8500 Ft.

I'm in Alta, Utah. I live in the Little Cottonwood Canyon and work in the most expensive and high end resort in this very small ski town. Alta is renown for it's amazing snow. I'm sitting in the lodge now, watching it dump down out there. It's been snowing all night and it's not supposed to stop until Monday. When it snows, everyone is in an excellent mood. When it doesn't snow, people are on edge. I have never in my life, seen this much snow. I'm told I've seen nothing yet. We have already had about 166 inches of snow and by the beginning of the week, we will hopefully have 2 more feet. I'm learning about yet another sub culture here. Skiers, are really and genuinely a different type of human being. This year, I've covered much terrain and have had six different mailing addresses, living in the desert, glacial mountains, the New England woods, Metropolitan cities and now here, at 8500 ft elevation in a veritable winter wonderland. I am as far removed from any world I've ever known. I came to a skiers paradise, never having strapped sticks to my feet, and having an unusually low tolerance for the cold. I came to spend more time with my good friend Jason Weber, I came for an adventure and I came to challenge myself as much as I possibly could. And here I am.

When I first arrived, I was unsettled and more scared and socially awkward than I ever have been. Truth be told I had a really hard time emotionally this year. Traveling and living so hard takes it's toll on the body and brain. Honestly, something happened inside of me that closed me up, created a darkness I've not known and made me feel almost every day for a while, that I did not want to wake up anymore. This was a conflicting mess inside my warped and weathered brain, as I was, for the most part, seeing the most beautiful and breath taking parts of the country. I was making some really genuine friends who continued to love and to teach me. I pushed my body-hiking long distances through some of the most unbelievable landscape in the country, summiting mountains, wandering through the desert, and just GOING most of the time Full-Tilt. So I should have been grateful and excited for my life. I live a life most people dream about. I've been told often how "lucky" I am. And I wanted to feel lucky. I wanted to feel as amazed and impressed with my life as others seem to be. I would have spurts of that realization, but truthfully-I felt more like a failure than anything else. I couldn't seem to maintain a relationship with anyone more than friendship and if I was going to be "close" to someone, I could only relate in a physical way. It was almost as if my brain and all of the experiences and information I was taking in were just too much. Leaving no space for any sort of actual connection. My only constant-seemed to be my family, who I have become so incredibly close to and my ex boyfriend, who I have an odd reciprocity with. Living so rigorously with no close partner is hard. And without someone to "share" all of the beauty, intensity, wanderlust, non-stop moving, going, living, and escapading- well...I became a cluttered, panicked, tense and tired mess. I kept looking around me at everyone else-who seemed as though they had it figured out, and then I looked at myself...an open book, constantly willing to move, adapt and change, fleeting, unstable, and ready for anything because truthfully, i know nothing. I watched my already meager bank account dwindle and let myself become upset about being a monetary failure. I tried too hard to connect with ALL of my friends when I went home and found that I just couldn't hack it and in the process alienated myself. I ruined a couple of great relationships this year. I ruined a lot of my brain this year. I broke myself down and beat myself up. And that darkness kept growing and growing inside of me. I came, a few times, to the point of almost just-letting go. I was hoping that coming here, would in fact open some new doors in my head, and let all of the nasty, dirty things I can't seem to deal with bleed out. A word to the wise, if you already feel hopeless and lost and you are unwilling to fight the good fight, do not go about overcoming your own idiotic shortcomings by completely moving to a place you do not understand by any means.

When I flew out of Philadelphia, A knot worked it's way into my stomach. My head hurt terribly and I had a lump in my throat. I watched the city I know best drift away and let the black hole in my head, my heart and my gut suck me in. I wanted to jump out of the plane. I just didn't feel READY to deal. I kept questioning myself-Why hadn't I checked myself into a hospital somewhere? Why hadn't I just started taking medicine again? Why didn't I just stay in Philadelphia and let everyone know that I was so depressed and scared? Why didn't I go to Missoula and visit the one person not related to me that not only knows me so well, but also has gone through what I was going through? Why the FUCK did I not just take the easy path. GODDAMNIT....my head...it hurt. And so I slept, and dreamt awful dreams, and prayed as i woke up occasionally, that my plane would crash into the squares so neat and organized down below, so I wouldn't be a coward...I would and could just not be.

When the plane landed, it was snowing hard. I couldn't see Salt Lake at all really. My friend Zak picked me up and even though I was excited to see him, I felt at odds. I was wondering if he could see that darkness. The white out conditions in Utah were almost symbolic in a sense. I had entered a numb void that would not really become comforting until a few days ago. Zak drove me up the canyon. The snow was really coming down and driving was entirely unsafe. I could feel Zak's own fear radiating off of him. I clenched my hands as we skidded up the windy mountain road. Crescent nail marks were embedded in my palms. I couldn't see any of my new home by any means, visibility was low and everything looked ominous. The trip to this new world was as peculiar and unmatched as the new world in and of itself. I arrived, nonetheless, confused, exhausted, empty, lonely and completely and utterly socially awkward. Jason received me well. And we hugged and I felt grateful for his graciousness. In reality, I wanted to curl up into a ball and sleep off the past few months. We trudged through the snow my first night here, walking down the hill to a lodge bar, to sit by a fire and catch up. The light at night is queer here, bizarre. It feels almost as though you are on the moon. The reflective nature of the all encompassing snow makes the land look and feel preternatural. The mountains are silhouetted even in the darkest of nights. There is a glow that does not feel warm, but does in fact, glow. As the snow crunched under my feet and I looked around, i felt dizzy and overwhelmed, and I decided to just do as I always have, suck it up, suck it in, ride the wave of uncertainty.

I don't think I had any idea what I was really getting myself into. I've been doing seasonal work for awhile now, so I sincerely believed I would just fall into place. There are always rites of passage, adaptations and simple sociological rules and regulations. There is a natural groove that becomes more obvious, and a placement of one in certain circles and rank takes place. And then, you settle and then of course, with all of us being naturally or for the most part transient, it all changes, over and over and over in the course of the season. This place...is like none other. Ski culture is incomparable to anything I have attempted to understand. Skiers are intense people, with their own vocabulary, their own style, and their own way of thinking. I'm still learning, so it's hard to accurately describe it. But it is intimidating, overwhelming and just generally physically and mentally challenging. Girls here find the opposite sex more attractive as their skill level as a skier is higher. People certainly pay the better skiers more respect. If one does not go out on a "powder" day, they are looked down upon. If one does not get a "few runs" in a day, they are wasting their time here. The gear is astounding, the variety unending and the culture confounding entirely. Throwing myself into this band of privileged snow warriors was jolting. It may have been the hardest thing I have ever attempted. And I hadn't even strapped into skis yet.

Most of the people who work here are returners. Few of us are newbies. This was certainly alienating at first. I think I was actually the ONLY person who had never in my life, skied. People are generally kind here, and want you to ski, they want skiing to be a positive thing. They certainly want to share their enthusiasm for skiing. Ski bums are obsessed with, well, skiing. They constantly look up the weather report and are constantly concerned with the snow, the consistency of the snow and what the fuck the snow is doing. Business and service revolves around snow. I have seen snowflake every thing here, ranging from snowflake tattoos to snowflake jewelry, snowflake pipes, snow is all it's about. Actually BEING in the snow, in a pair of skis and flying down a mountain, well shit, that's another story. It took me a few days of PAINFUL and defeating falling, crashing, smashing, splitting, cursing, cold wet sadness, but after my first real run, I got it. It made sense. I began dreaming about skiing. I skied powder vs hard packed down icy groomers and understood the difference. My gear isn't cool, I look like a retard, I'm what Alta locals call a beater, but I did find love in skiing. It is an ever changing challenge to wake up and go through the labor of putting on all of that gear, telling myself over and over that I can actually-do it, deal with the self defeating voices that remind me how shitty of a skier I am, and just GET OUT THERE. As soon as I click in, and hit the first hill at the ski exit of the lodge, I'm fucking stoked. Riding the lift is almost like going to church (for religious folks). It gives you time to reflect, to look around at the astounding beauty, to feel the cold wet air in your lungs, to let the excitement build in your belly and think about the run at hand. Once you go, there's no turning back, and once you put your skis to the snow, there's no where to go but down. Watching a good skier really is wonderful, the body moves like a machine, but with so much fluidity it's awe inspiring. It's almost like watching the wand in a conductor's hand. I often sit in the lodge and watch the tiny bodies dotting the pure white landscape, carving fresh lines like veins into the mountain. It is almost calming, but it creates a feeling in my tummy, a longing to at some point move with such agility and ease. I have had similar relationships with summiting mountains. I hope to become one with the snow so to speak.

