Ramblings

It felt like summer again, here in Saint George. Last night it was real mild. I’m heading north this weekend to spend some time with my grandparents. Last night I drove west of Saint George, into Nevada again, just to go see some Joshua Trees out there. Man is it an amazing lost world. There is so much beauty, The highway cuts through the desert, but it still feels primordials.

At home last night, I did some writing on my computer, and ate Pinion Nuts while enjoying the late night warmth. It is the middle of October and feels like May. I’m pondering my life here in Saint George, and I don’t know where I will be a year from now? My destiny is unforeseen which worries me. There are times that I’ve felt uncertain about my future, but right now it remains largely unknown. I have no plans or goals to follow. My life seems correct at the moment, but could I adapt to sudden changes? If things were to morph, how would I adjust? I need to develop a plan of survival in case terrible events come to pass. Natural disasters are increasing. The intensity is startling.

Almost certainly, I can feel the head winds of a dark storm creeping into my reality, and into the reality of others in the Southwest. Things are not always going to be pleasant. The wilderness is a real escape from the world. Every journey digs deeper into my soul. No matter what happens, I am feeling safe and content. If things change, I need to be there for my family, to help them and protect them. They are all I have in this temporal world. But the desert seems to purify my worries and it may preserve me. There are places out there, where nobody ever goes, that I can find peace. Hopefully my loved ones can find peace in the wilderness, if things came crashing down.

I can smell the rotting wood floor, warped by a hundred years. The roof of the skeleton is still up, but a whole corner of the building is caved in. Bats hang in the corners, mice scurry underneath. I lift up some rusty sheet metal and a kangaroo rat darts blindly into the desert. The wind beats the old building and it creaks and groans with pain. A tumble weed runs through the center of town. There?s no humans here, no cars, but mine. Off in the distance bone colored mountains dance on the surface. There are no clouds in the sky. It?s the end of September, but feels like July.

I think of the 19th century, as I am heading home after dusk.. Men would kill each other over a smallest things. Look at a guy wrong, and he?d murder you. Over in Pioche, Nevada, seventy men were shot dead before someone passed away of natural causes. You go back in time while walking through that town. The only difference is the paved street. Like any place with a bad history, Pioche suffers a severe melancholy, and when you go through some of the historical buildings, they feel haunted.

In the rearview mirror I notice the eastern sky turning maroon and purple. The highway is monotonous. A ghost piano begins to play softly, taking me back.

I pull the car over, and just ponder in silence. This whole world seems crazy. I become restless, because the piano doesn?t stop. It is playing in my head, and I walk out into the darkness of the landscape, beneath the dense starry sky. The beautiful tune brings tears. I take a deep breath and lay on the desert floor, sifting my fingers through cold sand, listening to the dark wasteland beneath. A vehicle passes by on the highway every ten or fifteen minutes, but all I hear is the howling wind, the crickets, the bushes squeaking.

Another person to educate your self about is Edward Abbey, a father to the Environmental Movement. I’ve read his books Desert Solitaire, and The Monkey Wrench Gang. Both demonstrate Edward’s intense love for the wilderness, but they also expose his racism towards Indigenous People, and his view that the wilderness was “untouched.” After reading these two books though, I feel that Cactus Ed was more then just some rugged individualist. They say he offended everybody, but the truth is, there’s no excuse for racism, bigotry, or intolerance. To the oppressive and colonial powers, and to Manifest Destiny, it sure must be convenient to believe in an imagined Pristine Wilderness, untouched, untamed, and wild. It seems to suggest that Native people were never here in the Southwest, or anywhere else in North America. Racism comes in many forms, even in certain areas of the Environmental Movement.

For more information visit: http://www.certain-natl.org/

In a classroom, the professor’s voice becomes background interference. My mind is somewhere on the landscape, far off in the Great Basin of Nevada. Those big cities become ghost towns. Wind and dust pass through the shattered windows of empty skyscrapers. There’s no electricity anywhere, except for one buzzing radio sucking on its last drop of current.

