected to Daraja. I will relish the fact that I managed to pull off this trip after years of hoping. I will tell him how five teachers paid their own way to make it happen, and how Claire and Joy worked tirelessly not to let this trip sink. We might discuss the strange magic that has followed us for most of our lives. Directing us to moments exactly like the one described.
Perhaps we will be in the kitchen watching his students interact with ours. While there are only five from our school, we will discuss how the beauty of Africa will infect them to maybe create schools of their own in the future. I will introduce him my friends. Worlds will collide.
Maybe I will talk to my friends/colleagues, beautiful women in their own right, under these stars...
We might pontificate on the immensity of the universe and the forces that might have brought us all to this spot on planet. We will shed the stresses of big school big city life and remember why we do what we do. They will thank me. I will thank them. We will be thankful beneath the stars. Paula will take stunning photos. Jen will keep us grounded. We might make a movie, write a book, scream at the universe. Be noticed. Be ignored. We will be alive and we will know it, and we will remind the people around us of the intensity of life. The intensity of our awareness.
Maybe I am most excited by the quiet walks I will take looking for light like this...
Finding the nooks and crannies of the campus for my quiet contemplation. I will remember and reconnect to the unnameable unmistakable gravity of Africa. I will remember the afternoons I spent in Mozambique. I will envy Jason for the fact that he can live in this place all year, every year, for years. I will promise to be back and bring another group next year.
I am excited to walk each of our students to their rooms...
and I will think about the thrill they must be feeling-- so far away from home. I will be excited to think about them contemplating their place in a continent advertised as so wild, knowing that they are there, alive and safe.We will shatter stereotypes and build worlds on experience. We will hug and love and befriend strangers. We will never see people as charity cases or recipients of our pity. We will learn to see people for who they are. We will learn respect and honor dignity. We will listen and listen and listen. Then we will record and scribble and draw and then...we will shout and share and create until we heard. We will make promises to bring others here.
I am excited by walking down roads like this one...
With the red soil beneath our feet, the metaphor of the path not-taken not lost on any of us. We will be excited by the not-knowing. What will we see? What will we learn? About the school? Each other? Ourselves? We will walk. We will breathe.
The other time I went, we were literary painting the walls...
...and hiring teachers...
There were no students and the campus sat expectant, heavy with ambition and promise. I remeber sitting on Jason's (the founder and my best friend since we were 15) deck talking about how I might be able to help him design a Wordpress blog to promote the school. We were so naive and innocent. Well, I was. Jason had a fire in his eyes and a vision that must have been crystal clear, because since that first trip, not only did the school open, but it is now filled to capacity with over 250 girls from grade 9-12 and has graduated at least one class. Their website is stunning and they are a fully sustainable and operational school. We will be arriving a few weeks before Daraja's fifth anniversary.
You can look at more pictures here or read previous posts for some context here.
Daraja is the opposite of the slums and poverty from which her students will come. It is beyond politics and good intentions. Daraja is the realization of a dream. Hope actualized and made real. Hands in soil, trees planted. Seeds sown. It is beyond donations and charity. Daraja is a place where regular people like you selflessly give their time, money, and energy in the hope that change begins within each of us.I can't pin-point what excites me most about this upcoming trip. Will it be...
...seeing this guy again, after so many years.
And relaxing on his deck and talking about what it feels like to be forty and sitting on the grounds of a school that was born in our dreams. Together. Talking about the students he has hand picked from across Kenya. He will tell me about the tough young women his school empowers everyday to make a change in Kenya and beyond. Perhaps we will reflect on the work I have done at UWCSEA to stay connected to Daraja. I will relish the fact that I managed to pull off this trip after years of hoping. I will tell him how five teachers paid their own way to make it happen, and how Claire and Joy worked tirelessly not to let this trip sink. We might discuss the strange magic that has followed us for most of our lives. Directing us to moments exactly like the one described.
Perhaps we will be in the kitchen watching his students interact with ours. While there are only five from our school, we will discuss how the beauty of Africa will infect them to maybe create schools of their own in the future. I will introduce him my friends. Worlds will collide.
Maybe I will talk to my friends/colleagues, beautiful women in their own right, under these stars...
We might pontificate on the immensity of the universe and the forces that might have brought us all to this spot on planet. We will shed the stresses of big school big city life and remember why we do what we do. They will thank me. I will thank them. We will be thankful beneath the stars. Paula will take stunning photos. Jen will keep us grounded. We might make a movie, write a book, scream at the universe. Be noticed. Be ignored. We will be alive and we will know it, and we will remind the people around us of the intensity of life. The intensity of our awareness.
Maybe I am most excited by the quiet walks I will take looking for light like this...
