Saturday, August 30, 2008
Santa Fe Reporter
I interned at SFR this summer (2008). It was a great experience and I thank to editors Julia Goldberg and Patricia Sauthoff for the opportunity. Here are a few of bylines I got in the paper...
Swing State of Mind
Swing State of Mind is the election 2008 political blog of the Santa Fe Reporter, where I interned this past summer (2008). Dave Maass is the mastermind behind the site and my principal mentor for the news side of internship. I wrote a number of blogs on this site during my internship.
Grout
The Grout is the St. John's College literary magazine that Kea Wilson brought back from the dead in 2006-2007. I edited the 2008 issue with Skip McGee. We put a lot of time into this. The covers are corrugated cardboard that I personally stenciled with spray paint--300 in all. I also submitted music. Click the page numbers at the top to turn the pages.
The Monolith
This is a short story I wrote in 2008:
The Monolith
It came in the afternoon one day in the middle of the season of offerings. We once drank fruit wine and shared the harvest with the spirits of ninety-nine generations of our ancestors. That was how long the village had stood there, in the shade of the mountain, shielded from the harsh afternoon sun but exposed to the dawn that flew across endless plains to wake us from our dreams in the foothills. Some say that the village had been there for even longer and that after ninety-nine generations even spirits went somewhere else to rest. They said that the people of that time spoke words that changed the colors of the sky. I do not know. I never saw.
It came in the afternoon and it blotted out the sun. We looked up and saw the great gray thing there in the sky, like a gigantic belly made of stone. Women screamed, children cried and the men sought out the spirits and to the old women to learn what it was. Even the oldest did not know. It continued coming. It looked like it would never end and soon it filled the whole sky. The world was dark and gray. Then it was quiet. The women had stopped screaming and the children were no longer crying. There was nothing we could do but wait and watch. We watched and we waited. Then it began to rain.
It was not the kind of rain that was clear and cool and helped the fruit trees and animals to grow. It was warm and slick and it was golden with other colors drifting, changing colors in it. It was beautiful but I was afraid. It ran down my face and into my mouth. It was sweet and strange. I spit it out, but others drank. They swallowed it and smiled.
“It is a blessing!” They ran around screaming. “Everyone must drink!”
The ghosts of our ancestors disappeared in the strange rain from the stone stomach in the sky. People everywhere drank. They all drank and laughed like madmen. When the ones that had not drunk saw the way the others were acting they wanted to drink too. I did not drink. I felt certain that the thing that brought the rain from the sky was evil.
I saw my father drinking. I tried to stop him but he pushed me away. He looked crazy.
“Stupid boy! Don’t you see it is a blessing? Look how the people smile!”
Everywhere people were smiling. Their smiles were strange. They did not look happy like they did in the times when we drank fruit wine and shared the harvest with the spirits of ninety-nine generations of our ancestors. I saw my mother drinking. It was like a nightmare. The color went away from their eyes. They still smiled.
“I can see beautiful people that are like gods making love!” some of them would say.
“There are great towers that shimmer like water! And the people pull their wishes out from magical boxes!” others would say.
I ran and hid from the people and the rain. It was difficult for me to find a place where the rain was not falling. I was afraid they would kill me if I did not drink. I fell asleep.
When I awoke I saw that the earth was scorched from the rain. I could not see the trees and animals that had been there the day before. The sky had been robbed of its breeze and the air was hot and it burned to breathe. The great stone stomach still hung in the sky. Everyone was asleep on the ground, where they had been the night before. They each woke up alone and I could see from their eyes they were yet ill. They could not remember the feasts or the spirits of our ancestors. They searched for the beautiful brown vessels that they had set out the night before to catch the rain. The golden rain with the strange changing colors had changed into a black soup with pieces of what looked like dead animals in it. The people began to fight.
“It’s your fault! You forgot to cover the pot!”
“No, it’s your fault! You drank too much last night! Now there is nothing left!”
They continued fighting. They seemed to be different people than the ones I knew the day before. It got worse.
“I hate you! You are not my wife!” one man was yelling. I thought it was my father, but I was not sure.
“You will see!” another woman was screaming, “I will find the places that the rain showed me and I will live with the people who are like gods! Then you will be sorry you held out on me!”
“Lying bitch!” the man said, “You are the one who has more of the rain and you will not share! It is your fault!”
I looked at their faces and eyes. They were the strange, twisted faces of people that had forgotten the earth. They had forgotten our ancestors and the fruit wine and the harvest. They had forgotten the sun. They only wanted the rain, and as they fought and begged the great thing in the sky became larger and darker. The whole world got darker.
“I will give my daughter to any man who can give me one cup of the great rain!” one man was yelling.
The huge stone stomach that was in the sky moved somewhere on its surface. It sent a great arm down to the little girl who was crying, held aloft by her insane father. The pillar of stone that came down from the thing opened up. It had a mouth filled with rows and rows of jagged, filthy teeth that never seemed to end. It ate the little girl.
Then, for just a few minutes, it began to rain the strange rain again.
“The children! Give it the children!” Everyone started screaming.
I did not wait after that. I ran. My parents were gone. The dawns that flew across endless plains to bring us morning were gone. The afternoons in the shade of the mountain were gone. Nine-nine generations of ancestors were gone. The village was gone.
Soon all the children would be destroyed. Then what would the people do? I did not know. I only ran.
Now I am alone in the desert. I am looking for other people who have not drunk of the strange rain that makes people forget everything except their thirst for the rain that they drink and thirst for. I do not know if there are any such people left. I have seen some people far off but I am afraid to go near them. I hide from them. I am starving. Perhaps I will die. If I do die, I hope to go to a place where people speak words that change the colors of the sky. Perhaps they will drive away the great stone stomach that hangs there with its hunger; but I am not sure that it will be that way. I will have to see.