The storm grows enormous, sweeping across the landscape, causing everything to disappear. I’m dreaming of the deepness of rivers, and skeletons moving through the darkness of night. Sand is blowing from the dunes in summer. The Ocean’s flooding the coastlines. Hurricanes and tornadoes are on the rise. Earthquakes and volcanoes erupt. Hateful wars are waged. Desperate terrorists strike. International killing becomes so common place.

In the classroom, a talking professor is irrelevant. The class debates the social issues. The clock ticks onward. America keeps exploiting. The storm is building. The poor want a rebellion. Islamic militants are strapping bombs to themselves, blowing innocents apart. We cannot judge these things in black and white. Maybe it is natural for human beings to create murderous holocausts. Americans drop bombs from the sky, landing on villages, killing indiscriminately. For me, the line of terrorism is blurred. Politicians keep spewing misinformation. They say Americans have the best politicians money can buy. I’m trying to understand those that resist the system, to survive. I understand the wolf trapped in the cage.

The professor lectures, behind thick glasses. When the time?s up, I leave campus and head home, feeling agitated. Before I know it, I?m going down the highway, crowded with diesels and impatient motorists. Then, I?m driving passed ranches and alfalfa fields, down a frontage road to the edge of the wilderness. After turning the vehicle off, I spend hours in silence, dreaming of the Juniper covered hills.. The owl hoots, the junipers creak, the meadowlark whistles. The Earth’s power is revolutionary.

When will the machine sputter? I’m waiting for the lights to fade…

The wanderlust returns? For now though, I am enjoying my schooling in Saint George. I am home in Southern Utah. I think I have found my niche in the arts. For the first time this semester I am taking art classes at the beginning level: oil painting, watercolor, and drawing; except for advanced photography. These classes are giving me instruction in areas where my talents are now being challenged. An oil painting class at the beginning level is a struggle. Yet today, I was painting and noticed that everything was falling into place. I had my own style. It actually looked like a landscape. This is going to be my first oil painting.

If I have potential in certain areas, where will this lead me? For the passed three years of school, I never reached the type of enlightenment that I am at now. Even if it weren?t my place, art has made me a happier individual. As I am driving along Sunset Boulevard, I look up at the deep red rock cliffs above Saint George, against the turquoise sky. I can see the red cliffs and blue sky in paint strokes, and I can see the textured shadows, but my mind tends to distort the image in an abstract way like Vincent van Gogh… The sun is falling into the deep west and the end of summer is drawing near.

If the wanderlust gets the best of me, I will run away to somewhere in the Southwest, which will be against my better judgment. If art becomes my focus, what will happen? I like writing, taking photographs, and driving into the wilderness. But what is my ultimate purpose? I follow my heart even if it pulls me into the darkness of a storm.

This looks like this is right up my alley, I’m going to it! I have a lot of respect for Mr. Everett Ruess. I read his wilderness journals a few times, after a close relative recommended his writings to me. In all honesty, I have to give credit to Everett for being a major inspiration, and role model. I share a lot of affinity with his ideas, and his outlook! Plus, he ventured into the same wilderness that I love so much. He heard the wilderness calling him. If you hear it calling, BEWARE! At the age of twenty, Everett dissapeared into the Escalante Wilderness, never to be seen again!

Sometimes, I feel caught up in a doomed system, or that I am about to fail myself. But when I see beautiful rock formations and the nimble clouds as they pass through the heavens, I am reminded that life is so beautiful; that to keep going is the ultimate goal.

Now I just need to vent, maybe even in an abstract way. That is what this journal is for…

The sky is deep black, and I am seeing the infrared trees. I am crossing the wasteland that stretches farther then the eye can see. The desert shrubs and creosote speak sleepless dreams. I am reminded of beauty, over and over again. There is nothing more intoxicating then the sweet colors of the desert, especially within the Arizona Strip, venturing up through the Kiabab Plateau, or going along the foot of Mount Trumbell, near the Toroweap overlook of the Grand Canyon. Or venturing across the Sugraro strewn landscapes of Southern Arizona. While passing through emptiness, through the space of endless valleys, I cannot seem to figure out where I truly belong? There is this traveler inside, this neo-nomad that wants to keep drifting through the foot hills and the deep landscapes of the wild. The earth shadows are strong, and powerful.

