Checked out at 0900 and drove to the Palomar Observatory, then on up to Redlands and then to Santa Monica.

Went to the observatory on Palomar Mountain, going by Riverside to Santa Monica.

Drove down to Tiajuana, returning about 7 PM. There was some haze. We had lunch in Coronado, and visited an excellent small Oriental art store where I the rice paper with butterflies; I bought 5 sheets @ $1.25. They also had some fine Chinese rugs.

Made a trip to Tiajuana. It is a dirty border town of 59,000 that lives on the American tourists.

Left Boston at 1125 via UAL 853 for LA, arriving at 3:35 PM PST. Drove down to Newport Beach and checked in at the Jamaica Inn at 5:20 PM.

Rec’d. a call from a Mr. Gast at Aeronutronics at 9 PM re: a mtg. at 9 AM tomorrow.

Left for LA at 11 AM arriving at 3:50 PM via AAL 707.

Made point to Lt. Col. Hall of

a) the need for integrating the subject matter from each functional area to provide the basis for command control, and
b) the existence of Forrester’s techniques — in relation to a laboratory for establishing the essentials for Command Control.

Talked some more with Major McCarren re: specific other inputs to the diagram noted yesterday.

Went to Archives Center & noted a number of documents on exercises; those by ORD seemed most useful.

Left for Boston at 2 PM, arriving at 10 PM; it took 2 more hours to get home! It was snowing.

Left C&GSC for Boston at 2 PM arriving at Boston at 10 PM. It then took 2 hours to get on out home! It was snowing and the a/c was in the stack for some time before landing.

Left Logan airport at 0800 for O’Hare/Chicago, arriving there at 0925 CST; went on to KC at 1105, arriving at 1210. Went up to Ft. Leavenworth in a staff car, arriving at Lt.Col. C.P. Hall’s office about 1 PM.

After some preliminary discussion with Lt. Col. Brown, he turned us over to Lt. Col. Kelley, who is concerned with the effects of nuclear weapons. They have taken most of the arithmetic out of the weapons selection process. We need a copy of FM 101-31 with change 1; I believe we can get the yields and LR from this. Brown later took us to his superior, Col. Monroe, who had a better grasp of what is going on.

Will talk to Intelligence gents at 0830 tomorrow, and then see what the archives hold.

Went into town for a Mexican dinner.

Worked on 1960 Income Taxes; income over $20,000!

Left Logan Airport at 0805 for Kansas City and Ft. Leavenworth, arriving at C&GSC at 1 PM! Weather good.

Went home (Boston) via AAL 86 + NAL 482. Left Detroit 0815; arr. Somerville 1430.

+ 3˚F

Left Detroit at 0815, arrived Idlewild 0930; Left for Boston at 11 AM, arriving 12:30 PM. Finally got out to Somerville at 1430, due to a subway tie-up.

JCH has bad cold, the others are well.

Went out to the Ford Museum.

It snowed all day.

Got space on 22 January on AAL Nr. 86 to Idlewild and NAL Nr. 482 to Boston.

Went out to the Ford Museum on a site-seeing trip. It was a most instructive trip. A separate exhibit was that of current sports cars, US and foreign.

Met with Col. Halper & co about 0830 to renew our conversations. Their concept of a System Manager is based on the need of someone to manage administrative operations after the system is in being. Our present need is for a set-up to oversee the development of the CCIS. Col. Halper suggested a) that, if possible, recommendations should be directly related to conclusions, and b) that related efforts or areas of fruitful activities that have been discovered during the study be itemized also.

Discussed their work with Messrs. Springer & Greene who said that they were glad to be freed from MOMAR; he suggests that the FATOC & FADSOC be combined.

Left for airport at 2 PM.

Left airport (Indianapolis) at 4:25 PM

Arr. Detroit 5:20 PM

Found the 7:30 PM train to Boston was canceled. No air space so came to Henrose Hotel.

Left for Detroit at 420 PM.