The Monolith
It came in the afternoon one day in the middle of the season of offerings. We once drank fruit wine and shared the harvest with the spirits of ninety-nine generations of our ancestors. That was how long the village had stood there, in the shade of the mountain, shielded from the harsh afternoon sun but exposed to the dawn that flew across endless plains to wake us from our dreams in the foothills. Some say that the village had been there for even longer and that after ninety-nine generations even spirits went somewhere else to rest. They said that the people of that time spoke words that changed the colors of the sky. I do not know. I never saw.
It came in the afternoon and it blotted out the sun. We looked up and saw the great gray thing there in the sky, like a gigantic belly made of stone. Women screamed, children cried and the men sought out the spirits and to the old women to learn what it was. Even the oldest did not know. It continued coming. It looked like it would never end and soon it filled the whole sky. The world was dark and gray. Then it was quiet. The women had stopped screaming and the children were no longer crying. There was nothing we could do but wait and watch. We watched and we waited. Then it began to rain.
It was not the kind of rain that was clear and cool and helped the fruit trees and animals to grow. It was warm and slick and it was golden with other colors drifting, changing colors in it. It was beautiful but I was afraid. It ran down my face and into my mouth. It was sweet and strange. I spit it out, but others drank. They swallowed it and smiled.
“It is a blessing!” They ran around screaming. “Everyone must drink!”
The ghosts of our ancestors disappeared in the strange rain from the stone stomach in the sky. People everywhere drank. They all drank and laughed like madmen. When the ones that had not drunk saw the way the others were acting they wanted to drink too. I did not drink. I felt certain that the thing that brought the rain from the sky was evil.
I saw my father drinking. I tried to stop him but he pushed me away. He looked crazy.
“Stupid boy! Don’t you see it is a blessing? Look how the people smile!”
Everywhere people were smiling. Their smiles were strange. They did not look happy like they did in the times when we drank fruit wine and shared the harvest with the spirits of ninety-nine generations of our ancestors. I saw my mother drinking. It was like a nightmare. The color went away from their eyes. They still smiled.
“I can see beautiful people that are like gods making love!” some of them would say.
“There are great towers that shimmer like water! And the people pull their wishes out from magical boxes!” others would say.
I ran and hid from the people and the rain. It was difficult for me to find a place where the rain was not falling. I was afraid they would kill me if I did not drink. I fell asleep.
When I awoke I saw that the earth was scorched from the rain. I could not see the trees and animals that had been there the day before. The sky had been robbed of its breeze and the air was hot and it burned to breathe. The great stone stomach still hung in the sky. Everyone was asleep on the ground, where they had been the night before. They each woke up alone and I could see from their eyes they were yet ill. They could not remember the feasts or the spirits of our ancestors. They searched for the beautiful brown vessels that they had set out the night before to catch the rain. The golden rain with the strange changing colors had changed into a black soup with pieces of what looked like dead animals in it. The people began to fight.
“It’s your fault! You forgot to cover the pot!”
“No, it’s your fault! You drank too much last night! Now there is nothing left!”
They continued fighting. They seemed to be different people than the ones I knew the day before. It got worse.
“I hate you! You are not my wife!” one man was yelling. I thought it was my father, but I was not sure.
“You will see!” another woman was screaming, “I will find the places that the rain showed me and I will live with the people who are like gods! Then you will be sorry you held out on me!”
“Lying bitch!” the man said, “You are the one who has more of the rain and you will not share! It is your fault!”
I looked at their faces and eyes. They were the strange, twisted faces of people that had forgotten the earth. They had forgotten our ancestors and the fruit wine and the harvest. They had forgotten the sun. They only wanted the rain, and as they fought and begged the great thing in the sky became larger and darker. The whole world got darker.
“I will give my daughter to any man who can give me one cup of the great rain!” one man was yelling.
The huge stone stomach that was in the sky moved somewhere on its surface. It sent a great arm down to the little girl who was crying, held aloft by her insane father. The pillar of stone that came down from the thing opened up. It had a mouth filled with rows and rows of jagged, filthy teeth that never seemed to end. It ate the little girl.
Then, for just a few minutes, it began to rain the strange rain again.
“The children! Give it the children!” Everyone started screaming.
I did not wait after that. I ran. My parents were gone. The dawns that flew across endless plains to bring us morning were gone. The afternoons in the shade of the mountain were gone. Nine-nine generations of ancestors were gone. The village was gone.
Soon all the children would be destroyed. Then what would the people do? I did not know. I only ran.
Now I am alone in the desert. I am looking for other people who have not drunk of the strange rain that makes people forget everything except their thirst for the rain that they drink and thirst for. I do not know if there are any such people left. I have seen some people far off but I am afraid to go near them. I hide from them. I am starving. Perhaps I will die. If I do die, I hope to go to a place where people speak words that change the colors of the sky. Perhaps they will drive away the great stone stomach that hangs there with its hunger; but I am not sure that it will be that way. I will have to see.
Sailing in the Florida Keys
I spent a week sailing in the keys with my friend Skip McGee. No kidding that's actually his name. Anyway, we collaborated on this article and unfortunately nothing ever became of it. Collaborating on writning is tough and it's actually something I would probably avoid for the sake of convenience. Anyway, we had a blast and I think some of that may come through. Here it is, a little rough but fun:
Cruising south on I-95 through a balmy Georgia night blaring Molly Hatchet, Allman Brothers and the occasional Latin jazz, we crossed the border and made Miami by sunrise. From there it was just a few hours on the Overseas Highway (U.S. 1) to Marathon. We met Bill Cooper, of Florida Bareboat Charters on the dock at the Keys Fisheries Marina where we had reserved a 26’6” Balboa, the sloop-rigged Pagan Charm. We spent the rest of the day reviewing charts and provisioning the boat.
Situated in the middle of the Florida Keys. Marathon is comprised of Vaca Key, Stirrup Key, Fat Deer Key, Crawl Key, Grassy Key, Duck Key, and Conch Key. In the early 1800’s the area was settled by New England fishermen, who pioneered Marathon’s modern fishing industry. Later it was inhabited by Bahamian farmers and was finally developed with the construction of a railroad in 1912 and the completion of the overseas highway in 1938. Marathon still retains a relaxed island atmosphere not found on more frequently visited Key West.