In the cities and towns, new agers (nuagers) exploit the most sacred things, and as I sit here in Flagstaff or go to visit Sedona, the business and cultural exploitation just makes me sick. There is everything wrong with this New Age Movement, from the disrespectful selling of Native ceremonies, to the selling of books on NDN Spirituality, by spoofs, frauds, and Plastic Shamans. I see their exploitations of other cultures, and I wish there was something I could do to stop it. But our system allows them to exist. America is about money, and finding ways to exploit something to make a buck. This is what is wrong with Arizona culture.

The landscapes of this state are amazing. But these cities keep growing, and they grow too big commercially. I feel angered by certain things, and I have to say something about them. In all the while, I try to dwell upon the positive things in the world. Such as the sacred mountains above Flagstaff, or the deep wild gorges that surround this little city. The Ponderosas here are awesome, and dense.

So this is my perception at the moment. I won’t stop myselt from dwelling upon these things.My mind is a constant storm. Because, I simply don’t want to accept the things I am unable to change. If I could, I would find a quiet way to vanish from all the destruction that I see on this Earth. If I am a fool for talking about this, then albeit, I will say what is creeping through my conscience.

A Thanks goes to Annika. I thank her for the inspiration!

Yes, I believe that all living things have a soul. The defining characteristic for this is that most creatures have a desire to survive and reproduce, or at least the ability to do such. It is also my assumption that there doesn’t need to be a mother-child bond within every living species either. Most mammals would share this trait, but it may only play a small role in the kigdom of life. I also believe that plants and trees have deep spirits, but they don’t provide for, or take care of their offspring.

Here’s a prime example of what I’m trying to say: what gives a Bristlecone Pine Tree the desire to live, grow, and stay in one place for thousands of years, and remain content? why would a Bristlecone Pine want to live for thousands of years, grow at 10,000-12,000 feet above sea level; while enduring the most inhospitable climate conditions? They grow in the windiest, most uninhabitable areas. They even grow in places that lack moisture! It is one of the oldest living tree species in the world. There is an incredible beauty about the Bristlecone; a beauty that I cannot translate. It is very wise, and unknowable to us humans.

In Flagstaff, Arizona, I’ve been taking a Navajo History class at the college. Tonight I learned one of the original names for the San Francisco Peaks. The Navajo call them Dookoosliid, and yellow is their color. The peaks are sacred. Dookoosliid is the western boundry of Dinetah, the homeland of the Navajo People.

Tonight, radiant yellow clouds glistened above the San Francisco Peaks. They were yellow, and then dark orange. Soon, everything turned into a soft purple glow as the sun disappeared. I want to hear the wind whip and howl through the pines, through the darkness of these woods. This summer, violent thunderstorms will venture through. I find myself alone in this little apartment on the western fringe of Flagstaff, with the room mates gone. I realize how far from home I am, nearly three hundred miles from Cedar City, Utah!

Flagstaff is situated in the nation’s largest Ponderosa Forest, and it separates the outside world. Which is a good thing! On the horizon, there is nothing but pine steeples against blue sky. The peaks rise above, and they become an incredible panorama.

It’s been a joy to write in my journal. When feeling homesick, it is a place to ponder. But I learn to appreciate the beauty, and wonder of this world. Arizona is a nice little place, and I don’t get homesick too bad. In fact, it scares me that I don’t miss home. I miss my family though!

I have lived a total of six days in Flagstaff now. I don’t know what to think of this place yet? I love the singing Ponderosa Pine that engulf the sprawling town. There are so many trees, that I couldn’t even find my way around. A few times, I got lost. This town is actually environmentally friendly; at least when compared to the towns of Utah. A lot of ravens take up residency too. It’s a quiet place, except for the trains. They sound their horns at all hours. It isn’t bothersome though.

Compared to Southern Utah, this area is a lot more diverse with people. There are a lot of folks coming from different backgrounds. In Utah, it seems like 90% of the population is Mormon and of the same mindset. There’s the Paiute in Southern Utah, and a few Mexicans. But in my humble opinion, Southern Utah is culturally lacking. I say this respectively, not to offend anybody. I have yet to become familiar with the citizens of Flagstaff, Arizona.