Found that the NYC train for Boston from Detroit was cancelled a/c of dock pickets in the Buffalo Yards of NYC, so, sat in Detroit.

Started to work on organizing tomorrow’s briefing at 5 AM, working until 7 AM. Rode to work with Mr. Darr, arriving at 0815. Went directly to Conf. Room A263 and finished making a card for each slide. Started a dry run at 1010 with JFN & RJB. My part took 50 minutes, Joe’s an hour. JFN wants less detail and more of the system configuration, so we ill have to rework our briefing. He gave us a set of multilith masters with Section Two rewritten; I didn’t have time to even read it before leaving at 2 PM. Copied 3 paragraphs.

Left Logan at 535 PM. Reworked briefing, making a list of slid titles and selecting the ones that show system configuration.

Arrived at Indianapolis at 950 PM CDT; we were met by an Army driver who took us to Ft. Benjamin Harrison in Harrison, 45 minutes from the airport. We were put up in the BOQ Officers Qtrs. Worked until 130 AM to rewrite the Theory of Command for our talk.

Had disc. with Mr. Hussey re: will, in his office. Decided to name both Al and Edith as trustees & guardians of our children if we die in a common disaster.

Left for Indianapolis via AAL jet at 0530 PM; arrived there at 9:50 PM. Got to bed at 1:30 AM 19 January because JFH & I had to review our briefings.

with a truckload of stuff, it’s too complicated to camp extensively. and, in retrospect, not much to say anyway. got to get back in Prescott to get organized for the ensuing departure.

dislocated, and wind-blown to another place (in the night). retrospecting from a great distance. not a travelog, but a long narrative story in pieces. a different kind of writing, but not too different: carrying some mapping of the movements imposed by life as it is/was. question: would all the fragments, displayed, end up having a meaning? or would they remain fragmented, and infinitely far from the lived life? can the flow that one feels while passing through this immediate temporal region be truly experienced by an Other, or not.

the San Andreas Fault dominates the feel of this place, though it is only a scarp of low hills cut by displaced drainage washes. I didn’t get to a focal point of the flat valley floor, a complicated outcrop with a sizable pictograph/petroglyph wall up near the entrance to the Monument. it has restricted access, and was closed when I came into the valley. but today, head further south to the southern exit from the valley, where the dirt track parallels the fault scarp a hundred meters to the east. the displaced gullies cannot be immediately decoded by their odd shapes — where the topography is shifting north/south 33-to-37 mm per year. ya’ gotta run to keep up!

Follow the fault scarp east-south-east across the Grapevine and down into the Mojave near Victorville, and end up in a very isolated area of the near Mojave — up at altitude, so it’s very cold and very windy, though that’s nothing new in the High Mojave in December. Simply unload the back of the truck enough to curl up and sleep.

If you look for the truth outside yourself,
It gets farther and farther away.
Today walking alone, I meet it everywhere I step.
It is the same as me, yet I am not it.
Only if you understand it in this way
Will you merge with the way things are.
– Tung-Shan

Loss, and the new. Preparing for the forward-fall to engage the conditions that hydrocarbon burning precipitate: back on the road, hydrocarbon flaring, with a slow drive down to Carizzo Plains via the “Petroleum Highway.” Along which are the still-operational fields of California’s early oil boom. Drive by the Kettleman Dome area, a structure that I examined as my first exploration review at Unocal back in 1982. I had to gather all alternative methods data, produce some maps and structural interpretations, and an exploration strategy that correlated seismic and well-log data sets.

Tracking the San Andreas Fault. The knife-through-birthday-cake-icing scar that runs from the here to the there of California. Rupture zone riding. Making images and writing. The usual. Or the unusual. Beginning or Ending.

This after the Solstice lunar eclipse last deep night which hung in a cleared sky slowly transforming eye-socket receivers into Light-cups, catching a burnt sienna flux from every sun-rise-and-set on the limb of the planet, at the moment. Very fine. And gone for this life’s time. On Earth as it is in Heaven.