I received a letter from my other yesterday and her handwriting, looping and swirling like the tracks on the mountains outside said "Things run full circle". Knowing how much has changed over the past few weeks since I've been here (tomorrow will be three weeks), and feeling that darkness sliding away, and becoming more comfortable with myself and my new world makes me feel that she is in fact correct. I have always found so much comfort in change. At this moment, I am feeling comfort in the moment. At 8500 feet, the air is thinner, my brain seems to work slower, I am almost forced, to just fucking take it slow. And upon doing so, I can stop and see the scenery, I can actually hear my thoughts, feel my feelings. Everything seems to just "flow" here. Time does not really actually exist. Nothing really actually matters but the snow. There is no consequence except injury. Life is fleeting and it doesn't matter. The pines, wearing their winter sweaters of fluffy white down, sit peacefully in clusters all over the mountains, and those bodies glide swiftly between them, such a beautiful symbiotic relationship. Everything talks differently here. I'm listening and I suppose, the more I listen, the more I'll understand. Nothing is the same now as it was. But I guess, really, it never is. Time to strap in and fly as well as I can on land.

Adios Brah.

"Vacationland"

October 19, 2010

It’s easy to lose track of time without the outside world. It’s easy to lose track of time without a routine of personal hygiene. I stood outside tonight as the moon bellied up, naked and cold, shivering as I washed my filthy body with water warmed by the stove, a washcloth and some good old Dr. Bronners and realized that I hadn’t washed up since Saturday. My hair was unbearably greasy, I had become fairly odorous as I spent almost the entire day working outside and damn, it’s been quite cold, so I haven’t found the desire to change my clothing. Needless to say, my socks could have marched from my body themselves. Anyone who knows me well knows I normally shower every day, twice a day sometimes. I wash my hair daily and brush my teeth three times a day. I certainly change my clothes every day, and almost every night slip into pajamas. Somehow, out here, with the lack of running water, I have developed a pleasure in being dirty. And I have developed even more of a pleasure in standing outside in the moonlight, completely nude, using a washcloth and hot water to cleanse my body. I never thought dipping my head into too-hot water after lathering it with soap could be so refreshing. Towel drying, in the frigid autumn evening might be one of the most invigorating feelings to be felt. Showers are for babies. I suppose I began to describe my bathing situation because it did in fact remind me that I had lost track of time. It is Tuesday evening. To me it could have been any day of the week. I didn’t know the date until I figured I should at some point today. I have been here just about three weeks now. I have accomplished very few things, but have seen and done countless.

I am flawed in many ways. Once a social butterfly, I have become a social retard. Once worldly and a multi-tasking perfectionist, I am now slow, and enjoy watching ants carry leaves, I squeal with delight while listening to the trees groaning in the wind, alone, I enjoy walking through the woods, with no conversation, like watching the light move over the valley of arbors, exploding with the colors of the season. I lose track of hours, days and I guess, weeks. Sometimes I can come out of my own brain and not remember for a second, where I am. I’ve been living in a daydream since I left Montana. It’s been beautiful for the most part. My heart feels like it is on fire. Once again, I’ve fallen in love with a geographic location and put aside human beings in the process. I have been communicating for the most part via written correspondence. The only person I really have to verbally communicate with is Nate, and his father Pete, and the postmaster and the gal who works at the convenience store. Most of the time I am living in my head…and my head, well, it’s like a child. My imagination is seemingly never tired. I still cannot believe all that I’ve seen here.

I’ve been infatuated with Maine since Nate kidnapped me ten years ago and brought me here after school one afternoon. He took me to a jetty and we climbed into an abandoned lighthouse on the coast and drank beer and talked about life. The ocean crashed angrily beneath our hanging feet. The gulls squalled and screamed and the fresh salt air washed over me as I half listened to Nate, feeling so excited I could have peed my pants. He took me on a country road and for the first time in my life, I saw the sky exploding with stars. I remember the way it smelled here. I remember the way my belly felt all full up with such excitement. I was lucky enough to come and visit him and my friend Justin many more times over the years. The more time I spent up here, the more I dreamt of it. The more I longed to be here. My friend Justin took me on many adventures, and seeing my delight, fed me, more and more each time. Having an entire month, to sit and exist here, has been more in some ways than I thought it could be. It has been much quieter than I would have guessed.

For the most part I wake with the sun and fall asleep not too long after it sinks down below the White Mountains. We seem to follow a sort of schedule that feels nothing like a schedule. As I mentioned, the days and nights blend over and over and over again. Some days we work from the time we awake (Nate is always awake and outside working before I crawl out of my sleeping bag). He gives me tasks to complete and I work often beside him mostly doing grunt work, as I am unskilled. I’ve been shoveling, moving, piling, pulling, tilling, ripping and hauling. The pitchfork, mccloud, axe, rake, shovel and wheelbarrow have become an extension of me. I learned to use a come-along the other day to move a one-ton rock with my own sheer strength, simple physics, a chain and Nate. I helped to install the wood-burning stove that we use to keep us warm. I chop the wood that we burn. I wash dishes with rainwater heated on the stove. Hopefully I’ll plant grass seed in the yard before I leave on Tuesday. My back is sore, my body bruised and my clothes covered in a fine layer of dirt and mud. My fingernails seem to contain their own constant soil sample. Being here in Maine, in the country so to speak, Nate and I do not look out of place when we walk into the Paris Farmers Union to pick up supplies, in the state of dirt and grime that we are in. I do not feel embarrassed or dirty while sporting my ripped up dusty jeans or giving money to a cashier with grimy, cracked hands. I actually feel quite proud and productive. Nate made a good point to me, that this is a novelty to others in the outside world, mainly to our friends living the city life in Philly, New York and LA. He is unfortunately correct. But what he is doing takes courage. It takes strength and patience. It takes craftsmanship, it take sacrifice above all. I have not felt this free in such a long time…and ironically I am working physically harder than I ever have. The constraints of the world “out there” mean nothing here. With the lack of tapping into constant electronic communication, I have time to think, and feel and see for myself entirely. I have virtually no money, but don’t need it. The cost of living here is radically different, the quality of life almost immeasurable. It takes a certain type to live this way. You must be self -sustaining and self-aware. It amazes me to think that most people I know would not like this lifestyle, that they’d have a hard time without non-stop internet, that they would not look forward to long days of physical labor, that the entertainment you may have would primarily be watching a movie, listening to your own thoughts, sharing conversation with your friend or the local folks. No coffee shops, no movie theaters, no bar to wander into, not here in Denmark. Everything is a drive away. And I suppose- the closest place to find city folk who share a certain taste for fashion, culture and metropolis inspired ways of living within the living breathing concrete and steel beast that is a city would be in Portland Maine. Extroverts rely on a city to validate them, give them opportunity, find companionship, congregate and bounce their thoughts, wishes and ideas off of others. Here, the only validation you have is your own productivity. The company you keep tends to be the trees, the mountains, and the land. The folks you have to socialize with are your family, local neighbors, your postman, your convenience store clerk and your friends in other towns around the area…in season; you have tourists to change up the dynamic. The only opportunity seemingly, is the one you make for yourself. There is certainly something to be said about city life…the feeling and the excitement of feeling like one cell moving around in a massive body of other living, pulsing cells. There is an excitement that comes from the formula of many different minds all melded into one place times the endless possibility of place and commerce and interaction within a city. Out here, the excitement, at least for me, comes from just existing. Just noting my breathing and body actually working.

