McCloud 7-9, Wolf, Mishra

It seems the theme of the week seems to lay here:  instead of here, in the words... Though from the McCloud reading last week, I'm not so sure the two are drastically different. Wolf brought to the conversation the idea of computer simulation, and the effect of images (and their validity) on human interpretation. She surmises: "Computer simulation's speculative nature blurs the lines between fiction and nonfiction a complicates the question of how far an indexical link can be stretched and displaced and still be considered valid in society, as facts get skewed, left out, misinterpreted, or filled in by theory and speculation" (Wolf 429). In particular, she mentioned that in court, often black and white images could be references but color images were thought to sway the audience. If this theory is accurate, then does color make a difference here too? Immediately our eyes are drawn to color, and naturally we are more apt to remember something that is distinct like the above phrase. But why is it then that we don't see more freedom of 'manipulation' in the ethos of traditional writers? Think of almost every book you've ever read- can you think of one that was not printed on ivory paper with black or greyed ink? Why as writers, are we not able (or not willing) to play into the tools we are given?

**When I google searched this, I found absolutely nothing- no discussion, no forum, no other contemplation of why this happens to be the case. Though I feel it may have originated as an economic decision, and of course has its historical contexts (because printing is expensive) but I can't help but ask- haven't we evolved past that yet?

Color in photographs is one of their main attractions, and artists avidly use this to distinguish their work from other artists. McCloud talks about the flagrant use of color in comics, and from his chapter 8, it is easy to see the moves that color can make for that industry. I think back now to hyperreading, and wonder if the use of color and the heightened sense of freedom in format has anything to do with this generations tendency to prefer online media versus book in hand. Would this pattern change if we incorporated more technique associated with these mediums? 

McCloud 1-4

Who knew comics were an art? Not this girl. As 'graphic novel virgin', the first time I'd ever read anything besides the Sunday Funnies was in Amy Thomas' class, Literature Unbound, where we critically looked at The Walking Dead- in both it's television and (original) graphic novel forms. Talk about inter-texuality... For her class, we also read from McCloud to help us gain a general sense of, really, what's behind the art of comics and graphic novels.

One of McCloud's biggest points of focus lies in the differences between Eastern and Western comic design and the shifts in the artistry and design, and how that changes the way the reader perceives the finished work. He makes a point that Japanese comics are heir to a tradition where "they emphasize being there over getting there"(McCloud 81). I try to translate this into my work as a creative-minded writer, and think about ways in which I may tend to focus on the 'getting there' of a story, over, perhaps, the element of 'being there'. Something that comes to mind (since we always go back to what we know) is Virginia Woolf and her novel, Mrs. Dalloway. As many of you are familiar with her work, I'll skip the summary (you can find it here if you find yourself ignorant), but the book tells a story that takes place in a single day- a very narrow time frame (much like we see in Joyce's work, and other stream of consciousness-esk writers). Within this tiny time frame, I imagine that Woolf was forced quite often to ask herself this same question of where her text takes the reader- and in this instance, I see a crossing over of both the East and the Western ways of thinking (or so they call Modernism). 

Going back to Porter's essay where he mentioned that "writing is non-linear", I think comics really lend us a sense of that. Not a 'classical' form of literature, where we may read left to right and focus on only the prose on the page, comics ask more of us as an audience as well as a writer. Just look at their versatility! From graphic novels to political statements, humorous or tragic, they build relationships in very tangible ways, making the reader, arguable more loyal, to the source. Just think about Garfield, Charlie Brown, or X-men... comics are able to fill a gap that prose alone cannot. 

 They are a great medium through which we can further our understanding of 'texts' outside of the traditional sense. I'm not sure before my experience with McCloud, and his expression of the craft that goes into this form of literature, I would have been tempted to pick up a graphic novel. Knowing what I know now, about the level of interaction between author and audience, and the inevitable vulnerability of a comic writer, I am much more interested in the genre as a whole. I think it is incredibly important, now more than ever, to keep looking across genres and asking ourselves (especially as writers) 'what can this do for my work?' How can lessons in comics translate into lessons in literature? And in what ways can I pull on the things McCloud is saying, like the blood in the gutters (or the formatting, ie. breaks in between chapters, paragraphs) to further my view of writing as a whole?  

Sosnoski, Jakobs, and Hayles

Hypertext.
As I sit and type, I am thinking about how this very action can (if it does) differ from constructing prose, pen and paper in hand, in the 'traditional' manner of writing.  Do we see the same cross over from Hyper-writing, if you will, impacting traditional writing skills? Is this a natural correlation to make if reading skills are in a (supposed, according to Hayles) decline due to Hypertext/reading?

Sosnoski talks about computer-assisted reading, and renders it somehow different from reading that same text in a printed version. Putting his essay in conversation with Hayles, we begin to understand why these two mediums differ. Hayles claims that Hyperreading actually require changes in brain architecture (67), in addition to adaptation to new reading strategies that Sosnoski points out; filtering, skimming, pecking, imposing, filming, trespassing, de-authorizing, and fragmenting (163).