On this movement, at this time, cars fill Interstate-5 everywhere, all the time. The pavement is uneven and shattered in some places from the heaviness of the truck traffic as well as the bankrupt state of the state of the Union. wads of toilet paper fill the grass at the scenic overlook like albino poppies. Later, I leave the interstate for less travelled roads, much less travelled, I see very few cars at all. But then there are oil pumps and pipes.

I miss the closing dialogue session with Doug Kahn. Goodbyes and a rushed departure from the house via taxi to the airport, a short wait for the hop to Auckland and on back to Oz for 20-some hours before heading boreal-spheric for a bit. Bags are mostly packed, but the trip to NZ made for some juggling and nervousness when booking two international flights within such at short time-span.

Ten solid and busy days leaves quite a positive first impression of New Zealand, although this is no surprise, given the richness of Kiwi encounters over the years. It was a bit distressing to see the extent of degradation of natural system that has and is still occurring, but this is a legacy everywhere there are humans. We, as life, have altered the planetary system (even as we begin to observe other planetary systems — can this act of observation alter those systems as well?). There are limits to the energy flux that a planet has access to, based on solar (Light) and gravitational sources. We, again, as life, have been increasing the entropy of the system at an incredible rate, mostly through the release of eons of stored solar (photosynthetic) carbon in two centuries.

Up at 0400 to make the hugely early flight to eNZed. Had to be totally packed for the US as well, as I’ll have only another 20 hours back in Sydney, in transit between Auckland – Sydney – San Francisco.

A new country, a new place to visit. The national memorial service is happening when we land, so I manage to record a minute’s silence in the baggage claim. Some people were oblivious. People are watching the ubiquitous flat-screen teevees rather intently. The cost of extractives, but only the most obvious one.

The jump flight from Auckland down to Whanganui reveals both sides of possible landscapes. Massive clear-cut forestry in the highlands, and intensive farming in the more level areas — both with the attendant geomorphology of erosion features marring the terrain. Much has changed since colonization, surely. Then there are the remaining highland forests which are not yet decodable, having not met them on the ground.

Finally get into Whanganui, Julian picks me up at the airport in their 1988(?) Honda named Buzzy Bee (?) — a vehicle with a history, too bad I’m writing this in far distant retrospect, or elsewise I could relate the story. It was funny. Great to finally meet Julian, and we immediately start up a substantial dialogue as I am dropped into the whirlwind of family life surrounding the community effort aimed at the Greenbench (Gallery space) and the ADA Symposium. I tell him that I am at his service, and that, officially, my workshop starts now. It’s all about energy, presence, be-ing, and raising these topics in whatever contexts that arise in the next ten days.

The evening starts with a rousing performance of Aladdin by the children of the Brunswick School located in the countryside near Whanganui. Julian and Sophie’s three daughters recently started attending the school. This was followed by some photo-ops — meeting more of Julian’s family and other folks in the community — in the playground, as the soft, mild summer twiLight closed in.

head towards Livermore via Amboy and Tehachapi. somehow over-conscious about this being a road-trip as I follow former pathways, familiar, horizons both distant and near are recognized at many various moments, rocketing down the defense inter-state. and the emblem of Route 66 stenciled on that pathway between Needles and Ludlow. the once-abandoned Roy’s gas station and motel in Amboy now a neo-post-modern stop-over, huh? and seeing a few monuments to the patriotic dead along the way. and finally, closing in on Tehachapi near sunset, a major fire happening in heavy wond immediately south of town in rugged hills not two miles from where I camp for the night in Tehachapi Mountain Park. hardly anyone around, surprisingly enough. the road in is steep as are the individual campsite slots. I set out a bed on a tarp on the powdered and dusty ground. nose is aware of fire all night, it Lights dreams, though the wind is carrying the force of the blaze to the north away, away, towards Death Valley. houses burn.