We experienced some of Marathon’s local color the following evening, after sailing west along the island’s northern shore (bayside) around Knight Key under Seven Mile Bridge and then a short jaunt back eastward into Boot Key Harbor. We radioed the Drawbridge Operator to lift the bridge for us. The Boot Key Drawbridge no longer accepts passenger vehicles, yet still it is raised and lowered numerous times a day. Speaking of the Operator, Cooper told us: “Don’t worry about bothering him—he’s got nothing better to do. You just give him a call and wake him up.”
We motored slowly through the harbor admiring the other sailboats that dotted the water. Advised to visit the Dockside Bar and Grill, we made our way toward the eastern extremity of the Harbor, where to our enduring shame we nudged aground on the edge of an unmarked channel just yards from the bar. The dockside staff manned their dinghies and came out for a closer look.
“Tide’ll be up in a few hours…drink heavily!” was the advice we received from one helper. We were finally freed by a persistent dignhyman, Ryan, who twisted us out of our predicament after several unsuccessful attempts to kedge the anchor. We docked the boat alongside the dining room and had dinner a few feet away. Dockside owner Lance Becker let us stay there for the night in exchange for the “free entertainment.”
Nightlife on Marathon Key basically consists of two essential bars. You can go to the Hurricane for drinks and dancing then walk a few blocks to the Brass Monkey where you can hope to catch Freddy Bye, a true Rock’n’Roller. Our stay at the Brass Monkey was unfortunately truncated by an overzealous bartender who nearly caused a fight when he wrongly accused a member of our party of being underage…at 25 years old. We returned to watch Freddy in peace the following evening.
The following morning we set sail for Sombrero Key, tacking for several hours into a light southerly breeze. Sombrero Key is one of the numerous dive sights located on the reef south (Oceanside) of the Keys. It is marked by a lighthouse which, together with Seven Mile Bridge, comprise the most distinguishing features of this section of coastline. The coral, gorgonians, and fish at the site were so dazzling that we returned the next day then ran west to Bahia Honda State Park. Along the way, a large loggerhead sea turtle passed our port side, poking his head out of the water to take a better look at us.
In order to find the anchorage off Bahia Honda’s Calusa Beach it was necessary to pass underneath the Keys’ old railroad bridge. Calusa beach is located between the old railroad bridge and the Overseas Highway. There was some trouble catching our small Danforth anchor due to the grassy bottom off the beach. Florida’s seagrass is an important foundation of the marine ecosystem. Seagrass is found in shallow coastal water (due to its need for sunlight) so meadows are often scarred or destroyed by careless boaters and polluted storm runoff. It is always important to understand and follow channel markers, know your boat’s draft, and pay attention to tides. This will not only protect your boat, but help preserve this fragile and essential part of the Keys’ ecosystem.
A sudden squall hit the bay after dinner that night and there was some doubt as to wther or not the anchor would hold. Since the boat was situated between two enormous concrete bridges, there was serious potential for disaster. The squall passed but we slept with one eye open, always checking our surroundings for fear of drifting.
The following morning we picked up some ice and a guide to the coral and fish at the park’s Concession stand. There was also a short stop at the Sun and Sea Nature Center.
Situated a few short miles southwest of Bahia Honda is Looe key, a spectacular dive site. The visibility in the water was better than what we found at Sombrero Key. We dove for hours watching the snappers, angelfish, parrotfish and coral specimens. Two juvenile bull sharks were roving the waters, as well as the occasional ray. As sunset approached we watched boat after boat motor away and decided we would spend the night safely moored to a buoy. Just before sunset we dove again and had the place to ourselves, with the company of a barracuda camouflaging himself in the shadow cast by our boat and striking at the fish below. We slept with the gentle rocking of the Oceanside swells.
We awoke and leapt into the sapphire sea, undisturbed by other human presence. The fish were swimming low in the cracks between the coral rock. Yesterday there had been schools and schools swimming close to the surface. We clambered back on board and saw a thunderhead moving towards us. Running the sails up we reached back in the direction of land to avoid the worst of the thunderhead. The wind picked up steadily and we spied another thunderhead coming directly from Marathon. The VHF reported a storm warning for our area. In order to avoid this new thunderhead we tried to sail close-hauled back out to sea. The winds and seas continued to rise and we had to take the sails down and turn our outboard on. At this we were just trying to keep the boat pointed into the wind, but every wave was tossing us off course, exposing more of the boat to the unrelenting wind. We struggled with the wind and waves for hours. A large pair of triangular fins surfaced several times off our starboard side. We barely avoided a third thunderhead, which passed between us and the land.
Finally the skies cleared, the winds died and the waves relented. A small pod of dolphins crossed our bow to wish us well. We were exhausted and starving and motored as fast as possible to the Keys Fisheries Marina. Passing under Seven Mile Bridge, we raised sail and tacked into the Marina.
After showering we drove to Key West and ate po’boys at the Half-Shell Raw Bar. We strolled down Duval Street, taking in Key West’s robust nightlife, winding up at Sloppy Joe’s, where Hemmingway is reputed to have wet his whistle.
On our last day we explored the variety of eco-tourism attractions around Marathon. We visited the Dolphin Research Center (Grassy Key), the Turtle Hospital (Marathon) and the Silver Palm Nature Trail (Bahia Honda State Park). We learned more about Florida’s fragile ecosystem and the damage caused by the immense numbers of tourists visiting the Keys. This damage can be seen in the increasingly poor water quality and the decreasing fish, coral and lobster population. Measures are being taken to alert to public to these issues yet many recreational fishermen continue to overfish and pollute the water. These eco-tourism attractions allow visitors to gain an understanding of environmental concerns while enjoying a glimpse into the natural beauty of the Keys... (Josiah Stephens and Skip McGee)
Cruising south on I-95 through a balmy Georgia night blaring Molly Hatchet, Allman Brothers and the occasional Latin jazz, we crossed the border and made Miami by sunrise. From there it was just a few hours on the Overseas Highway (U.S. 1) to Marathon. We met Bill Cooper, of Florida Bareboat Charters on the dock at the Keys Fisheries Marina where we had reserved a 26’6” Balboa, the sloop-rigged Pagan Charm. We spent the rest of the day reviewing charts and provisioning the boat.