My time is nearing an end here. And I seem to go through a familiar pattern when I have spent time in a “place”. I try to mentally catalogue all I have learned. All I’ve seen. I like to find the characteristics that make the place I have been significant, individual, and extraordinary. Maine easily has it’s own presence. It’s own way of being. It has been called “vacationland” and I can honestly see why. The trees around me have changed every day. Winter (or what I am used to associating with winter-like weather) has moved in. Frost is now on the ground in the morning, and the nighttime air makes my cheeks rosy. I can hear hunters in the woods, and now when I hike I have to wear Blaze Orange so I don’t get shot. The lakes look less calm and often they have a fine layer of whitecaps all pushing about. Whether the sky is grey or bright blue-everything looks like it is on fire. I’ve had a time here. Oh it’s been a time. I am almost positive I’ll be back again in the spring to see how far Nate has come along in his endeavors. Knowing him, everything will look entirely different. And knowing me, I’ll have seen too many things and been too many places and be entirely different myself. I’m sleepy. The weather is not necessarily forgiving. I’m sitting by the stove, keeping warm. I’m wondering how life in Philly will be. I’ll miss it here…but I know in my gut…it’s time to move on once again. Thank ya Maine. It’s been swell.

From the woods in Maine...

Life at the Camp

October 7, 2010

Most mornings I wake up to Nate getting out of bed. He slinks out, walks to the kitchen area of the cabin, starts a pot of coffee and turns on the old radio. NPR streams into my half dreaming brain and I instinctively nestle deeper into the cocoon of comfortable blankets, not wanting to quite wake up just yet. I usually allow myself to remain in semi sleep until I feel my dreams sizzling away and then I remove myself from the nest of down and enter into the waking world.

We are only a few miles from the actual “town” of Denmark, Maine, but it doesn’t feel that way. Surrounded by trees of all kind it feels remote and removed from civilization out here at Camp Chase. My view is that of the White Mountains out in the distance and of course…trees, trees and more trees. It’s quite heavenly. I landed in New England at just the right time, autumn. A time of year when folks come from all over the coast to catch a glimpse of the seasonal fireworks display the dying leaves prepare. Bursts of bright yellow, orange and red are beginning to explode all around. Still premature I am only catching a sample of what’s around the bend, but still, it’s beautiful, and it’s something I haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing in quite some time having spent my autumns in Texas for the past few years. The air is brisk, the wind sends the brightly colored leaves wind floating to the ground and all I can smell is the smoke from the wood burning stove and the damp foliage on the ground, becoming compost. At night, when the sky is clear, thousands of stars twinkle, and I can hear coyotes howling to one another across the valley. No one else is around save Nate’s pop Pete when he’s down from Bar Harbor logging, and our somewhat neighbor, Jimbo, who comes up from Massachusetts on the weekend to enjoy his cabin down the road. There are other residents about a mile away, but they feel miles and miles away out here. I’ve lived in remote places, Yellowstone National Park, Big Bend National Park, and Glacier National Park, but in those places I was surrounded by people. Here, it is just Nate and I…waking each morning and falling asleep at night.

I am continually amazed at all that Nate has accomplished in only a few short months and primarily, alone. He’s managed to build himself quite a cabin. Where a thicket of forest used to be, a sustainable, comfortable structure now stands. There are two open rooms, a loft space and a mudroom. Since he has no running water, he’s built himself an outhouse that is surprisingly more pleasant than most bathrooms I’ve been in. he has a kitchen area, a stove, a large bed, a teak armoire, shelving, space for the massive amount of tools, a stainless steel Fridgedare and a woodstove to heat the interior. His kitchen is stocked with a variety of spices, and there are books and various artwork about. Once inside it’s hard to tell you are in the middle of nowhere. Eclectic music from Nate’s Itunes shuffle plays when the NPR is tuned out and well, you are in an actual living part of Nathan Scot Chase’s brain created full scale into a living environment. It’s lovely to say the very least, and I am honored to spend a month not only existing here with him, but helping him build, create and make this place more what he wants it to be.

Work is never done. There are endless errands to run to sustain living, and of course countless projects to be worked on. The trash goes to the town dump; the bottles and cans go tot the redemption center. We have to fill gallon jugs with drinkable water and water to cook with and clean ourselves with. Wood must be chopped, the space must be cleaned, and I have to go to town once a week to fulfill the requirements to receive unemployment. The cabin needs work as well, insulating for winter, building more shelves, clearing the yard to plant shrubs, finishing work on the roof, finishing the floor in one part of the structure, moving, improving, working, working, working. Nate always seems to have a list each morning. I have my own list in my head. I am here to help him but also to help myself . I have much clutter up in the old attic, too many memories, experiences and thoughts to sort through. Much changing to work on. I’ve spent my time roaming the States, not answering to any responsibility, for the most part doing as I wish and not necessarily working on anything creative or fundamental. I’m attempting to utilize this time to relax, be quiet, and listen to what it is I think my somewhat purpose is at this time in my life. I am getting older, my wants and needs are changing, and I am realizing that I do in fact, want some kind of stability in the near future. Of course this realization goes to battle with my inssesant want to travel, experience, enjoy not being tied down to a relationship and to fight the ever present challenge of adaption, What it comes down to frankly, is that I’m either getting too fucking old for this shit, or I need a rest. Camp Chase is a good test.

I’m sitting at the library. About to post this retarded blog. I promise…when I actually have time…and when I’m not freezing my ass off, I’ll write something better. It’s been a fucking time…I’m not sure whether to romanticize the hell out of my life anymore or feel like I’m just ignoring the obvious. Might as well have a blast. From the woods…catch you later dude.

First attempt in awhile...Be Patient..I lost my brain in the Nature...and in too much bumping around!

I’m heading eastbound to Maine. I’m rocking back and fourth on the Amtrak Empire Builder train, pushing on through Montana like a slithery snake. It’s obviously autumn, and the yellow land rolls on and on, endlessly. Pale purple mountains make the backdrop. Clouds move lazily across the sky. I can see for what seems like millions of miles. The sky is like a massive blue blanket of hopeful something or other. Tiny farmhouses, black cattle, spotted horses with shiny coats and power lines lazily dot the landscape. I am small and unnecessary yet I feel huge and monumental. I have a lump in my throat. A dull pain in my heart. I hate to see Montana become another memory but once again…it’s time to move on. Move on.

Like a childish lover I want to cling to the intimacy I’ve had here in this state. In this place. I want to hold it and I want it to hold me. I feel in my belly that I belong here. Just not now. Not yet. The old familiar need to push and go and look and see is there…still burning…not as bright but the embers refuse to die out. I feel at home in transport. I feel somehow correct. When I am floating past the world around me in a pod of some sort, I have no place to be but there. Here. Watching, moving and going.

It feels like hands are washing over me right now. It’s only noon, but it feels much later and the autumnal light makes me remember things from my childhood. It makes me feel nostalgic. Montana is soothing. And I feel sad to know that in a few short hours, North Dakota will take precedence. Hopefully I can sleep to erase the pain of letting go of Montana and all that I associate with it.

It was one hell of a summer. One of the most lively chapters in my ridiculous life. I feel fairly changed from my four months in Glacier. I feel exhausted. Somehow my entire life caught up with me up there in the Ether. I feel tired. And older. And maybe more confused. And currently, less full of the intense burning I’ve usually had. I’m quieter, and I need quiet. I need a rest. I’m ready for Maine. I’m ready for no one. No intimacy, no real correspondence save for what I give to the postal service and what they return to me. I plan on getting my head on straight. Sifting through the last ten years of life and editing what I need to hold onto and what I need to let go of. This sounds fairly intense I’m sure. I just feel as though it is necessary.