It is arguable whether or not these new skills required for Hyperreading are in direct opposition to close reading. I find myself often in the position in a college semester, where I simply do not have to time allotment for the reading I need to do. In these instances, perhaps due to my experience with Hypertexts, I can use my adapted reading abilities to skim and peck the texts and still come away with a general understand of a text- still able to put it in conversation and learn or benefit from the discussion. I think the contingent issue at hand is not the use of these new skills, but the perpetual use of them.

Students in generation X are resourceful, as well as lazy. I have friends who 'hate to read books'- perhaps because they struggle with the restricted and academic format, and perhaps they take more easily to the flexibility that can be found in Hyperreading. But take caution, the internet has opened up a world of quick-fixes and easy solutions, like websites that will actually write your essay for you  (http://www.essaywritingsoft.com/essay-generator.html ) or translators that make it possible to read a novel in Spanish while not comprehending the language. In our world today, there is no offline. We are constantly connected, perpetually plugged-in, and watching our trends of modernization, we won't be slowing down anytime soon. Not all hope is lost, though. The Atlantic found an interesting trend between number of books read and level of education, showing that on average, Americans in college read 9 books per year. What their study fails to differentiate is if these books were read with the aid of a Nook or Kindle (Hyperreading?) or were traditional novels in print. Check it out, and think about what Sosnoski or Hayles would have to say-- Jakobs would probably spiel about the webpage's setup.

So as Hayles proposed, we need to stop haranguing Hypertext and asserting that deep reading Joyce's 'Portrait' is the only way to identify well constructed prose, and begin to look for ways to combine and better navigate a combination of Hypertext and close-reading, so future generations can remain balanced and evenly skilled. Hayles surmises: "The larger point is that close, hyper and machine reading each have distinctive advantages and limitations; nevertheless, they also overlap and can be made to interact synergistically with one another" ( 75).

I'd like to state that I found Jakobs essay dry and virtually useless, focusing too much on teched-out language and forms that are not easily relatable or even understandable to the average reader.
Not a fan- I'd argue we could drop this from the readings the next go around and be no worse off, though I'd like to see how others react to this work, since we all have our preferences...

Wysocki-Eilola, Fisher

(Imagine more creative title here)

    I enjoy very much that Fisher grapples with the idea that technical reason renders the public unreasonable (392) and that knowing 'rational discourse' could potentially shift ones position in society- or the unfortunate contrast of constantly segmenting people into distinct classes (those who 'know' in terms of specialized discourse, like a community's understanding of politics, and those who 'do not know').
    This in particular I found this to communicate well, in limited ways, with Wysocki et al.- though I think we better converse with Wysocki to understand literacy's shift in priority in American culture. The authors dare to provoke the reader to ask: why is literacy so important? To which they go forth boldly and claim:
       "In the United States, we live the mythology of a classless society... In a society bound by such a mythology, our views about literacy are our views about political economy and social opportunity..... Far from engineering freedom, our current approaches to literacy corroborate other social practices that prevent freedom and limit opportunity" (Stuckey vii) (Wysocki et al 354).
Perhaps this importance that has held on to the coattails of the word 'literacy' for so long should be re-purposed, or rather the constitutes in which we understand this discourse needs to be radically shifted. The authors here argue that the paradigm in which we operate as post-modern and technologized (yes, I've made up a word- I'm a writer- I can) human beings has skewed our sense of priority or importance in a world that is now based on progress. As we move with the ever-changing times, I feel the need to ask- is a separation like this, where one class is privileged and one marginalized, anything but sequential?

    As we look back through our history, we can continually see a gap expand between those who are educated- literate- and those who are not. It is not shocking to hear that the literacy levels trend alongside of elevated wealth, which then naturally coordinates with higher social standing. I can only assume, as Wysocki suggests, that our priorities began to shift with the erasure of the first maps and Colonization gave birth to Progress and Modernity.
How quickly we forget our roots. Throughout time, humanity has proven to be interested in engaging with history, fiction, depiction, art..."Man is both in his actions and practice... essentially a story-telling animal"(201)(Fisher 375). Through these stories, we have an opportunity (for those fortunate enough to be literate) to share our lives. We are able to have an immortal voice, and create even a world that is better than our own. I cannot help but be reminded of the incredible story one woman has to offer us, speaking out in a courageous voice that, before her, had been silenced by the thousands.

