The Gardener (Part Three and the friggin end)

So, I'm lazy. I've got an apartment now, and in a few weeks I'll be actually living in it. Hopefully that'll introduce a modicum of stability to my life, and hopefully that will massage my writing habits, which will therefore hopefully mean that I update this blog often enough to, you know, justify its existence.

Hopefully.

But anyway, I'm getting sick of my Gardener story, so let's make this be the end of it! This is gonna be the quick and messy mostly-summary version of storytelling, so you'll have to use your imagination a lot to fill in the gaps because, again, I'm a lazy, lazy man. Maybe, though, I'll make a quick-and-dirty novella out of it for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month)...


So, if you don't know what happened in the last two installments, go read them. They should be right below and appropriately labeled. However, in summary, a dude finds a seed, plants it and it's a tree and everybody's all OoooOOoo about it.

Good summary.

So they live in this nightmarish wasteland, but all of a sudden, their world is shaken with the introduction of simply the color green. We last left the story with all the townspeople standing in awe of it, swaying gently in the breeze.

So what should happen next?

These people aren't responsible. They aren't good. If you give them something, they'll find a way to harm one another with it, or they'll find a way to sell it. But this tree is something else to them. Not one man or woman who sees it can bear to doubt its importance, no one can look away or harm it.

This generation of people cherish it because to them it was such a rare and foreign thing. They move their city to be within view of the tree, and soon the city prospers under the shade of the tree. They appoint one man, our gardener, to watch over it, and see to its safety. He sleeps under the tree at night, and stands by it, tending it in daylight. When he wakes up one morning to find that it can spread and grow more green, it becomes his responsibility to prosper that growth for all society.

The Gardener starts a family under the tree's shade, and when he passes, he is buried under it. His children inherit his responsibility of protecting the growth of the greenness and the trees. Under the care of the Gardeners, the greenness spreads as grass, bushes, and trees of all kinds. It spreads across the landscape, encompassing the world as a whole.

And society spreads and grows with it, under its shade. Life, so hard, so dry, so pleasureless, becomes easy, becomes a joy. Generations pass and people spread across the landscape, eating fruit and grains. The Gardeners tell stories of past generations, of the first Gardener for there ever to be and of the ages that followed.

Generations pass and people grow.

Generations pass and people forget in unbelief the story of the Gardener. They doubt the wasteland that once was, the world of trials and turmoil, of burnt and burning trees, and the place in which it never rained. Even the Gardeners, with time, forget. They took their name, their inherited legacy, and used it to build cities to rule, to shape the skyline as they saw fit.

The world was theirs, and all in it.

But when one Gardener disagreed with another, there was war. They fought over the green earth, scorching, tearing, and shedding red. The red spreads faster than green ever could, as the landscape is drowned out in violence and turmoil of the forgetting peoples. There comes a generation of people, Gardeners and others, who know nothing but violence, strive, hatred and redness. In that generation, greenness is forgotten entirely. There are few of this last generation, and they do not last long.

[Is war too obvious here? I mean, it's the first thing I thought of, so other people probably thought of it to. And it's been done to death. But then again, this story is kinda supposed to go the way you expect; it's about situational irony in which we know the fallacies of the characters, but they themselves are unaware... oh well, back to the story!]

However, one pair of footsteps wanders through the apocalyptic remains. They scramble over rubble, trudge through blackened oil pits, and meander down broken streets, cluttered with war machines. The steps belong to the last man, a Traveler whose home he holds on his back.

The lonely Traveler carries a brown sack, torn, and it's filled with scraps of food. In the Traveler's hands, though, there's always a book. It's singed at the corners and worn and faded along its edges. But at the first glimpse of each day's light, he awakens to read with the hope that a new day brings with it. And as the days near their ends, he reads, to face the coming darkness with the hope that it is once more temporary.

On these pages is a simple image in green: a tree and a man.

The Traveler wanders, and reads, and wanders and reads and wanders and reads until he is old, tired, and at last his body is in its final moments. He crawls into his home for that night, a cave beneath a building, and, as he has done for his years of wandering, the Traveler opens the book and reads himself to sleep in what remains of the daylight, prepared to die, as the last man on earth.