Today, I drove to a place called the Oak Creek Canyon overlook. There was Native people selling stuff there. Ravens were chatting. Far below the overlook railing, I could hear the creek rushing downward. I loved the steep walls of the canyon, and the various layers of sandstone that composed it. Then I wanted to go see Sedona, despite all the New Agers and frauds that I’ve heard are living there. I didn’t dare drive down to Sedona anyway, because my car has been acting like an creaky dinosaur about to kill over. In the past few months, it’s been acting strange and unpredictable. I can’t stand the thought of getting stranded again, like I did the other night while coming into Flagstaff. A radiator hose blew out in the engine, and I ended up trying to stop people on the highway for help. It’s a lonely feeling, when no one was willing to stop and help. I guess people let fear, or carelessness dictate their lives. I try to stop and help people when I see them in that predicament. Finally, a highway patrolman stopped and called a wrecker.

So now I am living in Flagstaff with three other room mates. What a dark town it becomes at night. I’ve noticed that it blends into the surrounding forest after sundown, below the San Francisco Peaks. These mountains are sacred to the Hopi and other local Native peoples. I’ve known the controversy surrounding the peaks, and I side with the original nations in this area. Down below the peaks, the desert is primordial, calling to all those that hear its vision. And how I love the glow of the peaks, when the pale moon shines upon them.

I love traveling through the Navajo Reservation, and seeing the long empty shadows being dropped from low rising sandstone formations. Just before sundown, there is a twilight of emense silence, and the only sounds I hear, are the roaring engine and the wheels humming against the endless highway. Navajo homes with little street lamps, weave a spider web of existence in the black labyrinth of Northern Arizona. I feel the strong warmth of isolation. I feel something that is hard to speak of. I listen to the radio buzz, and the static responding to the RPM of my motor. Into the blackness, into the Painted Desert I traverse.

Flagstaff is a quiet place. Yes, it is a busy little city. But it isn’t really. It is full of interesting things. I have yet to explore it. When I see Arizona, in a wholesome sense, it has a spirit that is far different from Utah. Even the local Wal-Mart has an ‘Arizona’ smell to it. Yes, I am going to miss Utah, but I left to find some personal indipendence.

And to Zoey, I appreciate your comment. I checked my bloginality, and I may post the result in the sidebar somewhere.

Something isn’t right, it’s never right! I don’t know whether I’m depressed or just restless? However, I am enjoying school very much. Finally, I have classes that I can relate to, and people I can discuss political issues with. But the begging landscape keeps pulling me away from civilization, into the shadowy wilderness of Juniper hills, and deep filled canyons of silence.

As I am walking home through the campus, after classes, I’m enjoying the blue sky filled with small white clouds. It’s hot outside, but there isn’t any desert wind. Walking under campus ponderosa, the sun sifts through pine tree branches. An old lady carefully limps past me and I look into the eternity of her eyes. She looks like an ancient creature covered in folded wrinkles with narrow lips tightly woven. She is beautiful and quietly walking past me. She has an intuitive friendly face. I felt like stopping her and talking. I love to be around older people whether they are wise or just lonely. I wander where she was heading? Does her family visit her as she looks quite solitary.

This town is filled with young students in their twenties but them are aliens. I don’t know why? I’m the stranger. In my head an ancient piano is playing: Somewhere My Love at a funeral without visitors, family, or friends. There’s a coffin filled with a sad human being covered in red and yellow roses. This was nothing more then a spontaneous thought: I begin to hear wind howling down sandy canyons. It’s a constant, soothing roar that never stops. Within the quiet shade my mind conjures images from the past. At one time, this college campus did not exist. I can see Paiute men from the old days wondering through here in search of rabbits. Instead of green lawn, there was wild sage. The images flicker in the mind like an old picture show. Between two worlds the sun is humming. Something is out there – waiting.

Long ago, there was no Cedar City, and there were no Mormons entering Southern Utah. This desert province wasn’t Southern Utah. Before them the ol’ Spanish Trail went right through the heart of Cedar City and down into Northern Arizona, to Santa Fe. In 1776-77, the Dominguez-Escalante Expedition traveled through here.