   The book and autobiographical memoir I, Rigoberta Menchu: an Indian Woman in Guatemala is a retelling of the lifetime of an indigenous Quiche Mayan woman and her family in Guatemala during the military regime. Menchu grew up working her family's antiplano in the mountains, but when their land was disputed by the military, she and her family were forced into working on the coffee plantations where the indigenous were exploited for labor, abused and underpaid- if paid at all. Her father, an advocate against the government, was burned to death by an opposing political party and her brother was publicly tortured and killed by a military firing squad. Her mother- kidnapped, raped, mutilated and then murdered- suffered an equally unjust fate.
    After spending time in hiding (and eventual exile) in Guatemala, Rigoberta, when she was 23 years old, taught herself Spanish so she had a means, a voice at last, to communicate her story and her family and tribe's suffering to the rest of the world. She found a translations expert and dictated her story in her limited Spanish, which was then translated to English and published worldwide. Though she was not literate in the modern sense of the word, it was, and is still language that gives her the freedom she and her people deserve.
In 1992, she was awarded a Nobel Prize "in recognition of her work for social justice and ethno-cultural reconciliation based on respect for the rights of indigenous peoples" (nobelprize.org) 
To learn more, please watch: (Keep in mind the difficulty of translation and that even Spanish here is not her native language) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Irvq1CHPAvo

*Though you can skip to Rigoberta at 3:30 (or 7:10 to get past the thank-you's), the introduction is a nice word on the importance of language as a voice for the silenced and marginalized. 

Welcome to my bedroom

 I had this great aspiration to film my video from the back of my horse, or on a mountaintop, or underwater... but then I decided why not in my bedroom? If this is truly to serve as a "get to know you" video, then where better to know me than in my most intimate space? We surround ourselves in our homes with little things that help define who we are and what we value- in my room there are my maps, photos of horses, rivers and friends, and small objects that help me remember where I've been and what experiences have made me who I am. Whether it's a mortar and pestal gifted to me from mi familia in Chile, or a framed photo of my boyfriend and I on horseback in the Crazies- it's all a part of my internal makeup and contributes to who I am in some way or another. So here you are, as simple, raw and real as can be. 

Fish, Porter, Grant-Davies and Whitacre- Week 1

I'm fascinated by Porter's claims- his bold, uninhibited separation of writers and readers, and the inversion of this relationship on which we are so reliant as authors. Grant-Davie was less... entertaining, though he backs up Porter's claim (intertexuality, anyone?).

Grant-Davie asks "What is the discourse about?", or more effectively, "what values are at stake"? By asking this, we are introduced to Porter's hypothesis of inter-textuality, and the constrains of the audience, or Text, limiting the writing. As Porter states, " genius is possible, but it may be constrained" (Porter 40). We examine the place of the writer within his community, and now the community's manipulation of the writer's product.
I particularly enjoyed his claim that we should revisit the very idea of plagiarism, and possibly redefine it's parameters to include "borrowing" from our chosen discourses.

Why is this applicable? Why should I care?

Porter might argue that our nation was founded on a plagiarized document. Jefferson's accredited Declaration of Independence was indeed drafted from legislative inspiration of the mid 1700's, and Porter even argues that 'life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness' was a common cliche of the times. I can't help but think, are turns of phrase all intended to be coined? Can an author claim stake to every series of words he produces? Does this mean we cannot ever truly create anything new? How are we to understand proverbs in this light?
Despite some initial skepticism, Porter's point asks us to reevaluate our own position in the relation between author and audience, rhetor and discourse community (or Fish's interpretive community, Grant-Davies inter-textual social community) and see that intertext in fact 'constrains writing' and therefore the author as well. He argues that students should learn from none 'heroic' role models who borrow from their discourse communities to better learn how to become a contributing writer in whatever field, or discourse community, that they choose. He wants us to understand that as writers, we are operating in a paradigm that "cultivate(s) the romantic image of the writer as free, uninhibited, as independent creative genius" (Porter 34), and that instead, it is the very community in which we work that should be our focus.
In essence, we, as writers/readers/consumers of literature and writing in its more interpretive forms, are entering an ever changing paradigm- a world in which boundaries and previous notions can no longer be set in stone. This brings me to several curiosities: What is our purpose, now in the height of modernity, to be taking this class?  What discourse should we understand ourselves in, and are they different for each of us?

Porter also mentions that 'writing is non linear' which I couldn't help but understand in terms of the TED talk in class, and Erik Whitacre's virtual choir, and the mediums through which he used prose- in the most nonlinear ways. Attempting to redefine our more classical (or limited, linear) understandings of relationships, (i.e: prose/audience, rhetor/rhetorical situation, plagarism/inter-textuality) can cause us to stretch past what we have always understood to be 'true' (or existent as Lizzie pointed out in her blog post) and create something new, something genius, something that may even end up becoming the unaccredited 'Once Upon a Time' of our time.

Hello 371

Yes, I've reduced you all to a number. Class number 371, to be more specific. By senior year, any 'first day' jitters have far been done away with, and I'm left more with a general curiosity about who hides behind the screens of our classroom.

I generally sit in the front row, next to Sicily and another classmate, who, by his browsing trends I assume to have a relatively short attention span. I don't know your name yet, but give me time : )
Isn't it odd how almost all of us revert to the same seating patterns after that initial day of class? If I sat in the back row would it throw off Kelsey's chi? Or would anyone even notice a simple brunettes' shift of space?