And although this man will die, it will not be on that night. He awakens that morning, with a little shade above his head, green, and growing.

The End.

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

So what'd ya think? I went for a weird kinda storytelling flavor with this one, and it was at least fun to write. So there's that. Oh well, share, follow, and become a minion of greenness!

Why Zombies? (part One)

This week, I have a new, fun plan. Instead of barraging y'alls with my thoughts right off the get-go (you'll get 'em, just not in one salvo), I'll give you the very question that inspires me to write. I'll give that first, and a brief argument on its viability as a discussion topic, and then some time to think about it. After some time (you know I like to be all sporadic-like with these), I will put up my own thoughts on the answer. The idea is to inspire and encourage thought/discussion, even if it's only within one's mind, before throwing my ideas out there.

Sound cool?
Too bad, i'm doing it anyway

So, zombie-based fiction has been gaining all sorts of popularity in the past few years. I could list all the movies and TV shows, games and books from, I dunno, the past ten years for evidence to this claim. But I'm a lazy man. Instead I will propose to you two facts of evidence to the permeation/popularity of zombism in contemporary American culture:

ONE: everyone and their grandmother knows what a zombie is! Seriously, why is this word in the American lexicon? It shouldn't be at all; our language-history has at most a microscopic relationship to that of "zombie," and that itself is only in the most modern contexts. But no, everybody knows what a zombie is, and even agreed to the fundamental rules of them: dead people are alive again, without their reasoning or communicating abilities; they're trying to eat you; when they eat you, you become one and then try to eat other people; only brain damage disables them to a permanent death. Those rules are rarely changed, so we shall consider them the crux of zombism. I won't consider the ancillary rules, the flexible ones, because therein lies my answer to the question this post will raise.

Evidence item number TWO: zombie knives. Yeah, check out what Ka-Bar is doing too. You know what? Screw it, I'll put up a (violent) video:

Yeah, told ya it was violent.

But anyway, have you noticed that REAL-ASSED COMPANIES are making REAL-ASSED WEAPONS for the ENTIRELY IMPOSSIBLE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE? I mean seriously, people, these things are being made -- and bought! There's a market for legitimate anti-zombie weapons, completely regardless for the fact that zombism is entirely impossible.

Zombism, we see, is so pervasive in our contemporary culture, that everybody has adopted the word into accepted dialog, and it has been capitalized on by non-entertainment entities (knife companies, used as example).

So, I must ask: why are zombies so popular these days?

How to Travel through Time (Seriously)

I'm gonna be honest with all'yall's: I learned how to travel through time. No joke here, folks; I can do it, and so can you! For the low-low price of 14.99 you (yes, you!) can become a time traveler!


All you need is a notebook or a computer of some kind, and the ability to type. You write whatever the hell you want to, forget about it for two years, then rediscover it. Boom! You are brought back to two years ago, instantly!


It's that easy, people! (please send cash; my bank is out of state, so I can't deposit checks)




Seriously, though, I have been writing a novella for the past two years now, and I'm at about two-thirds done with it right now. Being such a long production period (give me a break, people; I also was working full time!), the story got a little detached, disjointed, convoluted, and messy. So, at the sixty-percent point of the thing, I am at a point at which I have to determine what the hell it's about. Therefore, I have to revise.


A


LOT


A(LOT)


And that means that I get to read something I wrote two years ago.


It's a weird experience. You encounter a different, older version of yourself. Being a work of fiction, my experience was not the same as if it had been a revision or rereading of a journal or something (one can only imagine what kinda mind-job THAT would be!). However, it's still jarring, to encounter old work. Part of you loves it because you remember all the hard work you put into it, and you can see all the things you were trying to make it be (awkward sentence, that, but whatever).


But, that ends up being a small part of you (or well, me, for sure).