I made so many wonderful friends in Glacier. I met people who changed my perspective a great deal. I laughed harder than I have in a long time. I watched the sun come up many a day and came down from the mountain as it was setting. A 20 year old woke me up from a slumber I never even realized I was in. He showed me adventures and reminded me that I can do anything that is alive and well in my imagination. An 18-year wrangler sat with me by a fire he built for me, sippin on whiskey and beer and spitting chew, and in a thick Kentucky Appalachian accent unfolded a life an 87 year old should have lived, painful, and intense and full of fire. He reminded me to never be scared, and to always be aware of every emotion and feeling and not to back down. He had some heart. A 32 year old made me feel more loved and more in tune with my surroundings. I met a circle of folks who became my family. Holly Bertram changed my path; Hannah Gietl and Jake Upchurch may have changed my future. Jason Weber altered my immediate present. Sam Tatum reminded me to not give a fuck and to enjoy whatever the hell I want. Cody Bryant made me almost pee my pants. So many people affected me. A young worker for the Forest service spent a few days with me…and made my brain work in the funniest of ways. I felt surreal with him. He made me appreciate the simplicity of most things. He shared himself with me and asked nothing of me…and we had quite an adventure together. I was sad to see him go, but he felt like a messenger of some sort. A helpful transition, a reminder to keep going and not look back and not get hung up on unnecessary skewed things in my mind and in my heart. Glacier was intense.

I climbed and submitted mountains I never thought I could conquer. I was lucky to hike with avid hikers who not only were patient with me, but also showed me the way and taught me more than I could have asked for. I learned so much about the land I was lucky enough to live in and call home. It really is an overwhelming place, and while walking throughout the forest, or along a ridge, you are constantly reminded of the sheer magnitude of the landscape. It is rugged, and unforgiving, and ever changing. It does not request anything, it demands. The weather changes at whim and its unpredictable nature makes one HAVE to adapt. Yet it is beautiful. It fills you with an indescribable feeling. It’s overpowering. I’ve been brought to tears many times there, almost against my will. I suppose religious folks feel a similar way when they are close to “god”. Being able to explore and wander and utilize my surroundings in the way that I did was an amazing experience. I sat and watched Grinnell point change every day, many times throughout the course of the day. Gould and Wilbur became an obsession. The Garden Wall and the Ptarmigan wall met the sky and greeted me and sent me off to sleep. Nothing ever looks the same there. Nothing ever tells you the same thing. Swiftcurrent and Josephine and Grinnell, Sherburne and Cracker and Iceberg and Nataki and Fishercap and Ptarmigan…all changing, all different all the time. The foliage, like a lush soft carpet of green at times turned to a vibrant golden yellow in most spots. Those jagged mountains lost their snowy beards throughout the season and grew them back as the autumn storm clouds moved in and refused to leave, dumping buckets of cold rain and snow. I watched the wildflowers bloom and cover the valleys in exploding fireworks of blossom. I sat by Swiftcurrent Lake as it lay still, making the most beautiful mirror for the mountains to reflect upon, and watched a few hours later as whitecaps crested on the surface as the winds came in through the valley. The lake turning into a violent and tumultuous bastard. Everything is alive there, everything has a life of it’s own. Including the hotel. You can feel it in the employees too; you can see us all affected by it, by our surroundings, and by our home. It is altering. Relationships sparked up and began anew there, some of them died out. Nothing ever stayed the same. Friendships changed daily. Realities changed daily. Life plans changed weekly. The hotel and the dorms inhaled and exhaled us. Seemingly we were making our choices and decisions, in reality, we were just a byproduct of another season. Another summer. And now...I'm tired...and need to re-group. I need some sleep. and I need to shut down my brain...imagine the sound of a machine shutting down...or the power going out...for now...more later...Adios.

What more can I say

I haven't written in so long. I've been burning the candle. Both ends. Hardcore hands down. I'm sitting in my dorm room, tired and sleepy. Autumn is pretty much right around the bend. Another season passed....another life lived entirely. I've seen and done some of the most epic things in my life. I've climbed mountains and hiked harder than I ever have and partied harder than I ever have and lived harder maybe as well. I've had adventures beyond compare and loved and left and kept on moving. I have much to say and no internet power. I'm going to try to write today and somehow post later....I just wanted to do a quick update. Life is good. I miss the outside world. I have no idea where I'm going...but I know that right now. I'm happy to be here. Happy to explore. To be with the people I'm with....Things couldn't be better. And I'm lucky to live the life I lead. more later...

-KG

The Vortex Becomes the Ether

I crack open another local beer. In Montana it’s Bayern. In Texas it was Lone Star. In Philly it was Yuengling. In Wyoming it was Teton Ale. Somewhere it’s always something. Something to drink, something to help me sleep. Something to help my brain go the way it needs to go. I’m with another courtesan. Another something. In another someplace. I find myself in Many Glacier. Glacier National Park. The season has yet to start, but the bears have awakened from their winter slumber. The goats with their wild eyes and young folk are moving about freely in the spring that they see. The mountain sheep still venture down to our altitude to scramble and look for easy delectable delights. I sit in my crazy dorm room thankfully alone somehow listening to the Pixies and trying like hell to actually understand my surroundings and my place of being. Big Bend was a vortex and this by all means is the ether. Within the vortex I could see the space around. I could contemplate my surroundings. This place has no place. I am nestled within mountains that intimidate me beyond belief. The lake that is a boundary is not as large as Lake Yellowstone, but it is demanding. It has killed a few. It is choppy almost always. The snow and clouds and rain seem to cloak everything in my immediate view in dark and ominous backdrops. Nothing wants to make sense. No matter how hard my imagination or heart or belief in my existence wants to produce, I am a product of the unknown. Nothing I can do will make this easier. I just have to be patient. I just have to wait. And not let this place get the better or the worst of me. I am listening but not fully. I do not know how. This is the biggest battle of fate in a sense. There are other forces at work here. And I can FEEL them but do not know them. They are strong and almighty under such a simple guise.

The hotel is a magnificent Beast, a hundred years old almost. Nothing has changed here. They have kept it preserved. And aside from the actual product and the employees and the visitors, the building really is the same it has always been. It is weather beaten. The décor is terribly outdated. The carpets and walls and floors reek of too many decades of harsh winters, too many footprints and too much abuse in the summer. Much too much neglect .The building is it’s own being entirely. It seems here that no one can actually make demands on it fully. It creaks and groans and moves in the way that it must. It was in fact designed and then, it seemed to own up to it’s creation. It became in a sense, what it’s builder wished it to be, and then it took on it’s own existence. Many Glacier Hotel BREATHES.

I am lucky to be here at the time that I am here. This part of the park is still unopened. As employees we are allowed to wander the grounds. All is open to us. The entire hotel is our playground. We hear stories. The stories are passed along, the stories of ghosts and of unexplained freakish accidents and deaths. And this dark mysterious weather is of no help. All is dark. Our imaginations move swiftly. And combined they create stories. And so we wander in packs through the old Swiss hotel. We make chills dance upon one another’s backs as we create our own fantastical fear. How wondrous to have such an opportunity to let our mind’s creations get the best of us. And how lucky we are to be able to do so with strangers from all over the country. We are in suspended living here. There are no consequences. How the young are able to run this place is beyond me. We are given a free card; a passport into a fantastical land. Wholly. Without a doubt. It is something out of an old timeless novel to be here at this moment. There seems to be no reality except that which we create. And I do sincerely feel that if the we did not open our location on Friday, it would in fact, turn into a Lord Of The Flies situation. Park life is ultimately a tiny Petri dish, a sample of the actual world at large. Again nothing makes sense. And again I am moving toward the oblivion. Seeking out the much alive beast that seems to be in these places. And still slightly finding the disappointment of the obvious. Even beautiful places have their flaws. This place however is ultimately demanding. It is ever crucial. And the wind is blowing harder than it ever could out there. It is howling. And I’m wondering when I will have the opportunity to go up those giant mountains that continually haunt me. And hope that a bear doesn’t eat me up. Out with the old, in with the new.