I suppose I'm ahead of myself.

 I'm Lea, a double major in Environmental Study and English Writing, though those are just words that will roll over you. I spent a large portion of my time in South America, studying a river system in Patagonia facing severe environmental degradation due to Goliath, HidroAysen, an international mega-corporation pushing to construct five hydroelectric dams on the most powerful and most ancestral rivers in Chile.

This, and other water rights issues, dominate my mindset 97 percent of the time.

The remaining three percent of capacity seems to love doing extreme sports on horses, travel, red rock, tea and Edward Abbey, mountaintops, indelicate things, and the way the sun feels on my skin as it filters through the fingers of a Pine still draped in Montana dawn.

Ask me anything, I'm an open book.

The Walking Dead: other repetitious patterns in literature ROUGH DRAFT

Contrasting The Simpson's Treehouse of Horror and The Walking Dead t.v. series at first seemed... unconventional, to say the least. Being a fan of neither show, nor particularly keen on the latter's subject material, I can't say I held high hopes. As with most things though, I was pleasantly surprised.

The Walking Dead:
- Follows classical trends of Joseph Cambell's the Hero's Journey
     Rick; protagonist, sheriff, ---> "hero"
     Laurie; wife, mother, ---> "damsel in distress" (important to note she is the only female character we are introduced to in this episode)
     Shane: adulterer, protector, ---> "villain"



Important to note that the whole series will probably follow this ark, though each individual episode can see some crossover and continues building on the reoccurring themes. Can we imagine this picture to be anything but a circle?

2nd episode: would it be considered looting? Questioning of morals, Rick "don't think those rules apply anymore, do you?" Tug-o-war between tradition and modernity
binary between right and wrong, good and evil, us and the other? brings into question the very idea of our humanity, (id from dead zombie, crossing his chest saying oh mios dios, still reaching out for human connection or explaination higher than ones self) where are the boundaries of this new world? Capacity for forgiveness (handcuff and key on rooftop, racism)

The Simpsons:
[seems to] follow creative writing's 'story telling curve' in three mini-episodes
Lot's of parody and surprising number of literary references (ex: Hitchcock, Shakespeare, Night of the Living Dead, Nightmare on Elm Street, Creature from the Black Lagoon)

Patagonia Sin Represas

 I copy out mountains, rivers, clouds.

Welcome to Patagonia, Chile. Geographically, the 11th region- Aysen XI- of Chilean Patagonia, home to no more than 4,000 people in 42,095 square miles. To the north lie the Northern and Southern Icefields, and to the south, Antarctica. On a map, the west is marked by the flood of the Baker river's flow into the Pacific Ocean, and to the east, the Argentinian boarder. 

This is the wildest place on Earth.

I take a pen from my pocket. I note down

The people who call Region Aysen home are proud, genuine people. They spend their days simply, sunset to sunrise in the harshest environment on Earth. They love their mountains, their rivers, their forests because they understand that these are their livelihood. They celebrate each day with bread and wine, of which they find it impossible to overindulge. They are the most generous group of people I've yet to know. 

a bird in it's rising 

The small farms that speckle the landscape are duro, strong, like the hardened hands that have worked their familial lands for years. They've roped and wrangled this turbulent earth until they know exactly how it feels, stained like blood on their palms. 

Or a spider in its little silkworks.

Livestock have become a precious thing, always in constant battle with the unbridled elements- pumas, earthquakes, the never ceasing-winds. Farmers are finding it more and more difficult to maintain their traditional lifestyles in such isolation. Yet, they choose to remain.  

Nothing else crosses my mind. I am air, 

The river is their lifeline. The ancestral Baker river, the most powerful of all of Chile's water sources, runs south 170km from the east at the Argentine boarder. The Baker is the heart of Aysen, providing jobs and unaltered beauty to those lucky enough to call her banks home. The river is a mirror reflection of it's people: strong and running free- for now. 

clear air, where the wheat is waving 

Maykol and Luis operate a rafting outfitting service on the Baker. They run some of the rapids four and five times a day, discussing eagerly afterwards in excited Chilean slang how they can improve the ride. When the boat is packed up and wetsuits have been shed, they make sure the thank the Baker, both closing their eyes for a minute as they emerge dripping in turquoise water, knowing their free spirits would be lost without this river. 

where a bird's flight moves me, the uncertain

fall of a leaf, the globular

eye of a fish, unmoving in the lake 

In the 1970's under the military dictatorship of Pinochet, Chile lost national control of most of its resources, including water. The privatized companies that now control Chile's rivers span across continents. The United States hold rights to six rivers, triumphed only by Endesa, a company from Spain that has collaborated with Enel from Italy to create a mega-corporation: HidroAysen. They plan to build a series of five hydroelectric dams in Southern Patagonia, two of which would dam the Baker river. 

the statues sailing in the clouds, 

If HidroAysen were to succeed with the project, life in Aysen would be altered. The simplistic, traditional way of the people would not be able to compete with job offers and work on the dam site, and Aysen would be forced to modernize- losing a large piece of themselves in the process. 

the intricate variations of the rain. 