The majority of my experience is disgust. I see everything that it tried to be, and in that I see everywhere it failed. I see how it explored directions of storytelling, description, and technique. But those directions ended up dead-ends that go nowhere and do nothing but waste pages and distract readers. It was prominent in the first chapter, so I'll forgive old me, but no, those parts must be eradicated like gangrenous tissue (nice metaphor).


But not only do you see wasted space, but as you go through the process of actually revising, rewriting, and cutting, you see that a lot of it is useless and pointless. Not inherently evil, no, but it really makes yer work and efforts feel utterly without meaning or purpose.


Yaaaaaay for wasted time?


You make something, you love it, you forget about it, you try to kill it, and whatever survives is worth keeping. Therein you find your story; therein you find the essence of revision.


Click the ads, or I'll revise you

Rules to Live by: The Mind Killer

With my last post, there was a fair amount of discussion about the dangers of riding at night. Rightly so, of course, because there's a lot of quickly moving steel that weights more than me and is far sharper than I shall ever be, and yet there I go, going dangerously fast around said mobile steel (cars, to the layperson). So I put on a helmet and wear plenty of very bright lights to ensure my own safety. I clothe myself in light and keep my head on a swivel. I do all the smart and reasonable things I can to minimize my own risk, to keep myself as safe as possible and to make my safety about my performance and behavior. But nonetheless, there, under my helmet and in the back of my mind, is that little burning doubt that I'm wrong and I forgot something and I can't handle my own safety.

That's the ember ember of fear.

Because fear is well described as a fire. It destroys and maddens, inspires foolishness and doubt. Fire and fear both spread, and leap from person to person.  If left unchecked, it can reduce entire countries to charred ruin. And yet, both fear and fire can be kept in check, and when they're little more than tongues, they're soft and gentle, easily manipulated.

The best part, the absolutely most fascinating part about fear and fire is that they are products of invention and reason. With this world in which we live, there is much to fear (I need not list examples here; you know your fears better than I), and it is through our reasoning faculties that we develop and keep our fears. And, in a wonderful example of life's ironies, the fears, begotten by reason, attack their birth-parents and seek to drive us to madness. I say "madness" because it has an epic feel to it (seriously, just shout out MADNESS once in a while -- it's fun!), but really, you experience a little madness whenever fear let's loose on you. I mean, there's no way -- none! -- that there's a creepy half-human with disjointed limbs crawling around on the walls of my mom's house, watching me.

Yet, somehow, that thought pops into my head when I turn out the lights.

I had a friend who was convinced her apartment was haunted, one night. Like, a bad haunting with her laptop being tossed around the room, and such. She was utterly convinced that her let was grabbed by something cold and inhuman. I myself am certain that everybody on the face of the earth is possessed whenever I wake up at two in the morning. Without a doubt, I will believe that there is a ghost or something taking control of your body, should I see you during the witching hour, as it's called.

Fear, we see, attacks reason, as I said before. But what, then, do we do? Do we allow fear to destroy our reasoning faculties until it passes by an outside force (wait until sunrise)? That works, but I don't like putting my future in anyone's hands but mine, even the sun's.

What I do prefer, however, is to attack fear itself. I meet it on its battleground of choice, and defeat it at its very best. When I was afraid of the dark, I would turn out the lights and close my eyes. I would drown myself in darkness and feel it sink in around me. Panic and fear would rise along my spine, and I could feel its shake enter my nervous system. I would think about the most horrible things that could possibly be looking at me in the darkness, imagine things more nightmarish than any I had ever seen before; I would taunt my fear and outdo its own creation! I would declare that I will not fear that darkness or any other, and that when I opened my eyes, there would be darkness there, and nothing more. That moment before I reopened my eyes was a precipice of reality. It was that edge of reason in which I would determine the world in which I lived. If I kept my eyes closed, the world was a product of my imagination and subject to its bending will. If, however, I managed to open my eyes, it was on the faith that my imagination was limited, wrong, and controllable like a flame. I opened my eyes on the faith that reason will prevail, and the world has rules where my mind does not.

Of course, I would open my eyes and each time the world was fine, boring, and dark. But not unreasonable.