south-by-southwest, west-south-west, up-wind, hot, dry, shade-less land in a black truck. being passed, and passing those who have passed away, probably passing when to pass was a high risk. stopping to meditate on those scenarios, kept calm with the constant hydrocarbon susseration nearby.

the yurt raised, a futon installed, some clean-up work left, remediation, a stove for winter, in this glorious location. the month almost gone, and now heading south. coming down from Glade Park, Rock Ridge Lane. and doing the Western Slope: en route Glade Park – Durango and Richard and Holly’s place there, via Ouray and Silverton. classic Colorado drive. hard to leave this place.

and my Self wandering away from everything again, to Oz. this does not seem to be auspicious, ever, for whatever reasons. I do not know what to think of this anymore. the desire to live in Colorado truncated by the inabilities to re-frame the self and the skills possessed in order to work / to live. or is it merely a change of perspective that is necessary? I would suspect the latter as there are more than five million people living in Colorado right now. Most of them manage to live. Given, of course, that 11.2% of them are below the poverty level, that leaves 88.8% that keep at least one nostril above the water line. Of course, I could survive there, without any other degrees or knowledge-bases: it’s all in the (internal) perspective.

whilst the travelog shudders along, firing on less than four cylinders, knocking on too much ethanol, and not going fast enough. (I post this more than six month into the future from the now in the images, damn.)

and suddenly time is up on the Front Range. head west on I-70 to participate in the raising the yurt. along Glenwood Canyon under stormy skies, then once out of that, on to the Grand Junction Airport to meet Collin and Marisa at their offices.

head down to Bill’s to prep for the small dinner party tomorrow night.

Retreat from the high country, back to urban centers. Drop by at Jim and Dona’s place on the way back to Boulder.

Up into the mountains, near Buena Vista to rendezvous with a sizable crowd of friends and friends-of-friends. Plenty of hydrocarbon expenditure, plenty of food. Too tired to stay up around the fire with the hardcores, go to sleep under a huge Ponderosa.

Public transport to the airport in the rain. Portland has a close-to-German system running between trams, buses, streetcars, and suchlike. A change of planes in Salt Lake gives a view of the Great Salt Lake Desert and the Wendover stomping grounds on the way in, along with the nasty and turbulent winds. The next hop to Denver goes right over Echo Park. Weather on the Front Range delays us in a holding pattern over Rocky Mountain National Park. Those peaks are all too close! On the ground, full-blown summer afternoon thunderstorm patterns are in play. With the full moon rising over the eastern plains. Look at those clouds!

Brunch with Homare, years have passed since we crossed paths, how that goes. He and his wife have moved into a really nice place right off of CR 36 in Denver. Then back to Boulder to catch the airport bus to DIA and on to Portland. Erica picks me up in her scrubs, straight from the hospital. I haven’t seen her for, what, a decade? Back to her place where she makes dinner for her boyfriend Greg, and myself. I had forgotten she had a catering business in the long-ago past. Between geology and cardio-vascular surgery. Sheesh, have some more wine.

Leaving when done with breakfast and cleaning and packing. A couple rituals yet — gathering some sage and some yellow Weber sandstone powder. A beautiful sojourn. The place is so rich, so un-circumscribable, no matter how many dances of words one would make around it. Best is the ability to press into the body the power of be-ing and the power of life. And Light. And the gravity of the earth. Fundamentals to the heart. The drift of cloud and shift of wider weather patterns, leaving Light on upturned face, changing all the time.

Maybe put out a call next spring to have others join. Then again, maybe not…

What changes flow into the ongoing process of life during solo retreats to power-full places? I think a lot about all the others who I know, and do wish that there were folks who would be able to join me in these places. Some folks I would like to have join me and others, I know, wouldn’t appreciate it. Everything would be different, especially the bushwhacks and the rambles; the cooking and eating, sharing meals, and just hanging out together would recall so many prior times, and the deep and satisfying fun that was had by all.