Situated in the middle of the Florida Keys. Marathon is comprised of Vaca Key, Stirrup Key, Fat Deer Key, Crawl Key, Grassy Key, Duck Key, and Conch Key. In the early 1800’s the area was settled by New England fishermen, who pioneered Marathon’s modern fishing industry. Later it was inhabited by Bahamian farmers and was finally developed with the construction of a railroad in 1912 and the completion of the overseas highway in 1938. Marathon still retains a relaxed island atmosphere not found on more frequently visited Key West.
We experienced some of Marathon’s local color the following evening, after sailing west along the island’s northern shore (bayside) around Knight Key under Seven Mile Bridge and then a short jaunt back eastward into Boot Key Harbor. We radioed the Drawbridge Operator to lift the bridge for us. The Boot Key Drawbridge no longer accepts passenger vehicles, yet still it is raised and lowered numerous times a day. Speaking of the Operator, Cooper told us: “Don’t worry about bothering him—he’s got nothing better to do. You just give him a call and wake him up.”
We motored slowly through the harbor admiring the other sailboats that dotted the water. Advised to visit the Dockside Bar and Grill, we made our way toward the eastern extremity of the Harbor, where to our enduring shame we nudged aground on the edge of an unmarked channel just yards from the bar. The dockside staff manned their dinghies and came out for a closer look.
“Tide’ll be up in a few hours…drink heavily!” was the advice we received from one helper. We were finally freed by a persistent dignhyman, Ryan, who twisted us out of our predicament after several unsuccessful attempts to kedge the anchor. We docked the boat alongside the dining room and had dinner a few feet away. Dockside owner Lance Becker let us stay there for the night in exchange for the “free entertainment.”
Nightlife on Marathon Key basically consists of two essential bars. You can go to the Hurricane for drinks and dancing then walk a few blocks to the Brass Monkey where you can hope to catch Freddy Bye, a true Rock’n’Roller. Our stay at the Brass Monkey was unfortunately truncated by an overzealous bartender who nearly caused a fight when he wrongly accused a member of our party of being underage…at 25 years old. We returned to watch Freddy in peace the following evening.
The following morning we set sail for Sombrero Key, tacking for several hours into a light southerly breeze. Sombrero Key is one of the numerous dive sights located on the reef south (Oceanside) of the Keys. It is marked by a lighthouse which, together with Seven Mile Bridge, comprise the most distinguishing features of this section of coastline. The coral, gorgonians, and fish at the site were so dazzling that we returned the next day then ran west to Bahia Honda State Park. Along the way, a large loggerhead sea turtle passed our port side, poking his head out of the water to take a better look at us.
In order to find the anchorage off Bahia Honda’s Calusa Beach it was necessary to pass underneath the Keys’ old railroad bridge. Calusa beach is located between the old railroad bridge and the Overseas Highway. There was some trouble catching our small Danforth anchor due to the grassy bottom off the beach. Florida’s seagrass is an important foundation of the marine ecosystem. Seagrass is found in shallow coastal water (due to its need for sunlight) so meadows are often scarred or destroyed by careless boaters and polluted storm runoff. It is always important to understand and follow channel markers, know your boat’s draft, and pay attention to tides. This will not only protect your boat, but help preserve this fragile and essential part of the Keys’ ecosystem.
A sudden squall hit the bay after dinner that night and there was some doubt as to wther or not the anchor would hold. Since the boat was situated between two enormous concrete bridges, there was serious potential for disaster. The squall passed but we slept with one eye open, always checking our surroundings for fear of drifting.
The following morning we picked up some ice and a guide to the coral and fish at the park’s Concession stand. There was also a short stop at the Sun and Sea Nature Center.
Situated a few short miles southwest of Bahia Honda is Looe key, a spectacular dive site. The visibility in the water was better than what we found at Sombrero Key. We dove for hours watching the snappers, angelfish, parrotfish and coral specimens. Two juvenile bull sharks were roving the waters, as well as the occasional ray. As sunset approached we watched boat after boat motor away and decided we would spend the night safely moored to a buoy. Just before sunset we dove again and had the place to ourselves, with the company of a barracuda camouflaging himself in the shadow cast by our boat and striking at the fish below. We slept with the gentle rocking of the Oceanside swells.
We awoke and leapt into the sapphire sea, undisturbed by other human presence. The fish were swimming low in the cracks between the coral rock. Yesterday there had been schools and schools swimming close to the surface. We clambered back on board and saw a thunderhead moving towards us. Running the sails up we reached back in the direction of land to avoid the worst of the thunderhead. The wind picked up steadily and we spied another thunderhead coming directly from Marathon. The VHF reported a storm warning for our area. In order to avoid this new thunderhead we tried to sail close-hauled back out to sea. The winds and seas continued to rise and we had to take the sails down and turn our outboard on. At this we were just trying to keep the boat pointed into the wind, but every wave was tossing us off course, exposing more of the boat to the unrelenting wind. We struggled with the wind and waves for hours. A large pair of triangular fins surfaced several times off our starboard side. We barely avoided a third thunderhead, which passed between us and the land.
Finally the skies cleared, the winds died and the waves relented. A small pod of dolphins crossed our bow to wish us well. We were exhausted and starving and motored as fast as possible to the Keys Fisheries Marina. Passing under Seven Mile Bridge, we raised sail and tacked into the Marina.
After showering we drove to Key West and ate po’boys at the Half-Shell Raw Bar. We strolled down Duval Street, taking in Key West’s robust nightlife, winding up at Sloppy Joe’s, where Hemmingway is reputed to have wet his whistle.