The Quick and The Dirty

I have yet to post my blog about Yellowstone and my return to Montana. But My brain is almost completely fried. I've had a few nights to myself and was unaware of how much I really had to process. I'll start by saying that last year at this time I was heading to Philadelphia for a month from Austin, Texas. From Philadelphia I flew into Spokane, came to Missoula, went to Glacier, Cut Bank, Great Falls and Helena, then Back to Missoula. The I drove to Livingston, Gardiner, Yellowstone National Park, Denver (area) Colorado, Alamagordo New Mexico and back to Austin Texas. I lived and worked in Austin from August to January and during that time I was traveling to many small towns in East Texas to photograph and at times, interview people. I moved from Austin to Big Bend National Park in West Texas and lived there from February until May 5th. During those four months I traveled to Rincon, Puerto Rico and Philadelphia. I also was lucky enough to wander around Marfa, Alpine, Marathon, Presidio, Terlingua Pecos, Ft. Davis, Big Bend State Park and the Carlsbad Canyons. Needless to say it has been one of the most restless years. I thought I had done a lot until I began the current trip, which began May 5th and will not end until May 29th. If I wrote about the entire experience it would take far too long. Instead...here is a list...of where I have been...from there to here...as it goes.

Places I've been from there to here:

Guadalupe National Park, TX
Lincoln National Forest, NM
White Sands National Monument, NM
Gila National Forest and Wilderness, NM
Apache National Forest, NM
Coconino National Forest, AZ
Grand Canyon National Park-North Rim- AZ
Vermillion Cliffs National Monument, AZ
Navajo Bridge National Monument, AZ
Kaibab National Forest, AZ
Bryce Canyon National Park, UT
Escalante National Monument, UT
Dixie National Forest, UT
Capitol Reef National Park, UT
Glen Canyon National Recreation Area, UT
Natural Bridge National Monument, UT
Arches National Park, UT
Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area, UT, WY
Bridger Teton National Forest, WY
Grand Teton National Park, WY
Yellowstone National Park, WY
Gallatin National Forest, MT
I will end in Glacier National Park, MT

Towns that seemed to have some bearing
Alpine, TX
Van Horn, TX
White's City, NM
Artesia, NM
Elk/Hope/Dunkel, NM
Alamagordo, NM
Silver City, NM
Smithville, AZ
Sanders, AZ
Winslow, AZ
Flagstaff, AZ
Kanab, UT
Hanksville, UT
Boulder, UT
Torrey, UT
Bicknell, UT
Moab, UT
Jackson Hole, MT
Livingston, MT
Missoula, MT

States:

Texas
New Mexico
Arizona
Utah
Wyoming
Montana

I think if I even attempted to explain the adventures at this point in many of those places my head would explode and pop off of my neck. I'm pretty wiped out, emotionally, physically and visually. I am in fact, ready to be in Glacier to have a steady pace for a few months. I'm ready to hike until I can't walk, learn about plants, wildlife and geological history and well...sleep in my own bed. After Glacier there's no rest...I head to Maine for a month to help my best friend finish his cabin building and then to Vegas to meet my boyfriend (thank god...I miss him to death already)...where we will begin another epic journey to still unknown destinations (maybe to another country) and then back to a winter in Big Bend. I just got tired writing that.
People have consistently told me throughout my traveling life that they are jealous of my life. It has never felt like a choice for me. It's a constant epic battle to feed a longing I do not understand. I feel insatiable. And I have lost friends and relationships in the process. Not to mention that I really own nothing, I have no savings, no investments and no real future. I'll be lucky if someone ever finds me suitable to marry. I am jealous of you. You have stability. You get to sleep next to your loved one. You have built something and you have laid down roots. It is a whirlwind life. I have only stories to pass along. And I have only myself to give and nothing more. And sometimes, although this seems utterly free and glamorous...it can at times...be obviously tiring. Sometimes I feel that if you were not reading this I would have no point or purpose. Following that feeling comes the instinctual pulling in my gut to move...toward the horizon. Toward something unknown. Out there, somewhere. Keep going, keep going, keep going. I apologize for the lack of polishing or linguistic garnish. I really am in need of a rest. So that I'll do. -KG

The Tetons: The middle of the end of the Beginning.

I’m sitting in Sarah Sanders’ new home. A pine cabin at the foot of the Grand Teton (the biggest one for you folks that just don’t know). It is fairly late. Sarah is asleep in her new bed, awaiting her new life and dreaming of god knows what. I cannot sleep, but my brain as active as it may be is swirling rapidly in a formation that makes no sense. I’ve had little peace this entire trip. It has been enthralling, enrapturing, and overpowering. The only sense of sincere warmth and comfort I felt was that when I was laying next to my boyfriend, listening to him drifting into sleep, letting his slowed movements of rising and falling slumber take me with him into my own quiet and soft ethereal world. I woke to snow that morning, and he had left me…and the snow perhaps would have held more peace had he been with me, enjoying the delicate coat of purity spread on top of the already pristine beauty.

I should be relaxed. I should feel the exhaustion of road weariness taking me to my own temporary bed. But my brain refuses to stop, no matter how much my body aches. This place, this section of the country demands too much. It is not quaint, or subtle, it is a force to be reckoned with. I left my comfort to battle what I have tried to understand for the past ten years.

I first came to this part of the country when I turned 21. I was somewhat adopted into a family in my late teens and they graciously and kindly brought me with them on a family vacation. I had never in my life experienced something of such magnitude (in the sense of nature). I am a born and bred Philadelphian, a city dweller. I know the streets and the subways and the buildings and the pavement. I can identify architectural periods in time more that the very tiny varying types of trees that humbly remain in the streets of my city. I know the rugged, the raw, and the unending fueling grueling primer that coats the industry of metropolis survival. I know the quick, the non-stop, the unending, and the not enough time for anything. The Ihavetogoandgetthisdonetodayandkeepdoingitandwakeuptomorrowanddoitagain.

When I saw these mountains for the first time I was filled with a feeling I did not know how to comprehend. It hurt. It was intense. I was silenced. I was humbled. I felt unreal. I felt scared. I wanted to know everything. How this happened. How it was kept from me. How I have NEVER EVER seen such a fucking magnificent easy, non- man made beauty. I fell in love. I was overcome with infatuation. I was somewhere gone. I heard things roaming around in my brain and heart I’d never heard. I couldn’t function. I needed to feel it. Properly. It was too much. That was just the mountains. The snake river, the rushing saddlebacks in the rock, the canyons, winding and pulling, the trees, whispering and pulling me in, holding me, giving me everything I might have always wanted. The creaking, god, the damn creaking of old lodge poles, swaying and telling their last epic tale before crashing to the forest floor to become meat for the earth to regenerate. All of these things I did not understand. I just FELT them. I felt them too much. We spent a week here and a week in Yellowstone. The gloriousness I felt here was wondrous. And it changed my life a great deal. From that week on I would day dream, and be drawn to and long for, this place. The smell of the fields of sage after a mid afternoon storm would haunt me for years. I am a slow learner. It took me awhile to get back here initially. Lots of city living. Boston, Philly, New York. But this sector danced in my head always. I was always in love. And I always longed for it. I just didn’t know how.