What's fun, though, is that if my imagined sensation were true and if there were a hairless werewolf there in the darkness ahead of me, it would be quite unreasonable to act as if he weren't there. And so, in another irony of life, I had to act unreasonably to defeat fear, which attacks reason.

Consider my cycling. I am afraid of getting mangled in a car wreck and left for dead. I am absolutely afraid of that happening. However, I have to overcome that fear, and to do so, I have to ride my bike around cars and effectively behave unreasonably (I ride safely, I really do!).

Yeah, that's right: defeat fear, a product of unreason, by behaving unreasonably. Suck it, reality! That's the rule to live by: don't fear, not anything.

** I was going for a new tone with this post, hope it was fun to hear something closer to professionalism! Click ads or die! (that's not a threat, I'm just saying: click ads, peoples)

Night Rider

I have a new favorite cycling memory! For those of you (both of you) who don't remember, this blog used to be under a different name and focus. Actually, it had focus, and a specific subject matter: cycling (riding bikes, to the layperson). I was just getting into cycling, and had just moved to a new town, so I combined the two into one adventurous blog: Crash Cycling. It was fun, but it went the way of so many things I do: it got lost somewhere in the attic.

But I still ride!
And I still like it!
So that stuck with me, even if the blog had fallen into disrepair and ended up getting re-launched. But, an earlier article I wrote therein was about cycling at night. I won't just push my old entries, though, I only want to share that surprise I found in myself that I wanna write about it again!

This time, however, instead of riding around a minute little town with not much more than a cellphone light, I raced through downtown Green Bay (shut up -- it has a downtown!) with proper equipment. Okay, cellphone light was an intense exaggeration, but the light I had didn't do much except inspire faith-based riding through the dark. As in, I couldn't see much. Since then I had gotten a really kickass light that inspires safety.

That's my fun way of saying I rode real frickin fast down well-lit night roads!

It was a blast! It reminded me of mountain biking, in which I have minimal path-finding abilities and have to have a good grip because I can't see where the hell i'm gonna go any given moment. Like that, but WAY faster! Riding in the dark added a nice level of difficulty to my ride, and really upped the intensity of the experience. The world's really a different place at night; the cooler air is lighter in the lungs, and light is a manufactured rarity in fresher tones than what you're used to. I highly recommend trying it out for yourself. Just make sure you get a really bright and broad light in front, and a blinking red in back. People will avoid you, don't worry. You just need to make sure that they SEE you so they can avoid you. Savvy?

I think I'll leave the post like this; let it be a shorter, lighter one. Just click the ads like y'all's do.

Life by Code: Belief

I think everybody needs a code. Like, one to live by, not a sequence of numbers and letters that allows them to operate (God knows we don't need any more of those!). To a certain extent, we all have rules we follow, ingrained in each of us through a variety of means. But, like everything else we do unconsciously, when we bring it into our own awareness and try to truly understand and perfect our rules they become something different, and we with them. The rules become a Code (give that a capital "c"!) and we become People of a Code (almost epic, no?).

I believe in living by a Code, and one of the first fundamental codes by which I live is that belief, without practice, is dead.

What I mean by that is it's what we do, our actions, our practice that ultimately indicates who we are as people. It is all fine to say you believe in something, but if you do not act as though such belief is true, then what's the point of believing it?

Really.
Believe there's a Minnesota?
Cool.
Actually act as though Minnesota exists in the world?
Cool; that's belief.
Act as though Minnesota doesn't exist? Be bemused whenever something comes from Minnesota, or they show up in the news? Refuse that you can actually go there?
It's not practical; it might as well not be there. And that's not belief, but it's a way of thinking we often engage ourselves in modern society.

Here's an illustration: say you believe in the evolution. As in, species evolved from earlier ancestors over the course of eons and eons. Okay, now how do you practice it? That's actually pretty simple, although there are two answers that come to mind immediately. First is, you just live your life and boom, you're participating in and practicing evolution along with the rest of humanity like gravity. Yaaaay we won; let's coast. Second is, you breed. You actually try to propagate the species and your own genetic pattern because, frankly, we're kickass at this whole evolution thing. We may not have bacteria beaten, but rabbits? Hells yeah.