On our last day we explored the variety of eco-tourism attractions around Marathon. We visited the Dolphin Research Center (Grassy Key), the Turtle Hospital (Marathon) and the Silver Palm Nature Trail (Bahia Honda State Park). We learned more about Florida’s fragile ecosystem and the damage caused by the immense numbers of tourists visiting the Keys. This damage can be seen in the increasingly poor water quality and the decreasing fish, coral and lobster population. Measures are being taken to alert to public to these issues yet many recreational fishermen continue to overfish and pollute the water. These eco-tourism attractions allow visitors to gain an understanding of environmental concerns while enjoying a glimpse into the natural beauty of the Keys... (Josiah Stephens and Skip McGee)
Raft Guide Training Contemplations
Another Moon article, this one is from August 2007. I took a raft guide training course through St. John's Student Activities for my summer job on the Rio Grande so I wrote about it for the Moon:
River Reflections
It wasn’t until Tuesday, or maybe even Wednesday, that I received my first epiphany. We had been camping on the river for several nights and it was the Chama River, this time. I had been walking around camp when I spotted what looked like a cloud of crows in the sky. I thought they must have found something dead or dying on the ground below, and now they were circling and waiting for an early lunch. I mentioned this to Brendan O’Neill.
“Well, no actually,” he answered, squinting skyward, “those are ravens and they’re playing!”
At first I smiled and then I began to wonder: How could these animals, in the cruel face of unforgiving Nature, find the time to play? Aren’t we all supposed to be too busy surviving and competing in a world of scarcity, hunger and predation? Well, I thought, maybe that is only my own personal notion, or a human notion—maybe it is only an “adult” notion—or maybe it is only an American notion.
The more I watched the ravens the more I could see that they actually were playing. They had set aside the all-important task of competing with one another to be the “most successful” raven and were just playing to have fun. Watching them dive and flutter in the vast New Mexico blue above, I began to feel envious.
Somewhere behind the eminence of my own reverie Brendan was still talking.
“Yeah, they’re a group of juveniles, just doing their thing. The playing is actually good for them—it makes them stronger flyers and better hunters.”
I had always suspected it: Playing with your friends is good for you! Of course we are catching on to this now, with studies that show the value of spending time with others as well as the benefit of physical activity on the mind and spirit. Both are essential in developing a healthy mind and body—so we can use that vigor to compete with each other and find out who is the big Kahuna, right? After all, we need winners and losers, don’t we?
As a child of the MTV/Rupert Murdoch era, I remain forever mistrustful of the media and the message it conveys to the individual. Mainstream culture concedes that recreation is an important part of being human, and of being alive; but I fear the Greeks, even when they come bearing gifts: “Mom and Dad, let little Johnny run and play with the other kids so that he will be happy and healthy…and grow up to be a super-duper-richer-than-Bill-Gates-and-Tiger-Woods-put-together-GENIUS. Don’t hesitate, YOU deserve a super-genius child, order your informational play-smart handbook NOW!!!”
Hopefully we will never have to live in a society where there is no such thing as real fun, and hopefully we are not headed there…but maybe we are. With workweeks that exceed 40 hours, we spend more time “surviving” than many species. We tend to turn any friendly game into a question of winners and losers and even team sports, on the professional level, are becoming more about individuals’ egos than about the team, or even the sport. We are told, in a constant barrage from the media and, sadly, often from our own peers that we are no one until we compete and succeed in a game of possessions with mansion “cribs” and “pimped rides” at the finish line.
After a few days on the River it was clearer to me than ever why these things never interested me very much. As I grow older it takes more and more conscious effort not to get pulled into the game of social and material competition. The occasional outdoors trip helps a lot.
I am reminded of one of my favorite poems I read as a young child:
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers…
How did it go?
How did it go?
The poem is “Forgotten Language” by Shel Silverstein. It is more than just a reminder of how easy it is to lose touch with a natural sense of things. It seems to reveal the rift between our modern lives and the rest of the Universe.
Emerson said that “words are symbols of natural facts”, whatever that means. To me it means that words come from nature, from things that already exist. Even words that apply to emotions are derived from those feelings; e.g. the word anger is defined by an emotion, not the emotion by a word.
But then what is Silverstein’s “Forgotten Language”? In his case it seems that even “natural facts” take on symbolism of some kind. Is there a voice or a message underlying nature itself? If so, do we lose touch with it? Do we forget it?
I believe there is and I believe we do.
Walking alone in the throes of a Chama River Valley sunset, everything around me was speaking. Watching the symbiotic ballet of hummingbird moths feeding and propagating the evening primroses as they opened in the shifting light, I had an almost eerie feeling that I was being told something. The language I heard was untranslatable and the message I received is impossible to print, but then any Johnny should understand the shortcoming of our human languages on these matters—the persistent recurrence of untranslatables.
Have we really forgotten Shel Silverstein’s supposed language, or have we learned to effectively block it out for the sake of our own convenience? In our modern arrogance do we pretend not to know the words of our own mother, the earth? It hardly seems possible that one would misunderstand or fail to comprehend the statement of a swaying fir or the silvery murmur of a flowing river. The implications of this language frighten us,they threaten our lifestyle. We pretend not to hear or understand. As we endure our sleepless nights, wondering what it is exactly we lost touch with or what it is we are afraid to think about, somewhere above us, by a distance impossible to measure, the ravens are playing. (Josiah Stephens, St John’s College Moon, August 2007)
River Reflections
It wasn’t until Tuesday, or maybe even Wednesday, that I received my first epiphany. We had been camping on the river for several nights and it was the Chama River, this time. I had been walking around camp when I spotted what looked like a cloud of crows in the sky. I thought they must have found something dead or dying on the ground below, and now they were circling and waiting for an early lunch. I mentioned this to Brendan O’Neill.
“Well, no actually,” he answered, squinting skyward, “those are ravens and they’re playing!”
At first I smiled and then I began to wonder: How could these animals, in the cruel face of unforgiving Nature, find the time to play? Aren’t we all supposed to be too busy surviving and competing in a world of scarcity, hunger and predation? Well, I thought, maybe that is only my own personal notion, or a human notion—maybe it is only an “adult” notion—or maybe it is only an American notion.