The hikes: while most attention has to go to the movement itself, as there are considerable risks to walking solo in such places, mind may drift from immediate situation and the larger questions of what has become, what does become of life. It’s more of a noisy mess, but it is easier under these circumstances to do the yogic step away and allow the chitta vritti, the thought-noise, to simply happen, knowing that being in the moment is far more important and has deeper implications than any projections onto future (and very much theoretical) situations or into re-living historical situations. The pull of the un-fettered mind into both those spaces is strong, and the best tonic for that is the risk of solo bushwhacking where there is a steep penalty for not paying attention. I do catch myself every so often, verbally, aloud, slow-down slow-down slow-down, after I make a mis-step or blunder. The most common is when traversing some slick-rock face and stepping on a small pebble. That’s all it takes, send you 10 feet or 100 feet to the next ledge down, or to the canyon floor. Doesn’t make much difference how far, an injury would be immediate life-threatening even if it was a minor sprain — if immobilized, you would have to deal with at least one night out, maybe more, with hypothermia, then dehydration being the most problematic, then the problem of becoming predator food, the problem of attracting help could be very difficult, if in a slot canyon or off the normal known trails. I carry a loud whistle, and do leave small notes in my car which would direct search parties to general areas, but the terrain is vast, and there is much topography that would make searching difficult. I think they would wait a day at least before even checking the car anyway. Unless you told someone specifically that you would be in touch. There is no phone access, and so on, uff. Well, the point is, focus and caution have to be taken very seriously when soloing. I would do things rather differently if with one other or a small group. There is immediately a sizeable extra safety factor. Not that it would suddenly make risk disappear, but an innocuous stumble on the rocks wouldn’t immediately become a life-and-death situation.

What about these time-lapse movies? What are they about? I don’t know what to make of them, but have spent numerous hours making them — 2 minutes per hour is the rate that I’ve been using — a frame every 3 or 4 seconds to make a PAL 24 fps film. I guess I’ll make a dvd or maybe a single work, but have to think of the sound-track for them, that’s difficult.

Anyway, head out, south through Rangely, down the Book Cliffs, through Loma and meet Collin and Marisa at the airport office of their business, the Colorado Flight Center, get pizza and beer, and drive up the hill to Glade Park to have dinner with Bob, their next door neighbor.

Transit of Utah. From west to east, along a winding trajectory from desert to forest to desert, oil drilling, wind power, gas stations, Mormon farms, gold mines, high-security military bases, municipal alarm towers scattered across the landscape — for warning the population surrounding the bases where testing of bio- and chemical-warfare devices is ongoing — warning them of impending disaster. Continuing on the isolated Pony Express Trail, then descending into populated areas. Calling ahead to Dinosaur to see about road conditions. Plenty of snow on the Uintahs, plenty! At the last minute after checking out the Green River campground on the Utah side, I get word that the Echo Park road is open. So, gas up, including the extra tank, and head in from Jensen. Excellent weather, and finally arriving, no one else around, very good. Get the pick of the few camp spaces, #5, 7, and 9 are the best for shade, seclusion, and access to firewood — though shade is not the issue at this time of year, more important would be the access to morning sunshine to warm up — but since there’s no one else around, I can use the #6 picnic table in full sun in the morning for breakfast. So, I take #7 and offload/set-up quickly: already charged at being here once again…

Finally depart, making last-minute passes across all the place. Ship-shape, single-wide shape. Good enough for the next artist coming through. Head out by around noon, tired of waiting on the road to Echo Park to open after these repeated waves of late spring storms rolling through. Head south to follow the southern boundary of the Dugway site, through Gold Hill, in that frontier mode, rough, and the mountains have all been dug up, mined out. Some tough looking abodes, apparently there are a few people who live there year-round, it’s gotta be tough. Join the Pony Express Route at Callao, head east to the Wildlife area, windy more or less, mostly more. Callao is really a frontier outpost. About 8-10 ranch families. No store, no gas, no nuthin,’ just the ranches clustered around some arable land at the foot of the spectacular Deep Creek Mountains (which are higher than the Wasatch in Eastern Utah! The Pony Express Route is an even more strange communications artifact, but one that resonated long in the US imagination, though it lasted only a couple years in actuality — made obsolete by the telegraph cable. But the idea of riding across this landscape in 12-mile spurts (a healthy horse has to stop after that distance when running full-tilt), well, it’s something.