The area is biologically diverse, home to many endangered species and provides a large range of rare flora that were originally documented during Darwin's exploration in 1833. The trees are covered in 'Old Man's Beard', a lichen that grows as a sign of clean air and can create a sense of disorientation in the forests, as if Patagonia was endless.  

Nothing else crosses my mind except 

This is the last best place. This is rugged, unforgiving nature in tooth and claw. This is life in its rawest stage: pristine peaks that have never been climbed, terrain that has never seen a human footstep, where the darkest dreams persist and the brightest days uplift. This is Patagonia.  

the transparency of summer, I sing only of the wind, 

But to HidroAysen, this is Patagonia. This is Profit and Progress. This is energy and money to subsist copper mining in the Northern Atacama desert.

When HidroAysen looks out at this piece of land, they see charts, graphs, and plans for how they can commodify nature. 

and history passes in its carriage, 

Dam site number two- the Confluence. The Nef river rolls in from the west, the Cochrane from the northeast and the Baker, moves south. This is the point on the river with a maximum energy output that would generate more than 2,750 megawatts of power for the North. Despite it being a multi-million dollar project, the dams will come at a much greater cost.

collecting its shrouds and metals, 

How can this strip of paint be that mighty river?

and passes, and all I feel is rivers. 

These waters are home to the largest exportation of salmon in all of Chile, third largest on a global scale. The eco-tourism generated in this region is one of it's most profound economic contributions. Aysen claims to provide 'the best fly fishing in the world' and with the highest volume of water to land mass in Chile, it is easy to see why.

I stay alone with the spring. 

If the dams are built, tributaries like this that provide income and habitat will first flood, then dry up from imbalance of flow, destroying much of the unique ecosystem that relies on this rivers persistence.

Shepherd, shepherd, don't you know 

The Baker fjords of Tortel, the most beautiful place I've ever stepped foot, will also dry up. Once dammed, the river will no longer reach the Pacific Ocean, causing massive ecosystemic shifts in not only the river, but smaller scale to the ocean's aquaculture as well. 

they are all waiting for you?

Dam site number 1.
There is still hope in Chile. The Patagonian people are not handing over their rivers in peace. The Patagonia Sin Represas movement, a group of conservationalists who are fighting to keep the dams out of Aysen, has made waves in delaying HidroAysen's project by demanding adequate environmental impact reports, which must then be approved by the Chilean government, for both the mega-dams, as well as the 1,500 feet of accompanying transmission line that are needed to transport the energy to the North. 

I know, I know. But here beside the water, 

The transmission lines will run parallel to the river, and require more than 300 feet on either side of the cable to be deforested and stripped bare. In Spanish, they will become cicatrizes, scars on the face of this beautiful place.

while the locusts chitter and sparkle

The river's color is distinguished by the unique shade of blue in the glacial waters, unlike any river I've seen. The legend in the region says that her waters are colored as such because of a large deposit of gold in the glacial runoff. Some Chileans even fear an upcoming gold rush after the dam project brings more people and attention to the region. 

although they are waiting, I want to wait for myself. 

Here in Tortel, a small fishing town on the farthest tip of Aysen, the locals are all fishermen. The pueblo is connected purely by a series of hand built boardwalks that allow the boatsmen to dock on either the Pacific side or off of the Baker. Life is hard here, trade has become the predominate means of survival. Maria Jose sells menthol cigarettes by the carton, and trades for homemade bread or a rare ration of fresh fruit. The Chileans here are adamantly against the dam project because they will lose their jobs on the river and for many, this means their homes and lifestyle as well. 

I too want to watch myself.

People won't be the only thing affected. The fauna of Aysen are some of the most rare in the world, including the condor, the blue-footed boobie, and the hooded grebe. Much of their habitat will flood as an effect of the dams, and they will significantly change their dietary trends by altering the migration of fish, particularly salmon and zebra fish, in the river system. 

I want to discover at last my own feelings 

Guanacos, vicuna and huemuls also share the benefits of the river, and have foraged in this area for centuries. Much of the land surrounding the dam sites is part of Conservacion Patagonica, a project run by Doug and Kristine Thompkins, American conservationists, to preserve land and habitat for these animals. 

And when I reach the place where I am waiting, 

The damming of this river puts much more in jeopardy than just the water. Every form of life in this area would be impacted, causing irreversible changes to the landscape and ancient ecosystems. This is not the first river to be dammed, nor will it be the last. We have seen the effects of our modernization, we have seen the effects of dams, yet still choose to sacrifice balance and harmony for progression and profit.  