The more I watched the ravens the more I could see that they actually were playing. They had set aside the all-important task of competing with one another to be the “most successful” raven and were just playing to have fun. Watching them dive and flutter in the vast New Mexico blue above, I began to feel envious.
Somewhere behind the eminence of my own reverie Brendan was still talking.
“Yeah, they’re a group of juveniles, just doing their thing. The playing is actually good for them—it makes them stronger flyers and better hunters.”
I had always suspected it: Playing with your friends is good for you! Of course we are catching on to this now, with studies that show the value of spending time with others as well as the benefit of physical activity on the mind and spirit. Both are essential in developing a healthy mind and body—so we can use that vigor to compete with each other and find out who is the big Kahuna, right? After all, we need winners and losers, don’t we?
As a child of the MTV/Rupert Murdoch era, I remain forever mistrustful of the media and the message it conveys to the individual. Mainstream culture concedes that recreation is an important part of being human, and of being alive; but I fear the Greeks, even when they come bearing gifts: “Mom and Dad, let little Johnny run and play with the other kids so that he will be happy and healthy…and grow up to be a super-duper-richer-than-Bill-Gates-and-Tiger-Woods-put-together-GENIUS. Don’t hesitate, YOU deserve a super-genius child, order your informational play-smart handbook NOW!!!”
Hopefully we will never have to live in a society where there is no such thing as real fun, and hopefully we are not headed there…but maybe we are. With workweeks that exceed 40 hours, we spend more time “surviving” than many species. We tend to turn any friendly game into a question of winners and losers and even team sports, on the professional level, are becoming more about individuals’ egos than about the team, or even the sport. We are told, in a constant barrage from the media and, sadly, often from our own peers that we are no one until we compete and succeed in a game of possessions with mansion “cribs” and “pimped rides” at the finish line.
After a few days on the River it was clearer to me than ever why these things never interested me very much. As I grow older it takes more and more conscious effort not to get pulled into the game of social and material competition. The occasional outdoors trip helps a lot.
I am reminded of one of my favorite poems I read as a young child:
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers…
How did it go?
How did it go?
The poem is “Forgotten Language” by Shel Silverstein. It is more than just a reminder of how easy it is to lose touch with a natural sense of things. It seems to reveal the rift between our modern lives and the rest of the Universe.
Emerson said that “words are symbols of natural facts”, whatever that means. To me it means that words come from nature, from things that already exist. Even words that apply to emotions are derived from those feelings; e.g. the word anger is defined by an emotion, not the emotion by a word.
But then what is Silverstein’s “Forgotten Language”? In his case it seems that even “natural facts” take on symbolism of some kind. Is there a voice or a message underlying nature itself? If so, do we lose touch with it? Do we forget it?
I believe there is and I believe we do.
Walking alone in the throes of a Chama River Valley sunset, everything around me was speaking. Watching the symbiotic ballet of hummingbird moths feeding and propagating the evening primroses as they opened in the shifting light, I had an almost eerie feeling that I was being told something. The language I heard was untranslatable and the message I received is impossible to print, but then any Johnny should understand the shortcoming of our human languages on these matters—the persistent recurrence of untranslatables.
Have we really forgotten Shel Silverstein’s supposed language, or have we learned to effectively block it out for the sake of our own convenience? In our modern arrogance do we pretend not to know the words of our own mother, the earth? It hardly seems possible that one would misunderstand or fail to comprehend the statement of a swaying fir or the silvery murmur of a flowing river. The implications of this language frighten us,they threaten our lifestyle. We pretend not to hear or understand. As we endure our sleepless nights, wondering what it is exactly we lost touch with or what it is we are afraid to think about, somewhere above us, by a distance impossible to measure, the ravens are playing. (Josiah Stephens, St John’s College Moon, August 2007)
Brendan O'Neill Interview
This is an interview I did in January 2007, my first year writing for the St. John's College Moon in Santa Fe. Since the Moon has no website I just pasted the whole thing here:
Introducing…
Brendan O’Niell is the new Athletic and Outdoor Programs Coordinator. Sue Lowley formerly held that position but headed out to the East Coast to Harrisonburg Virginia in mid-January to teach outdoorsmanship at James Madison University.
Brendan is a sturdy 5’9” with dark hair, dark eyes and a big, easy smile. I spent some time with Brendan on the Search and Rescue Winter Skills/Snowshoe Hike and the Wolf Creek Ski Trip. Although Brendan can be serious—stern even—he is quick to joke and has an almost ever-present sense of humor.
Brendan was born in Los Angeles, but moved to San Francisco two weeks later. He attended a private college-prep trade school where he spent long days learning welding and plumbing, as well as the usual math and science, “It was pretty intense,” He recalls.
In San Francisco he was an urban youth and he didn’t spend a lot of time in the outdoors until he was eighteen, when he decided to camp in Yosemite with some friends.
JS: How did that first trip go?
BO: I think the first trip all we had were sleeping bags. We were sleeping on the ground. We didn’t know much about camping and food supplies. A bear stole all our food! But we were troopers and went back. I think we went back for about the next five years in a row. Each year we got acquainted with a new piece of gear and really kind of learned the hard way (laughs).
You’re a Johnny. How did you end up at St, John’s?
Well when I got out of high school I always knew that I wanted to study some type of humanities. I went to San Francisco State for a year-and-a-half and I ran into my old high school French teacher and I was complaining—you know—that I couldn’t find the exact kind of humanities program I was looking for, and so I sat down and pretty much described the St. John’s College program to her without knowing that St. John’s College existed. I said, ‘I want to start looking at the beginning of western civilization and move all the way through the 20th century.’ She opened up her top drawer and said, ‘I think I know the school for you, they were just visiting and they held something called a seminar…’ So that’s what led me to St. Johns and Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Did you ever do the Annapolis thing?
Nah. I’m not an East Coaster. I was used to the Santa Fe thing. You need some quiet time? Just step off campus, hike up Atalaya. Even the classroom style was different back then.
What about after graduation, how did you become a professional outdoorsman?