I come from a fairly poor background. I have never in my life had much. I have not been spoiled. Compared to a lot of folks I know….I grew up poor blue-collar working class. We did not venture to national parks, and only because I was a geography nerd did I know what national parks even were. My options to explore these places were non-existent. I read some naturalist writings in my gifted English class and knew I loved being in the woods and in the creek…and that was that. The ocean, since I grew up so close, was my only sense of the mighty power of the nature. And that cannot sincerely count, because my family visited highly developed, commercial beaches that contained amusements, and really and fairly, were cities on the ocean. I did not camp until I was 24 years old. I am almost positive that when I hiked a real hike for the first time in my life at the age of 21, I was wearing skateboarding shoes that were wholly inappropriate for the unforgiving terrain I was about to encounter. I only know, that my confusion regarding the nature seemed to burn in me, and it basically fucked my entire reality up…beginning with the first time I set foot in this park, next to these mountains. The Grand Tetons. It all started here.

I was introduced to hiking in the most brutal of ways. And I cried the first time I tried to hike into the mountains. I was scared to death of wildlife and was convinced that the bear, the moose and the elk were all out to get me. My body didn’t seem to want to endure the pain of elevation gain. The trail was mean. And it made me feel bad about myself. And somewhere in there, while I was left alone to listen to my surroundings, I calmed down. And I listened. I just listened. And something pushed me to move. Something made me push my fat, overweight, out of shape body to go. Up. I moved hard and fast as I could. And that was my first conversation with the nature. I was bitch –slapped. And I didn’t fight back or give up. I just listened. I kept listening over the next two weeks and I was addicted, clocking our mileage, writing down every mountain range, stream, lake, river, forest, type of tree, wildlife we’d encountered, trail, crossing of the continental divide, geologic and geothermal feature, native and non native fish….god. I became obsessed. I loved it all. I wanted it all. I felt like I could hear my freaking brain for a change. I quit smoking. I felt alive. Things made sense. I had all of the clarity and space in the goddamned world.

When we flew back into Baltimore and had to make the drive to Philadelphia I was heartbroken. I was destroyed. I cried. I hated it. The air was shit. The people were shit. The city freaked me the fuck out. Too much. Too soon. Unnecessarily. Gross gross gross. Industry. No nature. Just highway and pavement and poverty smashing against wealth. Nonsensical existence. Man…I lost my shit.

But like any other good American, I just kept myself occupied and kept myself busy and focused on my own idiotic purpose of life. And I shot photographs, and slept with my boyfriend and got caught up in the drama that was my own individual life…and I moved from city to city. And I fell in and out of love. And I struggled as an artist and made monumental friends and had monumental experiences and blah blah blah. And I became a horrible alcoholic. I drank the days away. I drank the nights to challenge the mornings. I slept rarely. I was insatiable but had the best and worst time ever. Growing pains maybe, existential crisis maybe. Weakness, for sure. Yet I had accomplished more by most standards that year than I had in a while. I was selling my photographs frequently. I had received a grant to document something I was interested in. I was living between three cities for the most part, felt enlightened by the immense beauty of people, had a multitude of interesting intimate relationships, was somehow in the middle of all things popular and “cool”, was making more “work’ than I’ve ever made. And still, I longed for something else. I felt it when I rode the subway. I felt it walking the streets from city to city. I felt it while being embraced. I just felt like I wanted to go “home”. I was bored. As I mentioned, I am a slow learner. It took me a good three years to figure out that I just wanted to come back…Here. And every time I come back it is never the same. But the reminder is there. Is here. Those jagged snow covered mountains; they’re telling me something. They’re telling me everything. And I’m older now. I can listen better without my own stupid inflections getting in the way. I could be sleeping peacefully next to the one who loves me the most. And I want that so bad. But I am drawn here. Because here is the next step to there. And man, if I could tell you about the first time I went there. Well, it made here look like a tiny hill. A rolling hill with some trees. I guess the point of all of this is that I am here. And I need to be here. So I can let there go and so I can stop romanticizing these places that draw me in far too much. Maybe so I can listen properly. Like an adult. Not like some wide-eyed child. I’d like to understand correctly, the draw. I’d like to not make up my own words. I’d like to be able to sit and appreciate it all and not be knocked into stupidity. I’d like to get on with my life thank you very much. So please Tetons, and Absorokas and Wyoming and Montana, please…get on with it.

The cabin is creaking. It’s hard not to believe that I’ve been listening to a tale unfolding over these ten years. I can hear the wind in the trees. The mountains are glistening, blue, in the night. Millions of stars are fighting to live up there in the sky. I see the silhouette of the jagged jacked jaw line of those peaks. I’m going to smoke a smoke and drink a beer and listen till I get good and cold. And goddamn…I hope I get to sleep. I’m in the middle of this crazy journey. I wonder what the next leg will bring. Imma be quiet and see what develops. I’ll let you know.

-kg

Fistfuls of Awesome Tour 2010: KG and Sarah Sanders

Big Bend is all a dream. My last month working in the Wild West was full of much adventure, much work and many emotions and changes. Like the ever metamorphing nature of my surrounds, my life kept changing rapidly and intensely. There came a point when I felt as though I had no control over all that seemed to be happening. I’ve written it fairly often, if not always, my life is overwhelming to me, and at times it is hard to ride the runaway train that is my existence.

I am literally on the road as I write. My headphones plugged in, the beauty that is Utah sliding past me easily; the mountains entrenched in giant foreboding storm clouds. The expanse….endless and welcoming. I am on the last leg of the trip with Sarah Sanders. This is however, only the first leg of my own journey. We have spent 10 ridiculous days on the road. We began in Big Bend National Park, our shared home for the past few months and will end together in Grand Teton National Park, where Sarah will work as a backcountry permit ranger for the park service. We have been to 7 national forests, 6 National Monuments, 4 National Parks and countless towns along the way. When our trip is all said and done this evening, we will have traveled through 5 states together. This has been one of the most intensive road trips I have ever been on, and I have been on a hefty amount of trips over the past ten years. I have felt physically and mentally exhausted because of all that I’ve witnessed. The landscape did not and would not stop or slow down. The road pulled us ever onward, and at times, I felt as though, if I had to endure any more “experiencing” I would simply fall over and stay to the ground, eyes closed, ears covered, in a ball, to just REST. The majestic beauty of the west has never been a stranger to me. It has served as my closest confidant, my earnest, passionate lover, my mentor, my relief, my spiritual leader, my comfort. The mountains, the forest, the red rock, the gushing and rushing rivers have always welcomed me and whispered to me, and pulled me in. HARD. This part of the country fills my chest and brain with a vital excitement. It is a reminder always, when I am here, that I am home.

Home is a funny word for me. I am nomadic in nature and so home is where I rest my head at the end of the night, or in the early morn. Home is where my body is at the moment. There are varying levels and meaning of the literal word home in my existence. The “home” that I feel in the west, is a home that renders closer to “normal” folks definition of the word I suppose. Oh the pines, the towering tectonic masterpieces, the glacial aftermath, the cold cold lakes, the intimacy of the enclosing forest enveloping me in comfort and age and love. The jagged peaks of snow covered mountains, unforgiving and demanding, the randomness of weather created by high elevation landmasses and water masses. The feeling of exploration and ruggedness, the adaption to survival forced by nature. The lack of easy comfort. All of it. The sheer monumental hugeness of this particular part of the country makes my heart beat faster. It makes me breathe harder. Literally, the elevation gain makes the body work harder. The higher altitude, when mixed with physical exertion leads to something that resembles a runner’s high, and a fairly false sense of elation takes hold. That, mixed with all of the obvious beauty, well, right there is a nice little cocktail of pure, wonderful existence on this planet earth.