I expect to fall asleep, dying of laughter. -P.N

The most beautiful places are dying. The last living Eden is about to be sacrificed. The Baker river will just be the beginning, and once it is dammed the Pascua river and the rest of Chile's abundant water sources will be quick to fall.
When does it stop? Where will it end?



Patagonia Sin Represas 










Pastoral
By Pablo Neruda 

 I copy out mountains, rivers, clouds.

I take my pen from my pocket. I note down 

a bird in its rising 

or a spider in its little silkworks. 

Nothing else crosses my mind. I am air, 

clear air, where the wheat is waving, 

where a bird's flight moves me, the uncertain

fall of a leaf, the globular

eye of a fish unmoving in the lake, 

the statues sailing in the clouds, 

the intricate variations of the rain. 

Nothing else crosses my mind except 

the transparency of summer. I sing only of the wind, 

and history passes in its carriage, 

collecting its shrouds and metals, 

and passes, and all I feel is rivers. 

I stay alone with the spring. 

Shepherd, shepherd don't you know

they are all waiting for you?

I know, I know, but here beside the water

while the locusts chitter and sparkle, 

although they are waiting, I want to wait for myself. 

I too want to watch myself. 

I want to discover at last my own feelings. 

And when I reach the place where I am waiting, 

I expect to fall asleep, dying of laughter. 

- The Poetry of Pablo Neruda, text 2003, pg. 484 - translated by Alastair Reid 

Silence

The bus was rank with the smell of our sweat. We sat with our shoulders pressed together, muscles still hot and aching, staring out the windows- waiting. A few people rested, eyes closed, against the glass while its rattling held their dreams at bay. Every other word I wrote was interrupted by the need to itch my skin, or by an escaped laugh thrown from Satheesh, whose presence was impossible to ignore. He was a person as contagious as an illness. His dark, molten skin was smooth and pure, unmarred by the Utah brush that had cut up my own legs and feet. His spirited laugh was what had caught my attention, and what I liked best about him. It lit up his face, slit his eyes and coursed through his gangly six-foot-five body. He spoke with a Malaysian accent and his appreciation of life exploded through his lips as he said to me: "d'eym so bleessed". He laughed, again, this time accompanied by a wide grin. Something outside caught his attention, and now I'm the one laughing as he proclaimed "harses"! at the paint mares in the field out the window.
My feet are beyond sore, and seem to be permanently aching- a feeling I'm sure the majority of the van shared after seven days of strenuous hiking. It's trips like these where every muscle, even bones, are in pain. Dying of heat by day and freezing at night, we might begin to question why we are here; why are we doing this? The answer is not found in asking why, but in remembering who. As I write, my arm is bumping the tanned forearm of Logan, who is impatiently reading through his National Parks Passport that he picked up in Arches. He faithfully turns the pages, looking from Alaska to Maine, and I can feel his entire body tense before he turns to Satheesh and moans "I want to beee there, man". Logan is from Ukraine, but has spent his summers in Montana. I watch him continue to flip through the maps and as I study his face I can see the same controlled frustration there that I feel in myself when I think about everything I want to do in my life. We share that manic impulse somewhere in our heads or hearts that signals us to constantly be reminded that life is too short. Logan has shared with me his touching belief in his religion and and his desire to see all of the kingdom God's created on Earth.
My train of thought is again broken by Satheesh, who in the midst of the quiet on the bus leans over to happily whisper to Logan and I,
"D'eym so glad you geys are here. D'eym so lucky. Thank you, love you", as he pats Logan's knee, leans back to his seat and lets the silence resume.
Logan laughs at each word Satheesh attempts to pronounce in English, while Satheesh is too enthralled and fascinated by each moment and he doesn't notice. Logan and I look at each other, and smile softly. The atmosphere is so pleasant, I couldn't have repressed the happiness if I had wanted to.
I can hear Green Day pounding out of Abi's headphones behind me, every now and then followed by the sound of his Indian accent muttering along 'don't wanna be...'. This time the guitar solo seems to have woken Josefin, who was sleeping peacefully on his shoulder. She pushes back her blonde hair, revealing her electric blue eyes and groggily turns them to watch the red rocks streak past the window panes as we drive. She doesn't say much, but when she does it is poised and meaningful. Perhaps being the oldest of the group at 23 (and ironically the shortest), she feels more inclined to watch our antics rather than take part in them. Her Swedish heritage is heard in her tone when she knows we're being dumbasses, but her smile softens the lecture that's sure to follow.
A few others have woken now, too. Andi suggests we stop to meditate, but the idea is quickly shut down by Brad who makes a snide remark to the Thai/Aussie native. Andi's response is a quick and cool "That's fine, mate", and again, the conversation is only between the open window and the wind. We are all too exhausted, too grungy and too sick of being cramped in the car to really care that we're not talking. Logan shifts to take his sweatshirt off, a feat in such a cramped car. In a while we'll talk about our favorite part of the hikes, the funniest parts of the trip, a near-death experience, or mention how sore we are, how we can't wait to get back home to Bozeman...but for now, as I begin to close my eyes and drift back to sleep, the still of the silence is enough.