After I finished up at St. John’s I went back and did carpentry work because I was trained as a carpenter and professional house painter after high school. When I was going to St. John’s, for side work, I would do a lot of carpentry. So the next couple of years after I finished up I was just doing carpentry work in town and was really thinking seriously about moving back to San Francisco and that was when the college offered me the job as Assistant Director of Student Activities.
So it was just the director, and myself and at that particular time we took care of everything: concerts, lectures, dances, athletics and outdoor stuff.
My boss at the time was telling me, ‘You’re going to have to learn how to raft.’ I was like, ‘Oh shucks, darn,’ (laughs). So we kind of went through the school of hard knocks when it comes to rafting, you know, he had some buddies who had a raft that taught me and then he went down the Grand Canyon and saw that Canyon Rio, which is an outfitter company out in Flagstaff, was offering a guide school. He said, ‘Hey we should do this guide school,’ and that’s where I got trained as a professional raft guide. I started to work for them as well as continuing to work at the college. So that was kind of my first foray into professional raft guiding.
The other outdoor stuff I learned kind of on the job was—I joined Search and Rescue and spent four years on the team—so, you know, we got all the search and rescue aspects down, but we also got just the simple ‘leave no trace’ backpacking do’s and don’ts.
I kept finding myself going back to the Canyon-lands area, just for fun, or with students, that kind of thing, and that’s how it all sort of came about. Then I worked as the Assistant Activities Director for five years, from 1995 – 2000.
So you left and now you’re back?
Yup, I left St. John’s in 2002 and decided—you know, I was single, didn’t really have any ties so I got trained as a ski instructor and worked at Ski Santa Fe for three seasons and then I would raft in the spring summer and fall. After you kind of get good at your craft and you start knocking on other people’s doors and I must have worked for, I don’t know, ten companies over the last four years either doing backpacking, experiential education, or boating/rafting stuff. Canyon Rio had me work with my two teachers to learn how to teach white-water rafting so I’ve taught about four courses for them.
St. John’s College contacted me about a year ago to see if I could help them get their whole rafting stuff back together. It was actually Patrick Chandler that called me. I did their spring break trip last year and then they sent Sue and C.J. and three students to the Canyon Rio Guide School which I taught with three other instructors and we just kind of followed it up with the long weekend raft trip. That’s when Sue—a little bit after that trip—let me know she was thinking about leaving and was wondering what I was doing this winter. I had to weigh the options and decided to come back.
So it seems like you found your career through the school. Is that right?
Yeah, I didn’t really get exposed to the outdoors until I started doing stuff with Student Activities. The first trip where I was exposed to the Southwest we went up to Moab over long weekend and checked out arches, hung out in Moab, you know. I fell in love with it.
After that was the beginning of the rafting program, so the first time I went boating was with St. John’s College. We went on the Chama, went on the Rio Grande, went down the San Juan. That was kind of my first real introduction to it all.
I see you’ve got quite a collection of badges there on the wall.
Oh yeah. There’s the medical certifications, swift-water rafting certifications then the search and rescue, stuff like that. In ’97 I became an EMT, I got my Wilderness EMT license, and then dropped down to Wilderness First Responder. At that time there was a lot of paperwork involved to retain your wilderness EMT. Wilderness First responder crossed state lines. If you had the Wilderness First Responder then you were pretty much good to go for any company you were working for.
I did a Swift-Water First Responder course, good stuff to know. You know, people do fall in the water, you’ve got know how to rescue them and whatnot.
I’ve done my re-certifications through the big three: Wilderness Medical Associates, Wilderness Medical Institute and SOLO (Stonehearth Outdoor Learning Opportunities). Getting the PACE certification through New Mexico Search and Rescue. You get what you need for the industry standards. I’ve been at least a WFR (Wilderness First Responder) for the past ten years, CPR certified. To be a commercial boater in Utah you’ve got to have a Utah Guide License, so you keep that up. To work in Arizona you’ve got to have a food handler’s card, so you just keep all your certifications up to date, keep them going.
So how does it feel to have an office now?
In the winter my office would be at 10,000 feet, you know, in the summer my office would be on a river somewhere. You really couldn’t get a hold of me, which is just fine (laughs)….
But a desk means a different thing, right? This semester is just kind of going with what has been set up and assessing the situation. The students, in a sense, are the clienteles, and in a greater sense the college community is. You students happen to have a big say in what goes on here. I just have to assess what goes on this semester, see what works, see what doesn’t work, and use the summer to make whatever adjustments need to be made. Then we go onto the next semester, fall and spring. Later on this semester, probably after spring break, that’s when I’ll really be asking the college community, ‘What do you guys want?’ Then we’ll have the summer to really take a look at it and see if it’s feasible.
If you want to talk to Brendan about student activity ideas you can reach him at the SAC (x6149). The school has a ski trip to Wolf Creek scheduled for the weekend of February 24, as well as a rafting trip scheduled for spring break. Brendan will be leading both trips. (Josiah Stephens, St. John’s College Moon, January 2007)
Introducing…
Brendan O’Niell is the new Athletic and Outdoor Programs Coordinator. Sue Lowley formerly held that position but headed out to the East Coast to Harrisonburg Virginia in mid-January to teach outdoorsmanship at James Madison University.
Brendan is a sturdy 5’9” with dark hair, dark eyes and a big, easy smile. I spent some time with Brendan on the Search and Rescue Winter Skills/Snowshoe Hike and the Wolf Creek Ski Trip. Although Brendan can be serious—stern even—he is quick to joke and has an almost ever-present sense of humor.
Brendan was born in Los Angeles, but moved to San Francisco two weeks later. He attended a private college-prep trade school where he spent long days learning welding and plumbing, as well as the usual math and science, “It was pretty intense,” He recalls.
In San Francisco he was an urban youth and he didn’t spend a lot of time in the outdoors until he was eighteen, when he decided to camp in Yosemite with some friends.
JS: How did that first trip go?