We have ventured this way, to my “home” over the course of a week and a half and I have had the pleasure of seeing some of the most breath taking and wonderous places. I’ve had real adventures, sometimes experiencing things I still cannot wrap my brain around. The land that I have seen has been mind-boggling enough to make the most dedicated atheist question the existence of a higher being, and I am a seasoned traveler. So what makes this trip different? Why am I so freaking overwhelmed by all that is around me? Because it is non-fucking-stop. That’s why. Every single day, almost every minute, I have seen beauty around me. I have traversed in a week places that most people take years to visit. And nothing has been consistent except the severe, dramatic beauty of my ever-changing surroundings. Sarah, at one point on route 12 in Utah, leaving Escalante and heading toward Capitol Reef said “I need this to stop, it’s too much to look at, to experience, I need to see something plain for a minute, I need my eyes to stop seeing this”. And I felt the same. Standing on top of a mountain, snow all around us, the landscape red and orange and hellishly striking on one side, the forest on the other, the sky opening up, clouds pregnant with storm and snow, slick rock down below, rivers rushing through, carving the earth, the sky on the other side with the sun shining in few penetrating rays to pull fourth a sunset. So many worlds and climates and everything intermingling all around me. So many smells and sounds. I wept easily for a few moments, and I felt as though the beauty of all of it hurt my heart. It was too much to bear. And I felt ashamed at the damage we’ve done as people. This is a feeling that we should feel every day. This is something so pure and so integral to our subsidence, and yet, in our current situation, this is a foreign feeling, one so foreign it feigns overwhelming intensity and a lack of physical understanding. I felt backwards, knowing that I recognize more the complex homogenized make-up and systematic re-creation of organic living of a developed city than I do the diverse ecosystem that has been around me my entire life. This is a painful realization. It feels better to be surrounded by nature, to not have the distractions we have created for ourselves. People are more often friendly in the country. Anxiety occurs less, stress occurs less, that unending “want and need” that seems to never be met in the city has no bearing any which way out in the middle of nowhere because it doesn’t fucking matter. You can hear your own voice. You can hear your breathing and feel your heart beating. The sun feels glorious and the cold feels a necessary reminder. To see your breath, clouding in the air in the frigid atmosphere of the snowy mountain is PROOF that you are there, alive, existing. Life is just life. It is simple. And who the hell cares if you meet some goals that really, don’t mean a goddamn thing because well…you’re just going to die some day anyway. We’ve created this life, to make ourselves have a purpose, and really…that purpose for the most part, has no purpose. And on that note, I’ll just keep looking around me for now. Taking in the last long bit of tar that takes me to the mountains I’ve longed to be near for two years now. Ever changing, ever winding, unpredictable road to nowhere. Or somewhere. Or everywhere. -KG

Notes From the City of Brotherly Love (part 1 respectively)

Sitting at my parent’s house in Northeast Philadelphia, drinking a Yuengling Lager, listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska, chain smoking in my dead grandfather’s pajamas and looking down at the first passport he was ever issued at the ripe age of 19 when he enlisted in the Navy and sailed off to Jerusalem. Thinking about life I guess. Wondering about death. Sifting through all the stuff in between. There’s a portable electric heater warming my too cold feet and the smell of smoke and my parents’ existence circling all around me. I’m thirty years old now. I don’t quite think I think about the actuality of that all too often. But I guess when you walk through your past and wander into some vaulted memories, well time just slows down and the reality of life and living and what that might mean to some comes sauntering into the old brain…and in the heart, the longing for some sense of understanding fights the synapses of logic.

This city has always had a hold on me. It shaped me, it taught me hard lessons, and it helped me to appreciate the deep beauty that lies within the ugliest of monsters. It’s never been a “nice” place in any sense of the word. And nothing has come easy here. There is no comfort that one should find in home. There is just the city. Its giant gaping mouth smiling in all of its harsh broken glory. Row homes, bleak and chipped and worn down shine like teeth in the most gruesome grin. This meaty heart is massive and pounding and rhythmically beats the days in and out of you. The train lines and bus lines and subway lines are the veins and arteries pushing the blood cells and the filth and the waste and the life that is the people through it’s insides. Tunnels carry us through the bowels and guts of the city, and graffiti of those dark wanderers lines the cavities…the space of no-sun, and the proof that we dwell exists, blatantly. You can feel the city breathing. You can smell its life force. The rivers, polluted as they are irrigate the pathways, and they carry new life and new commerce and they don’t stop, plugging away to the ocean. The neighborhoods change…so many diverse groups of people dot this metropolis. And each new place feels like a foreign country, or like a different organ in the body. No one place is the same, yet we are connected inherently by the “feeling” of this city, by the commanding DNA it orders upon us. We are blueprinted at an early age. A Philadelphian is a Philadelphian is a Philadelphian. Rich or poor, black or white, gay or straight, if you are here, chances are, you have SOME similarity to the others. And there are major differences, yes. But the same holds true if you are from here, or spend time here. And you can only understand if you possess it. And maybe in Texas, I forgot a bit. But when I deplaned at the Philly international airport, I felt my cell structure shifting. I heard my voice change. My thoughts moved differently. I was home.

I am in love with this place in a way I don’t have a full understanding of. I have no choice. I feel it in my bones; I feel it deep in my belly and in my chest. It works over me like the Holy Ghost. The grittiness washes over me every time. My palms get sweaty. All of my hopes and overwhelming intensity becomes heightened. My primal filthy instincts come welling up. My senses become ravaged. When I take to the street, I want to walk and walk and walk. I want to know every part of my devious, relentless lover. I want to match its unending lust. I want to soothe its destruction. I want to give back and I want to take and take and take. And I want to be able to beat the obstacles and pass the tests and make the shouting turn into whispers and promises.

I listened at an early age. My longing was created here. This city gave it to me. It tempted me. And I listened and I wandered. By the time I was old enough to know better I was exploring every neighborhood. I found streets and landmarks and histories. Each new place brought a new lesson, and a new tale. I worked every inch of the body of this place. I moved my hands all over and it became mine. And after I made my own promises, whispering over and over as I used this place up, I left. And after I left I came to realize, that I was not the user. I kept coming back for more, never quite being able to stay away. I moved to other cities and tried to love them, tried to let myself meld with them in the same intimate way I did here. My relationships were quick and lustful. They were instantly gratifying. I romanticized them and I lied to them and let them lie to me and I reveled in their obvious beauty. And still, I dreamt about home in the back of my mind. My memories playing out over and over again like images flickering on the wall from a dirty old projector. Dust floating about in the light that breaks the darkness. And when I come back. I am not forgiven. I must start over. And I may have my way, but the intimacy has changed. And I have changed. And I have changed. But I move my hands nonetheless, and I am alive no matter how hard or easy it is. I am forced into quiet reflective moments, and I often combat that with loud, violent protests of drinking, and yelling and raiding. And now, I am just quiet. With no rebel yell. Just with an understanding. A calm. Quiet. Strange. Unspoken. Understanding.

I listened better this time. I was forced to come here. I had to pay respect. I had to listen to my grandpa one more time. I had to hug my family. I had to pay attention. I had to shut my stupid foul immature boasting yelling unsure mouth. I had to wrestle my tongue to keep it fat and slimy in back, behind my teeth. I had to stop. Just stop. For a change. And I needed to listen. And not retort. Or give my side. Because really. My side doesn’t matter. And so I listened. I listened to everything. My body felt carried. I floated all over this place. And I was carried gently maybe, for the first time. Because I allowed it. And because I allowed it, it happened. And maybe because I’m thirty years old, I realized so much. And I saw things differently. And now, I’m scared to talk so much. Because listening is so nice.

