Stories from dreams

 I was riding my motorcycle. It was the middle of summer, I remember it was very hot. After you cross the bridge, there's a light everyone slows down for.  I was in the outside lane, next to a truck. I revved up to pass him, and he sped up too.  I could see a car in the oncoming lane, so I tried to speed up even more.  At the last second, I moved back into the lane.  I missed by 8 inches.  I remember just the sound of the wind.
 I hit the back of a van.  I didn't go into the back, I guess my shoulder caught the window frame.  I was on the road, and somebody was standing next to me, slowing down traffic.  I remember everything in my body tingling.  I remember my friend, a motorcycle cop, came to stand next to me. And he asked me what my name was, and asked me where I lived. I said, "You know me! Why are you asking me these questions?" And he told me he was just trying to keep me awake.


I am driving into the desert.  The storm is building up behind me, I can smell the geosmin, chasing me no matter how fast I drive. The clouds are piling up, higher and higher, darker and darker, until the sun is blocked out. And the clouds climb higher still, until everything behind me is clouds, and all that is in front of me is empty desert highway, and stars in the sky.

Staying safe

I think most of what I do is to stay safe, but obviously the definition of safe changes from minute to minute.

On my way to Taos, I saw a few hitchhikers.  They looked like nice people, and I am usually quick to help out someone in need.  I didn't stop, though.  And as I didn't stop, my thought was "nobody is expecting me home for days," which is a thought that travels down a couple interesting paths:

1) I believe there is a possibility, however slight, that the hitchhiker I pick up could waylay me in some fashion.  This much is obvious to anyone, and is certainly the #1 reason most people don't pick up hitchhikers, but I think it behooves us as people to really consider the reasons we neglect the needy, and be specific about it.  There is a possibility the hitchhiker is a serial killer, or just a strung-out addict, who would stab me and take my car and all that is inside it.

2) A major consideration is how long I could be missing before somebody thought it was odd.  This is one I don't know that many people consider, I think it's come with various rural/outdoor adventures - people knowing when you'll be back in touch is important when you can't communicate in the interim.


Anyway. I didn't pick up any hitchhikers. I'm sure various people are relieved by that fact.

Maybe they just wanted to try a novel way of getting back to this amazingly-placed home!

The night before the race, I camped on USFS land, specifically at the Lower Hondo campground in Carson National Forest on the road up to Taos Ski Valley. It is likely the closest good campsite to Taos, if you're in the area and wondering. It is free and wonderful, and I just wanted to give a shoutout to the USFS for being generally awesome. One of so many reasons America is the greatest nation is our Lands of Many Uses.

This view brought to you by the Carson National Forest.

The race went well. I pushed myself really, really hard, because there was a guy there with a mohawk and a fish-print tanktop who I just couldn't stay in front of, and I made him my nemesis.  After the race (I did end up beating him, by a good few minutes), we shook hands and I thanked him for his unwitting motivation.  I broke the 2-hour mark, which maybe is starting to convince me I'm a runner.  I have a few more races I want to do this year, and we'll see what happens.

I love competition.

Seeking Shelter

A home inspector once told me, "The purpose of every house in all of history is to keep the rain off."

I wonder if the inner monologue will still be audible, when life gets noisy again.

I've quite grown to like it.

I wanted to write more tonight. Wanted to write about a dream I had, where I used sarcasm to mask my panic and 2 people died because of it.  Where a steel structure built to withstand the storm of the century met the storm of the millennium.  Where I used sarcasm to stay calm in a crisis and 2 other people lived because of it.  Where building for the best and planning for the worst meant most of us made it out.

But I can't force the words, and I can't keep the images from fading.  Little wisdom today, but I can prepare for dreams, and maybe the next ones will stick around to write down.

Sunburned and Sore Feet

The signs of a good hike, according to this woman:

When you have to hike 4 miles to get to a sign that warns of a tough hike ahead, trust that sign.

And I needed a good hike.  It was that or a long run, and I liked the sound of a long day in the sun.  So we went to Sand Canyon, which was a little sandy, and a little canyon-y.

And pretty, which is important. I'm very superficial when it comes to appreciating nature.

It is a real joy to have a Good Hiking Partner.  Good conversation when it's time to talk, and no sound at all when it's time to consider just how quiet it is on the trail.

I don't know what sound he makes.  Lizards could be good hiking partners.

I like to engage new people, get them talking.  I like to listen.  I wonder if I'm digging, to see if they're the kind of person I would like to add to my collection.

Do other people put as much thought into making friends?

That sun.

A sign of a Good Hiking Partner: Looks contemplative without prompting.

Somehow I managed to not get stabbed by any pokey plants.

Someone should knock down these outdated homes and put up condos.