BO: I think the first trip all we had were sleeping bags. We were sleeping on the ground. We didn’t know much about camping and food supplies. A bear stole all our food! But we were troopers and went back. I think we went back for about the next five years in a row. Each year we got acquainted with a new piece of gear and really kind of learned the hard way (laughs).
You’re a Johnny. How did you end up at St, John’s?
Well when I got out of high school I always knew that I wanted to study some type of humanities. I went to San Francisco State for a year-and-a-half and I ran into my old high school French teacher and I was complaining—you know—that I couldn’t find the exact kind of humanities program I was looking for, and so I sat down and pretty much described the St. John’s College program to her without knowing that St. John’s College existed. I said, ‘I want to start looking at the beginning of western civilization and move all the way through the 20th century.’ She opened up her top drawer and said, ‘I think I know the school for you, they were just visiting and they held something called a seminar…’ So that’s what led me to St. Johns and Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Did you ever do the Annapolis thing?
Nah. I’m not an East Coaster. I was used to the Santa Fe thing. You need some quiet time? Just step off campus, hike up Atalaya. Even the classroom style was different back then.
What about after graduation, how did you become a professional outdoorsman?
After I finished up at St. John’s I went back and did carpentry work because I was trained as a carpenter and professional house painter after high school. When I was going to St. John’s, for side work, I would do a lot of carpentry. So the next couple of years after I finished up I was just doing carpentry work in town and was really thinking seriously about moving back to San Francisco and that was when the college offered me the job as Assistant Director of Student Activities.
So it was just the director, and myself and at that particular time we took care of everything: concerts, lectures, dances, athletics and outdoor stuff.
My boss at the time was telling me, ‘You’re going to have to learn how to raft.’ I was like, ‘Oh shucks, darn,’ (laughs). So we kind of went through the school of hard knocks when it comes to rafting, you know, he had some buddies who had a raft that taught me and then he went down the Grand Canyon and saw that Canyon Rio, which is an outfitter company out in Flagstaff, was offering a guide school. He said, ‘Hey we should do this guide school,’ and that’s where I got trained as a professional raft guide. I started to work for them as well as continuing to work at the college. So that was kind of my first foray into professional raft guiding.
The other outdoor stuff I learned kind of on the job was—I joined Search and Rescue and spent four years on the team—so, you know, we got all the search and rescue aspects down, but we also got just the simple ‘leave no trace’ backpacking do’s and don’ts.
I kept finding myself going back to the Canyon-lands area, just for fun, or with students, that kind of thing, and that’s how it all sort of came about. Then I worked as the Assistant Activities Director for five years, from 1995 – 2000.
So you left and now you’re back?
Yup, I left St. John’s in 2002 and decided—you know, I was single, didn’t really have any ties so I got trained as a ski instructor and worked at Ski Santa Fe for three seasons and then I would raft in the spring summer and fall. After you kind of get good at your craft and you start knocking on other people’s doors and I must have worked for, I don’t know, ten companies over the last four years either doing backpacking, experiential education, or boating/rafting stuff. Canyon Rio had me work with my two teachers to learn how to teach white-water rafting so I’ve taught about four courses for them.
St. John’s College contacted me about a year ago to see if I could help them get their whole rafting stuff back together. It was actually Patrick Chandler that called me. I did their spring break trip last year and then they sent Sue and C.J. and three students to the Canyon Rio Guide School which I taught with three other instructors and we just kind of followed it up with the long weekend raft trip. That’s when Sue—a little bit after that trip—let me know she was thinking about leaving and was wondering what I was doing this winter. I had to weigh the options and decided to come back.
So it seems like you found your career through the school. Is that right?
Yeah, I didn’t really get exposed to the outdoors until I started doing stuff with Student Activities. The first trip where I was exposed to the Southwest we went up to Moab over long weekend and checked out arches, hung out in Moab, you know. I fell in love with it.
After that was the beginning of the rafting program, so the first time I went boating was with St. John’s College. We went on the Chama, went on the Rio Grande, went down the San Juan. That was kind of my first real introduction to it all.
I see you’ve got quite a collection of badges there on the wall.
Oh yeah. There’s the medical certifications, swift-water rafting certifications then the search and rescue, stuff like that. In ’97 I became an EMT, I got my Wilderness EMT license, and then dropped down to Wilderness First Responder. At that time there was a lot of paperwork involved to retain your wilderness EMT. Wilderness First responder crossed state lines. If you had the Wilderness First Responder then you were pretty much good to go for any company you were working for.
I did a Swift-Water First Responder course, good stuff to know. You know, people do fall in the water, you’ve got know how to rescue them and whatnot.
I’ve done my re-certifications through the big three: Wilderness Medical Associates, Wilderness Medical Institute and SOLO (Stonehearth Outdoor Learning Opportunities). Getting the PACE certification through New Mexico Search and Rescue. You get what you need for the industry standards. I’ve been at least a WFR (Wilderness First Responder) for the past ten years, CPR certified. To be a commercial boater in Utah you’ve got to have a Utah Guide License, so you keep that up. To work in Arizona you’ve got to have a food handler’s card, so you just keep all your certifications up to date, keep them going.
So how does it feel to have an office now?
In the winter my office would be at 10,000 feet, you know, in the summer my office would be on a river somewhere. You really couldn’t get a hold of me, which is just fine (laughs)….
But a desk means a different thing, right? This semester is just kind of going with what has been set up and assessing the situation. The students, in a sense, are the clienteles, and in a greater sense the college community is. You students happen to have a big say in what goes on here. I just have to assess what goes on this semester, see what works, see what doesn’t work, and use the summer to make whatever adjustments need to be made. Then we go onto the next semester, fall and spring. Later on this semester, probably after spring break, that’s when I’ll really be asking the college community, ‘What do you guys want?’ Then we’ll have the summer to really take a look at it and see if it’s feasible.
If you want to talk to Brendan about student activity ideas you can reach him at the SAC (x6149). The school has a ski trip to Wolf Creek scheduled for the weekend of February 24, as well as a rafting trip scheduled for spring break. Brendan will be leading both trips. (Josiah Stephens, St. John’s College Moon, January 2007)
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