Finding the nooks and crannies of the campus for my quiet contemplation. I will remember and reconnect to the unnameable unmistakable gravity of Africa. I will remember the afternoons I spent in Mozambique. I will envy Jason for the fact that he can live in this place all year, every year, for years. I will promise to be back and bring another group next year.
I am excited to walk each of our students to their rooms...
and I will think about the thrill they must be feeling-- so far away from home. I will be excited to think about them contemplating their place in a continent advertised as so wild, knowing that they are there, alive and safe.We will shatter stereotypes and build worlds on experience. We will hug and love and befriend strangers. We will never see people as charity cases or recipients of our pity. We will learn to see people for who they are. We will learn respect and honor dignity. We will listen and listen and listen. Then we will record and scribble and draw and then...we will shout and share and create until we heard. We will make promises to bring others here.
I am excited by walking down roads like this one...
With the red soil beneath our feet, the metaphor of the path not-taken not lost on any of us. We will be excited by the not-knowing. What will we see? What will we learn? About the school? Each other? Ourselves? We will walk. We will breathe.
June 21, 2011
Wild Things
The role of the writer, as I see it, is to harness the inexplicable and give shape to the unnameable. The trouble is that the act of creating images from fleeting moments of wonder is an impossible feat. Many have tried, some more successful than others, but reality is simply too grand in scope to be portrayed using petty tools such as words.
How can language ever be enough to share the feeling of riding a motorbike through the jungled roads of Phuket with your five year old daughter gripping your hands, as the tender golden soft light of the sun falls from the leaves like drops from a balmy rainstorm? Robust clouds of white and grey give chase, the wind on your faces as you whisper, "Are you okay?" You give the accelerator a gentle pull. Coming down the hill the vast ocean sparkles and waves caress the patient earth. She takes her helmet off as you stop to admire the sea. How can these words possibly explain the confidence with which she swings her hair and carries the helmet on her wrist?
Back on the bike, you smell burning garbage and coconut rusks, the grilled shellfish and roasting chili peppers. You are aware that this very moment is being engraved onto her consciousness and shaping her dreams. The notion of risk taking has been forever altered as you check and re-check the mirrors, make sure to slow down around each turn, but you cannot ever be too careful. After all it is adventure that gives these moments their brightness, you know this, but her safety comes first. Never again will you throw caution to the wind and do things just to see if they can be done.
You think back to the freedom of youth, amazed you were able to navigate the vast loneliness of all that space. You are coming down the hill, "You know I love you right?" The wind is howling, so you whisper again into her ear. The giant red helmet nods affirmative. Men often gripe about domestication and the staleness of family, but you know that these are the moments of rebirth and second shots at childhood. You will show her the world, every inch of it, in all it's wonder. She will be there to grip you tight and nod her head in affirmation every step of the way. Not only a receptacle of your devotion, but also an active agent of love. She is your anchor, your friend, your partner in this reincarnated freedom.
You pull the accelerator once again and howl as tears pool up in your eyes. Beyond the sound of the engine and the wind you here her voice echo what you already know- the things you can never explain.
How can language ever be enough to share the feeling of riding a motorbike through the jungled roads of Phuket with your five year old daughter gripping your hands, as the tender golden soft light of the sun falls from the leaves like drops from a balmy rainstorm? Robust clouds of white and grey give chase, the wind on your faces as you whisper, "Are you okay?" You give the accelerator a gentle pull. Coming down the hill the vast ocean sparkles and waves caress the patient earth. She takes her helmet off as you stop to admire the sea. How can these words possibly explain the confidence with which she swings her hair and carries the helmet on her wrist?
Back on the bike, you smell burning garbage and coconut rusks, the grilled shellfish and roasting chili peppers. You are aware that this very moment is being engraved onto her consciousness and shaping her dreams. The notion of risk taking has been forever altered as you check and re-check the mirrors, make sure to slow down around each turn, but you cannot ever be too careful. After all it is adventure that gives these moments their brightness, you know this, but her safety comes first. Never again will you throw caution to the wind and do things just to see if they can be done.
You think back to the freedom of youth, amazed you were able to navigate the vast loneliness of all that space. You are coming down the hill, "You know I love you right?" The wind is howling, so you whisper again into her ear. The giant red helmet nods affirmative. Men often gripe about domestication and the staleness of family, but you know that these are the moments of rebirth and second shots at childhood. You will show her the world, every inch of it, in all it's wonder. She will be there to grip you tight and nod her head in affirmation every step of the way. Not only a receptacle of your devotion, but also an active agent of love. She is your anchor, your friend, your partner in this reincarnated freedom.
You pull the accelerator once again and howl as tears pool up in your eyes. Beyond the sound of the engine and the wind you here her voice echo what you already know- the things you can never explain.
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