Over night at the Dugway Geode Mines, pick around a bit in the gathering twiLight, but am pretty tired after the drive. Quiet night, though there are threatening clouds rolling through from time-to-time. It’s always tough to pick a place out there to camp at there are no accessible trees, nor even vegetation above the knees, hardly the ankles! Always have the feeling of being exposed.

A forced migration to the Holy City of Moroni. Tire issues — the damaged rear cycle rim from the red clay mishap in southern Utah and the front-end alignment of the truck. Locate appropriate places to effect the repairs before coming over. A monstrous wind from the south dogs the transit across the flats of the Great Salt Lake Desert on I-80 and whips up a blinding dust storm in the middle and at the eastern fringe at the Kennecott Copper mine’s massive tailings dump.

Salt Lake City is quiet, wide empty streets, pedestrians are frequently toting suitcases-on-wheels. There are bicycle lanes and mid-block pedestrian crosswalks with baskets at either terminus with fluorescent flags for folks to carry when crossing.

Retreat when the work is done and after lousy lunch Reuben at The Bakery. Retreat looks like this (yes, cars and trucks in my lane do retreat forwards, I am, it seems, the slowest car on the road):

The psychical framing of intention within the making/creating of a reductive tracing of the phenomenal world would seem to be critical. What is the intention of an image, for example? Is it as fundamental as the intention of God in the creation of the world? Or can it be explained away as merely an artifactual process of the techno-social system that one happens to be embedded within? Clearly one intention is to use the artifact to say “Look what I saw!” And, so, the process should never be undertaken when there are others around, as they are already experiencing the phenomenal world, albeit from another point of view. Although this suggests that the artifact is used in the presentation and validation of one point of view with an other. (This presentation process and its outcome may also fast-forward root into the resonances arising from the juxtaposition of those two differing POV’s). Is this the sole, core reason? Or is there something else? Is there more to it? This juxtaposition (though more complex and intertwined than that word suggests) is a form of dialogue in that extended sense of the energized interaction of the Self and the Other. hmmm.

Spending the night in the cab of the truck is no fun, but the snow is coming so hard and fast that there is no way of getting out and setting up the back to sleep without getting soaked and cold. So, park in Milford behind a stranded Hummer. Cold and uncomfortable, but good for toughening the constitution, eh? By the way, the image links now will initiate an image album for the entire month to come, higher-rez images (900×602 pixels) and a nice presentation interface. Comments welcome!

At Linda Leas cafe in Kanab, locals, non-Mormons pursue another religion, worship of java, across the street from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. After the first night out. Wishing for a 4-wheel-drive vehicle to give a greater degree of risk possible. Snow or rain threatening in forecasts, and bentonite clay roads are impassable when wet. The guy working the BLM desk, old, over-weight, tobacco stains his white mustache brown, makes the warnings. He has to talk to foreign tourists and downstreamers a lot, surely. Folks who haven’t a clue about how it works out here. The Grand Staircase – Escalante National Monument is so large, and the country so unforgiving, surely they have to scrape up the dessicated or flash-flood saturated remains of folks every year. On the other hand, this is no monkey-wrench territory anymore, it’s just a place for cheap virtual entertainment via wheeled vehicles with windows. Maybe some stars glimpsed, a whiff of juniper blossoms firing off tart pollen.