My two dear friends and I shared a very intimate evening together. Our words working together in a song that hummed through my dreams. Their embraces seemed to last forever. Their laughter and knowing burned so bright in me. Our easy love passed around all night and awoke again after our dreaming time. Their simple touches, their tiny smiles, their dancing eyes, filled me with a feeling of closeness I hadn’t felt in awhile. I easily felt as though I didn’t deserve such a pure love and unspoken bond. But I gave them my heart in my own rough way as we sat and sipped beers on the rooftop, and danced to Roger Miller in the living room, and snuggled together, and woke together and ate breakfast and watched the rain slowly drizzle drizzle into the day. We laughed heartily and it filled me with such simple pleasure. And we reveled in this place. I sat with Erin on her front steps in South Philly and smoked and watched a woman in Muslim attire walk by, kicking trash out if the way in the sloppy wetness and talk too loudly on her cell phone, proclaiming “can you believe he tried to STAB me?” as if no one else in the world existed, and as if no one else could hear. And I walked along myself, alone that day, taking note of all of the angry homeless dogs who rule the streets, taking stock of all of the chicken bones stripped of their sustenance. I looked into the tired eyes, the somewhat smiles, the faces of many. I let the elevated train rock me back and fourth, feeling as though I was at church, listening, listening, listening to the Gospel of my city…preaching and preaching and preaching from those broken teeth. All of those neighborhoods beneath me holding the life of us all. Those streets carrying on with no seeming end in sight, with the dots of the people and the dogs and cats and trash all down below, all moving in the grey day. My memories moved inside of me and I started to cry quietly to myself right there on the train. It wasn’t a sad kind of weeping, and it wasn’t necessarily a happy or joyous sob, it was a slow irrigation, an almost private way of washing my memories out of my brain and from my body. This time home, I felt like the epic battle of having to have answers was not being fought. There felt no need. I was able to just be there. To take it in without the overwhelming overbearing intensity that usually feels pressed upon me. My experiences weren’t being imprinted, they were just happening. And I felt lucky, and humbled, and so quiet. And this was just the beginning really, of my journey back home, back to my family, back to my past.

I might be Doogie Howser

Wow. I’m pretty sure I’ve started another “blog” with that exact sentiment but I’m too goddamn lazy to even check for sure. My brain is swimming. I feel maybe more insane and unfocused than I have in a bit. It’s been yet another long and insane week full to the brim with adventures, emotions, a friend I haven’t seen in a very very long time, change I’m unsure of how to deal with properly, travel, and well, death.

In life it appears that there are always people who make a real mark on you, on us. There are always individuals who stand out, stand alone, push others, have strong stances and opinions, those whose stories, or words, or advice, or love or even hate presses a permanent stamp upon us. Those people tend to be the folks who remain, with us on our adventures, and our “paths” so to speak. I don’t want to write a goddamn Doogie Howser blog, but I guess I can’t avoid it when writing about something of this nature. My very close friend told me kindly that I’m not good at articulating myself when speaking verbally, but when I write, what I’m thinking seems to make sense. And everyone else tells me that I’m fairly good about tying everything in together, so the rambling began, and maybe the writing will commence.

My grandfather was one of the most amazing people I have known since my existence. I have very vivid memories of him even when I was a very young child. He had a way about him, and not in your typical “well, you know, he’s my grandpa and I love him kind of a way”. He spoke to us (my siblings and I) while we were children, as adults. And he expected us to cognitively understand him, as a human being. There was never any “goo goo gaga” with him. I can specifically remember him priming me at a very young age to ask questions and expect answers. By the time I was 8 years old I was given his already read copies of National Geographic. By the time I was 10, I was reading Smithsonian magazine. I was in the 2^nd grade when my mother, my then stepfather, my sister, my brother and myself moved in with my grandfather. He would sit and talk to me, answering my eighty million questions fairly patiently and recommended suggestions on how I could possibly learn more. My grandfather loved music, books and travel. He loved logic. He was passionate about things and subjects that I suppose the mind would call more rational than “romantic”. He created my love of geography, science, and philosophy. He was a man of the world, with epic tales of navy adventures, the way life was “then”, the common man’s dream, the super natural, the other worldly opportunities of the imagination and the ability to really, sincerely do whatever the fuck you really put your mind to. He was cut from a rare cloth. He contradicted himself in the fact that he was the most pessimistic optimist I have ever known. He taught me most things I carry along in my mental handbook for the living. He awakened me at such a severely young age and he expected the world of me…and I tried. And I still try mostly because of him.

While sitting around at Christmas just after my 16^th birthday he saw me thumbing through an album I created of photographs from magazines. I had been cutting images out for over a year and keeping them to pour over, enjoy, question, and wonder about. He asked me why I had made such an album and why I wasn’t making my own photographs. I answered simply that I had not had my own camera. He then decided that I should own a camera if I was that interested in images and that I should be making my own images, to eventually create my own “album”. He took me a few weeks later to the army/navy exchange at the then functioning navy yard in Philadelphia and bought me my very first camera. I remember feeling really quite embarrassed that I was given something of such value and then taking it to my secret hiding spot and trying to figure the damn thing out. I started making images because my grandfather believed in me. I wasn’t any good at it for a few years, but his sincere belief pushed me always to continue. He came to every show I had (in Philadelphia) and would stand and look at my work and tell me that when I was ready, he would help me publish a book. His approval was genuine, because, when I was dicking around and being lazy, he would never hesitate to let me know that if I neglected to work hard, I’d fall by the wayside, like every other “jackass with a shitbrained dream”. He expected the most, nothing less, and because of this, for the most part, I have never settled for anything less than I “want”. He did this with most of us. My mother would contest that he did in fact, change her life. He changed many people’s lives. And hilariously enough, I suppose most people would find him fairly disagreeable, ornery, slightly intellectually snobbish and sometimes too downright honest. He was a man who stood by his word, and because he believed that he lived by his word, he expected nothing less of others. He molded me to understand respect. He taught me the importance of keeping a promise and meaning what you say. He taught me to respect myself overall, and explained graciously over many years the extreme power of self-respect and self-belief. He was by no means a wealthy man, but seemed to live life to the fullest of his hopes and dreams. My grandfather really might be the most important human being in my life. And now he’s gone. Hilariously enough, I don’t feel as though he’s gone. He believed in life after death. I’m almost positive he’s standing over me at this moment correcting my grammar and telling me how to make this more to the point. I’m also sure he understands that much like him, I can never really quite get to the point, until I have winded myself.

We corresponded with one another for many years, both of us sending many pages of our adventures, our past, our hopes, our beliefs and our experiences. We had a sincere bond, and I genuinely looked forward to his letters each month, most often times reading them aloud to my friends. He had such a perspective, a vibrant way of linguistically illustrating all that was happening, or had happened in his life. Oh he could paint a picture. His letters encouraged me to write, to photograph, to live, to love, to travel to feel every breath I was taking in and pushing out, to observe and to document. They pushed me to not care what people think of me, to not doubt myself, to keep going, keep moving; feed the longing, to not give into the weaknesses. They reminded me to appreciate all that was around me, to tell those around me how grateful I am for their friendship. They encouraged me to reach into the actual depths of my insane imagination and believe in the unreal, the impossible, the ridiculous and the absurd. I suppose in a sense, my own letters to him provided him with entertainment and perhaps a sense of pride. Our connection and simple camaraderie gave me comfort in my darkest and weakest times. As his health declined, his letters became sparse. I would hold onto each word if in fact he did return a letter. I was expecting the worst after awhile, but I felt as though he was preparing me. In reality though, nothing could have prepared me. I feel strange. I feel older. I feel as if I am in some emotional vacuum. I can’t quite explain it. He’s gone…I know he’s gone. But I guess, when you’re a person of such magnitude, of such quality and such presence, you don’t really “go”. He engraved in us such a force of will. He instilled such a burning sense of “living” that it is impossible to actually let him go. And like those people who tend to impress on you, on us, their own way of being, they stick with you, through thick and thin, through the most amazing times and the most boring, through life and death. They just remain who they are or who they were, and you (us) are affected by them continually, not necessarily by accident or by fate, but perhaps by necessity. Thank you Karl. You certainly did always say, “if you don’t like where you are, change your mind” and you certainly always meant it. And I’ll be goddamned if I’m not grateful for that one…amongst all the rest. Spose I’ll see you again when I get there myself….until then….

-KG