****                                                                 ****                                                                  ****

I pulled each leg forward; kept hoping each step would be my last. I'd never wanted to stop so badly in my entire life. I swear, my bones hurt. I kept my eyes cast down, focusing on the changing layers of rock. The pattern bumbled from red to strange shades of grey and green, but my eyes caught and focused on the deep mocha color of Satheesh's calves.
Left foot, right foot. I ignored the burning in my thighs.
I watched his muscle ripple as he climbed in front of me; sliding his feet on the smooth sandstone where mine quickly followed. I took three steps to his one, his stride twice the size of mine. I struggled to keep up. Satheesh was weird. He was possibly the strangest man I'd ever met. His smile never left his face, except for the rare occasion when he looked down and his eyes glazed over, the fear extinguishing his can-do-it attitude. The canyon bed we had just climbed out of had a 1,300 foot elevation gain, only one hundred feet shy of the height of the Sears tower. And Satheesh, was afraid of heights.
In a strange way, Satheesh is everything I'm not. A black male, standing at six five, he's over a foot taller than me. I admired him for nearly all his qualities. We hiked the red rocks by day, and sought refuge in the sandstone arches at night and everything was utterly beautiful to him. The canyons, a clear morning hike, our thoughts, a floating piece of garbage on the horizon.... it didn't matter. Satheesh would say to me, "Woulda you look at that! Leea, Life is a great adventure." He was very right, but I couldn't suppress a laugh when he was overcome with fascination by my Camelbak.

"The vater is just right there!" He rushed to show Logan, who was not quite as enthralled by it's majesty.

We had the same process each day after our hikes; set up camp, get a fire going, then relax our tired bodies. Tonight, the fire cast a comforting glow as we watched our shadows play a flickering game of tag. We huddled for warmth- standing closer to one another than any other circumstance might allow since Utah nights are below freezing and we had to keep the fire small. Satheesh's body was pressed close to mine on the left, his warm skin radiating heat while Logan stood, slightly more distanced, on my right. As I stared into the flames, listening to the pop of wood- the only sound amongst the silence, Satheesh slinked into my peripherals. He was crouching, bending his knees, hoovering at my eye level. I could mostly see his teeth and his eyes, and I allowed him time to give me a huge grin, then returned the favor. He whispered so that only I could hear,

"D'ey wanted to see what life was like, from your point of view!" He laughed.

Somehow, no matter what he was saying, there was a needed exclamation mark at the end.

His comment ate me up though; made me think, like most of the things he said. Maybe it's a Malaysian thing, but everything he uttered seemed to be profound. The more I thought about it, the more I admired Satheesh, and everyone else accompanying me on this trip. These people came from all places, thousands of miles away, not a single one of us calling the same region home. By some twist of fate that life so often likes to deal, we ended up in Bozeman together, and now, here we are, scaling cliffs in Utah's rolling canyons.
In some ways, the time I spent with Logan, Satheesh and the others, cramped in the van mobbing to Utah,  the late nights exposed on the slickrock looking out at the stars bouncing reflections on the Colorado,  defined a part of me. I'll never forget something Satheesh explained to me and the six other strangers as we were poised around the fire;
"D'em just like each and every one of you." There was a pause, as he thought. Not a single eye strayed from his dark face as we waited for him to resume speaking.
"D'ey have 5.5 liters of blood in my body. D'em tall dark and handsome... D'em just like most of the guys out there. D'em just like every one of you- learning, wanting, enjoying life to it's fullest. It's Heaven and Hell, you know? This life..." His sentence trailed off, Silence resumed again, and I don't think any of us spoke until the fire was  exhausted and its smoke rose out toward the stars.

Deep in Cataract Canyon, the morbid walls of red rock rise and fall, plunging into the earth, turning with bladed precision, etched from centuries of the wild river systems murmuring through the ground. As I looked out at the confluence of the Green and Colorado Rivers, and watched them violently run together to create one great body of water, I couldn't speak. Silence swallowed me and lingered in my belly, in my soul. Satheesh, Logan and I had hiked the short hike to what we had thought would be another viewpoint of the same sight... but we were wrong. As John Wesley Powell had discovered hundreds of years before us, the confluence was not just two rivers colliding. The world all around fell down into the canyon- each of our heads empty; thoughts floated away with the current. To borrow words from Powell; "We have an unknown distance yet to run, an unknown river to explore. What falls there are, we know not; what rocks beset the channel, we know not; what walls ride over the river, we know not. Ah, well! we may conjecture many things." Whether the three of us were there for minutes, hours... I couldn't say. The rivers ran their paths leaving us as bystanders. I wanted to become part of the landscape, run with the rivers, melt into the rocks. Instead, I chose to become a small part of Satheesh, a small morsel of Logan. Each memory we created together, only we could understand the gravity of its existence. Nature will do that, bring people together in a strange way. Being there and feeling the how the land has a life of it's own- a soul even... it leaves me unable to explain. We each walk away changed, and let Silence say it all.