Typing like I can’t get over it. Wanting to find something to use, utilize, make happen, profit from, in this movement, this travel, across these space. Spaces that have so little to offer in transit, and less to offer when living, settled, in them. Nothing arrives. Nothing comes. Even with some caffeine enhancement via cappuccino. (Cappuccino here, wondering about the spread, propagation, of cappuccino across Amurika). In territories defined by the dominance of thin and watery drip-grind served by waitresses named Flo or Blanch, in stainless diners. Now, instead, cafes with multi-colored chalk menus on the walls, starting with espresso, then cappuccino, then lattes, and so on, with as many permutations as the local consumers demand to enhance their sensibilities. Retro interiors: Naugahyde, Formica, Vinyl, Linoleum, garage-sale vintage, cluttered.

Accident intrudes on the evening hunt for a place to camp. Again the bentonite clay plays a significant role. Up from Paragonah, into the National Forest a few miles along Red Creek Canyon, and the road starts to get wet, then snow-covered, no match for my vehicle, reach a zenith and decide to backtrack. With no turn-around except back a quarter-mile, I start backing, and a bit too fast, get caught in some old tracks in the mud and bingo! In the very muddy ditch up to the axle, with an overhanging branch almost completely ripping the bike rack off the roof. Shiite! Climb out the passenger side window, shaken, cursing, looking at the graying sky and approaching dusk, and knowing the forecast for bad weather.

Morning, mourning notes on encounter, in no particular order.

It is on a pathway, the pathway, in the mode of movement, in the shifting of unknown situations, where encounter occurs. These encounters are traced with the full presence of the body and all aspects where they occur.

There is the general rule on a hiking trail, uphill gets right-of-way: those struggling and straining to make it to the top of whatever heights that you’ve just been on should be given precedence. It’s always a question, though, what the precise character of the encounter will be. Whether you have seen (or heard) the approach of an Other, through dense forest, or whether you round a turn to be confronted by a gaggle of silent walkers. Encounter is a culturally specific regime overlying that of the embodied, the animal. On trails in the West the density of hikers is generally low, except in National Parks which can see crowds as dense any on Fifth Avenue in New York City at lunch-time. This is one criteria on which to judge a trail — not merely the views afforded, but the number of people encountered. Escaping from human presence is as prominent a thought as what other ‘natural’ phenomena might be encountered.

Silence, or the absence of human-created noise, relates to presence of other humans as well as other beasts. While walking in bear country complete silence is not a safe option, so encounters with other humans in bear country usually begin at a distance, either with bells or simply boisterous activity. Encounters with bears are sometimes at a distance, but sometimes not. I have found that the presence radiated by large hairy carnivores with big teeth usually precedes any sight.

Bush-whacking is a situation where encounter with an Other becomes so rare as to evoke a certain fear if only from the statistical improbability of encounter whilst specifically not on a trail. Sadly, it is a probability that rises as the global population increases. Too many folks out there! And one has to be aware of the timing of the off-trail experience: hunting season is not a good time to bush-whack!

Enroute, one suspends the closed-ness of daily routine. The sameness of daily regimen is upset and in its place is the jarring uncertainty of arrival in unknown, medial, places. In between here and there. Starting point, ending point. Suspended animation is an apt term. Animate, moving, but somehow suspended by the vagaries of being someplace in particular, some nameable place, some identifiable locus.

It is in this liminal space, on the thresh keld, thresh hold, the border between the space of known nutrition and the potentialities of the unknown, where all learning and change takes place. As a setting for the encounter with the Other, partaking food, sharing nutrition with a stranger is an exceptionally powerful meeting of ritual.

Of course, there is the argument that says movement can be only in mind, and such mental travel is as efficacious in bringing transcendence as any physical movement. But the movement I write of here is not a simple Cartesian transposition of body, of point-of-view, it is the processural space of encountering the unknown Other. This will precipitate something of a shift in point-of-view, no matter how small in that Cartesian sense — it is the principle of change that matters — and in an open encounter, change occurs. This demands embodied motion. Turning to face the Other.