This land is stolen. It is occupied territory. America is a simple label placed on an ancient landbase filled with the endless history that predates Columbus, or my European ancestors. As I am walking, the wind begins howling and weeping. The pine needles begin to sing.

My latest excursion was a trip to Lake Powell, with my uncle. We spent the weekend there, and I was amazed how much the water level has dropped, leaving behind a thick white bathtub ring from the previous water level. The skeletons of dead cottonwoods, crumbling sandstone cliffs, and bleached cliff dwellings are all that remain from the original beauty of Glen Canyon. The landscape looks like a cemetery of all things drowned by Lake Powell. I feel sad and angry; I feel a few rednecks robbed Glen Canyon of its beauty when deciding to construct the artificial Glen Canyon Dam. They also robbed my generation and those to come, of a beauty that we can only view in photographs, or hear from those who loved the original canyon. I want the Colorado River to flow freely, allowing it to sculpt every area without restraint.

After seeing what the reservoir has done to Glen Canyon, it should be drained. They say with 40 years, the natural elements may be able to restore Glen Canyon to some of its original beauty. However, I know that there is a local economy built on the foundations of Lake Powell. The National Park Service calls the entire contraption; Glen Canyon Recreation Area. One tourist company’s slogan reads: Lake Powell – America’s Natural Playground.

As you can see, I would probably side with the Glen Canyon Institute and Living Rivers, on decommissioning the dam, and permanently draining Lake Powell forever; but I merely hold an opinion on this matter. I cannot speak against those who depend upon Lake Powell for their livelihood, but people need to start respecting the land, instead of exploiting it. Many see the land for economical or recreational value, or something that needs to be conquered. But the land is not ours to be exploited.

There are thousands of gas-guzzling houseboats traversing the reservoir like the Mississippi. It is a demoralizing issue altogether, and I want to see the canyon restored to its previous shape.

Mother Earth will take care of everything. A massive flood could easily rip out the dam. But the current drought has caused Lake Powell to drop nearly 130 feet. If the current drought persists, the dam may become completely useless. And whether we realize it or not, humans are only a small part of the ‘big picture.’

There are several stories about lost gold mines and Spanish treasure in Southern Utah. After all, this land was once occupied by old Mexico. My grandpa warned me to stay away from the stories. They could drive anybody crazy who listened to them.

I was in a bakery in Cedar City and overheard two bearded guys talking about a possible gold mine that one of them found. Then one individual started telling a story about a crazy hermit that spent an entire lifetime searching for lost gold. He became desperate and found a cave in the mountains near Cedar City and collected all this petrified rat shit from inside. Filling the back of his truck trailer with this stuff, he drove to a place that would confirm it was gold ore! When they saw what it was, they busted apart laughing. I gotta be honest, it was a funny story.

This prospector must have been doped or something? There are many of these types that scourer the desert in search of hidden treasure. They seem to be the ones leaving their beer can trails all over the countryside. I’ve met a few that claim to be “expert” trackers.

lmao…

I picture myself somewhere in a sandstone canyon on the Colorado Plateau; a deep gully in the belly of Mother Earth. Rock walls tower hundreds of feet above my head. Looking up into a narrow sky, I see clouds drift slowly in the heavens. But really, I’m actually typing a message on the internet. There is tremendous pressure to disappear into the boonies, beyond the reaches of my home town.

A reckless wisdom taunts my footsteps, speaking to me in windy whispers. The trees have eyes looking at me. Listen to the forests howling in distant mountains. Giant Ponderosas filter wind through furry branches. Their steeples stand tall against Father Sky; their roots sink deep into Mother Earth.

I feel crazy, craving an escape. I’ve been chained to the hardware, the square house, the quilted bed, the fast food, the television, and the structured linear things of society. How bitter sweet.

Turning on the radio late last night, I listened to AM static singing from distant lands . I could imagine the radio waves bouncing and traveling hundreds, even thousands of miles to reach my little receiver and through the speakers.

Maybe I can wander off somehwere faraway?