‎"This is the hardest stuff in the world to photograph. You need a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree lens, or something. You see it, and then you look down in the ground glass and it's just nothing. As soon as you put a border on it, it's gone." -Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, p.58-59

I wake up around 3:45am, every morning. Like clockwork, my dreams stop and I'm forced back to consciousness, usually by the sound of my own voice. I missed Utah, I missed feeling it breath beneath my feet. I'd felt this loss ever since returning and tonight I woke with my windows open. The crisp breeze floated in from my seventh story perch, dragging with it the collective sounds of lives carrying on- living, right outside my four walls.
I wished I could see the stars. My body moaned for the bright moon projecting on the canyons, longed to watch it shed its light just once more.
Nights like these, I go to the window, to what seems like the edge, and press my forehead against the chilled glass. I close my eyes and stand there, with nothing but the screen, the glass and the darkness separating me, from the rest of my world.
I listen for a while.
Blurbs of conversation flutter up from the staggeringly drunk in search of the safety of their beds. Laughter, trivial sounds- I don't bother opening my eyes. Rap music bumps into their words from somewhere far off, and it cooks like a melodic jambalaya of sounds.
It fades.
Someone is dragging their shoes as they walk. Someone is locking up their bike, the chains react violently against the metal rack and pierce the air. A car swooshes past on the still damp ground- they need to get their foot off the gas, I can hear my father getting livid as the tires spin faster, faster. The wind in the valley is blowing through the trees. I can hear it navigate around the sounds outside, slipping between branches, trying hard to leave them undisturbed, bringing me the complacent nostalgia of a childhood in the windy city. That thought is quickly shattered though, and I open my eyes to watch it slide to the floor. Ohh, but my eyelids want to close, and I let them, once again. I like to listen to life outside my window, when my body is tired but my head won't sleep. I listen again, this time harder, wanting to hear the familiar quiet that I love so much.
C'mon, c'mon...
A skateboard battles the pavement in a rumbling duel.
C'mon...
I know she's there, I know she's waiting, just how she was in Utah. I'm a veteran at this endless game of hide and seek, but Silence is asking me to try harder as I beg for her to appear. I start to wonder how many others are up playing, sitting at their windows, looking out, searching for the still of the Silence too...

I was perched atop two massive fins, in Canyonlands. The rocks balanced precariously as I looked out at the sunset melt into an abyss of deep red. I leaned forward, like I was trying to caress the air- the jagged landscape pressed cool and smooth against my mind; the needles that reached towards the sky scraped my skin. The mesas swam into a sea of colors, and away I was swept, up high into the air. I looked down and saw my body, still sprawled up on the rocks, all alone. The harder I tried to get back, the more distanced I became until I struggled so hard the air wouldn't flow into my lungs, and Silence took over my body.

I awoke under the stars, sweating on the ground, to an unbounded black Utah sky. My entire body was tense, preparing for the moment it took to realize the exchange between reality and delusion. I saw Satheesh and Logan on either side of me, protecting me I liked to think, they way they often seemed to do. My startled awakening must have roused Logan, who looked over at me coddled in my bright blue mummy bag. Groggy, I watched a suppressed smirk leak into his eyes at the sight of my frightened expression, illuminated by the wild stream of light my headlamp tossed about, and immediately I laughed. That nightmare still plagues me though, even now that I'm tucked safely back into my tidy little room in Bozeman. Nights like these where I'm without Logan or Satheesh to calm me... Perhaps it's the very reason I wake so frequently, go longingly to my window, and pray for Silence to drown me in that same sea of sound once again.

Now, she arrives with the sun. I can't tell if I've fallen asleep again, or if time just moves faster at the early hours of the morning. Silence now illuminates the mountains, embraces them with her lanky grip, and the world begins to melt. In the still of the Silence, I can hear the grass existing, I can hear my pulse throb in my ears. I was swallowed by Silence in the canyons of Utah, happily never found. But now, I lock my eyes shut, as they should be, and listen. I can hear the feel of the wind, the vibrations of this Earth. I hear the taste of the fresh morning, listen to the melody in the warm sun rising. Sometimes, Silence can seem so loud. I breath out a sigh, and with it slip away my thoughts.

Sleeplessness and Silence and Sadness... the three spin circles in my mind. Day to day I fight, looking for some sort of balance that will beat the sadness and instill the silence, let me sleep. The cycle ended in Utah. I'm not sure the answer was was slipped somewhere between the jagged rocks, and I can't claim the hours of hiking are the cure. But those precious moments between Logan, Satheesh and I were pure human to human connections with no interferences. The silence in the canyons allowed us to override stereotypes and overcome the insignificant noise of everyday life. Even if for just a moment, those canyons gave us the gift of drifting away from a world so loud into our own drowsy silence.