Over the years, I observe that I take very few photographs in the place where I live. With a few exceptions of concentrated exercise to see the unknown within the known, it is on the road where sight opens and newness brings that rushing tension of encounter. That tension, when unchecked, concentrates in the shoulders and subsequently crawls up the gall-bladder channel to root behind the eyes, migraine. Gotta deal with that. Opening the shoulders, the channel, to allow the movement of difference, the tension of change to simply transit the body without leaving damage in its wake. This will be a theme of movement. To pass through and allow a passing through of the energies of encounter.

death strewn on the highway. roadkill. carnivore, herbivore, amphibian, insect: getting to the other side of the road is just part of the inexorable (natural) systemic flow. Roadkill represents one intersection of human-defined flows and naturally-existing flows. The result of this fundamental intersection is near-death or absolute annihilation, a rapid reduction to component complex molecules. from the thathunk of meatier species to the simple fluttering splat of the butterfly. Leathery carcasses that persist for days despite the brutal pounding of truck tires and hard-to-remove stains on the windshield that resist even the most vigorous squeegee scrubbing whilst filling-up the tank.

Insects with a low weight-to-surface-area ratio can sometimes avoid liquidation by the slipstream effect which will carry them up and over the vehicle. But trajectory is all, and the meatier bugs, the swarming locusts and grasshoppers, have too much mass in their sagging torsos to experience this sanctified reprieve and thus become one with their maker in a soul-wrenching milli-second that can be a marvel of colorful abstraction a-la Pollack.

Along one stretch of the UFO Highway in Nevada, red locusts were on the march northward along a specific pathway that they were intent on following without regard to individual survival. At 60 MPH, the dynamic was such that their flight reaction to the approaching truck got them only a couple feet off the ground, not over the height of the hood, so, the lower grill was a mass of dessicated carcasses by the time we got to the Grand Army of the Republic Highway, a hundred miles away. Many more were simply crushed by the wheels, leaving greasy red-greenish stains on the road and in the wheel-wells: their natural trajectory on the ground was clearly discernible where it intersected with roads. I noticed in the gas station parking lot in Ely there was a small flock of birds who were picking over the the resulting detritus on the ground, and when they could manage, actually hanging onto the grills and directly harvesting the carnage, ‘burp!’ What would the evolutionary outcomes be? Birds that can smell idling cars? Locusts who tunnel for 40 feet underground when they encounter traces of heavy hydrocarbons, with luck, getting to the other side.

Larger animals, the mammals are the worst, though, when encountered at any speed. Moose and elk torsos will behave something like the old paper-straw-through-the-raw-potato trick — inertial physics at its most fundamental. The front bumper of the car will take out the long spindly legs whilst the massive quarter-ton of body-meat, at just the right height to clear the hood, will simply stay where it is. But where it is relative to the speeding windshield means that it will simply obliterate anything in the front seats of the vehicle. At low speeds, this can mean a struggling, injured animal in the laps of struggling, injured humans, gah.

back at yet another airport — north, east, south, west? future or past?

The Past Let no one say the past is dead.
The past is all about us and within.
Haunted by tribal memories, I know
This little now, this accidental present
Is not the all of me, whose long making
Is so much of the past. Tonight here in suburbia as I sit
In easy chair before electric heater,
Warmed by the red glow, I fall into dream:
I am away
At the camp fire in the bush, among
My own people, sitting on the ground,
No walls around me,
The stars over me,
The tall surrounding trees that stir in the wind
Making their own music,
Soft cries of the night coming to us, there
Where we are one with all old Nature’s lives
Known and unknown,
In scenes where we belong but have now forsaken.
Deep chair and electric radiator
Are but since yesterday,
But a thousand camp fires in the forest
Are in my blood.
Let none tell me the past is wholly gone.
Now is so small a part of time, so small a part
Of all the race years that have moulded me.
– Oodgeroo Noonuccal

the bus, locus of social interaction of various and sundry sorts, going from Millers Point to the office. great for people watching (and interacting with), exhausting when the saturation point of sensory energy input is reached.