Then, because enough is rarely enough for me, and we had the opportunity to add a third to our merry duo, we went back out for a quick 6-mile loop the next day.

Long sleeves > Sunscreen

Rock Creek Trail unsurprisingly was both rocky and (dry) creek-y. Simple but effective naming out here.

Cactus blooms.

I'm not slow, I'm just waiting for my feet to catch up.

I told some stories on the trail.  One I don't remember where I learned, but I learned it a long time ago, and it's changed a dozen times since. This was my best telling.  One I heard from a friend, I assume.  I remember hearing the second half of the story, which I haven't yet told.  The second half brings back the first half of the story in my mind, but I don't remember ever hearing it told.

The hot summer winds will blow me back to the valley.

If I thought I could get away with it

The discussion in clinic today: pain.

One of my favorite topics, because

I didn't take this photo, obviously. I've never been to Vietnam.

is really friggin' difficult to reconcile with 

If it's got sensation, it probably hurts.

so clearly pain isn't as simple as the layman might believe.  I've learned enough about pain now that I feel comfortable saying I understand it, in the same way you might understand how eyes see or how ears hear.

But anyway. This isn't about pain. One of the tangents we went off on was how to talk to people about their pain.  Hugely useful.  One of the models we talked about dealt with classifying people according to various traits relevant to the best way to treat them, emotionally/motivationally/etc.  A point the clinician talking made which had everyone in the room nodding was: If the interaction goes poorly make sure you later go over what went wrong in your head -- establish where the disconnect was and approach that patient differently next time.

Which just makes me think that might not be what people do in every conversation.  Every interaction with a person deserves reflection, or how will you get better at interacting with people? I always considered myself an awkward youth. I still feel awkward much of the time - I still have to remind myself to look a waiter in the eye or I'll reflexively avoid even seeing their face.  But I know - through feedback from peers, instructors, and self-reflection - that in many circumstances I'm better at social interactions than my contemporaries.  I think the two are related.  Maybe other people are naturally good enough at dealing with fellow human beings that they're just coasting through their social interactions, never bothering to think about deliberate body language or mimicking vernacular or what smile is best to convey the idea "you're being a screw-up, and if you don't get your act together you'll never get better and I will discharge you without an ounce of guilt."

I've got this idea in my head that this whole "if you're not happy with something about yourself, improve it" thing started to develop in my adolescence. Maybe it was earlier, and I just didn't know it.

           Jack of all trades, master of none,

                       Certainly better than a master of one

Run to the East

Tomorrow, I leave for home, to see Bonnie for the first time since arriving here.

It is still home, though the house has moved and the town is different.

I read an article.

I also ran a bit today. I run most days.  As usual when I go to new places and deal with new people, I become more and less patient. I am more patient to hear a long story with very little useful information. I am less patient to hear lies from the mouths of alcoholics. I bear both with the same demeanor - but one gets my effort because I believe they deserve it, and one gets my effort because that's my job.

There is a lot of weakness here, and less anger than I feel there should be, or less anger than I want there to be.  So much has been taken from the people here, and now America gives back to them the bare minimum to keep them...happy?

And they're so nice.  I have yet to encounter so much as a sidelong glance at my white skin.  Part of me (the part that forgets I am currently trying to live here) wishes they would be furious.  That I would daily encounter someone so righteously angry at the mistreatment his people have endured that he makes it a mission to bring the reputation and pride of the Navajo nation to something above drunk and glass scattered along the side of the road.

There are some that are better.  Some who show the best they have to offer.

I wonder also if I'm not seeing a downtrodden native population, isolated from the rest of the country.  I wonder if maybe instead I'm just seeing poverty.  I don't know which is worse.

Did you know you can get rhabdo from drinking too hard?  Shameful.

Shameful.

Off

Just off today.  Rain, sleet, and snow.  Just felt off.

Almost died to get this shot. You should need extra training to drive an RV.

So many clouds, some of them got in my head.

The West accepts my presence, but I don't belong here. Not like I thought I did.  I remember when all I wanted was sand and heat and sun, and endless sweeping vistas.   Looking back, I thought I wanted space, but what I really wanted was a Somewhere.  Surely, with so much to choose from, Somewhere would be out here.

I don't think it exists.  I remember, when I was much younger, in years and memories and self-possession, talking a friend down from her psychic ledge.  I did it a few times, with a few friends.  It gets to you - from their vantage, they see answers on the valley floor - and sometimes I caught a glimpse.  Certainly, I can see: there is something missing.  There must be something missing, or there wouldn't be a void, a need.

So.  I wanted a Somewhere to be drawn to.  One to fill the void, to satiate the need.  I was mistaken in that; the void does not exist to be filled, it exists to pull.  Some days I swim with the current.  Some days, I'm happy to just float downstream.