Now the first practical scenario is the one that ultimately the high majority of people practice, in my encounters and investigations. It's light-handed, hardly offends people, doesn't require any work, and it requires only fundamental understanding of the concept. People say "Sure, all species and life as we know it gradually changed over many eons  to become what they are today. Now gimme my coffee!" It's convenient, but that's not practice, which means that's not belief: that's acknowledgement. If that were Minnesota, you would say it's there, but you wouldn't go, and why go there, why say you believe in Minnesota at all? It's a space that does nothing but exist.

So, the second scenario of practice is a LOT more active! You're actually participating in the evolutionary process (you actually visit Minnesota!). The catch with that, though, is that we've done it before as people; we've actively engaged ourselves in evolution. Basically, if you get a bunch of people together, and they say they're the best, they say their genes are the best, you get big problems. Do you want me to drop a Nazi bomb? It's pretty obvious that their ideas were inspired or based on (or unrightfully justified by, most accurately) evolutionary biology.

 So, while we say that evolution and Minnesota exist, and are as real as gravity, we ourselves cannot employ evolutionary thought processes as a society, and we cannot actually go to Minnesota. Or we'll be branded Nazis... Minnesota Nazis.

So next time you find yourself making a stand in who you are and what you believe -- whatever it may be -- ask yourself if you really do believe it, ask yourself if you practice it, if it's REAL to you and you live it. If you do, then yeah, you believe it, but if you don't, find out what you believe and stand by it. Allow your actions to shape who you are. Start by clicking ads.

The Wicker Man

Last night, I watched Nicholas Cage's biopic, The Wicker Man. It's about his life after film, in which he entered law enforcement, struggled with depression for vague reasons, and reconnected with his estranged wife and daughter. Really, it wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. Cage was his usual subtle self, enunciating his lines with an evocative clarity, and really bringing his character (himself) to life like never before.

Well, it's Nicholas Cage, so, you can imagine the quality of acting he puts into a work that's based on his own life experiences.

It interestingly enough doesn't give much backstory to Cage's departure from Hollywood, but we catch on quickly as he has moved on to be a highway patrolman in northern California. It did not explain why exactly he decided to go into law enforcement from film, which would be an essential part of a biopic, and really the most exciting part of his life. Think of it: an actor adjusting from action movies like ConAir and The Rock to the real-life drudgery of law enforcement. There's an exciting drama; adjusting to slowing down and living a new life.

Perhaps that's why he gets depressed early on? He does (more or less) witness a graphic death on the road, but it seems to have little impact on him, other than giving him something dramatic to think about for a while. But really, you can tell, it's the boredom of daily office routine and having only work-friends that hits him hardest and sends him spiraling into depression. That's going along with the essential drama here, of a guy who lived in Hollywood and had to settle down in northern Cali at a job that he thought would be exciting, but wasn't. EXACTLY! That's it! he's bored, and when he does finally encounter something interesting (mom and daughter dying in a fiery wreck), it gives him the itch for action again!

So then, get this, his ex sends him a letter saying "Hey, come to this non-creepy place (that's TOTALLY creepy) and find my daughter, who isn't yours (she's yours, you'll see it coming), and I'll totally give you some excitement." Okay, she doesn't say that last part, but it's IMPLIED, big time!

And of course, he goes, because he's gotta get his rock and roll on.

The rest of his life story gets a little fuzzy at this point. He befriends all the women on the island immediately, because he's just so damn charming (he's Nicholas Cage). He finds a girl who looks like the missing/dead/not really dead at all (gasp!) girl, but isn't. Gets stung by a LOT of bees for little to no reason. Hallucinates about dead people who aren't actually dead. Gets burned alive at one point. Gets stung by MORE bees. Turns into a bear and punches a woman.

Then his life actually got interesting: turns out, he was a robot sent from the future to save his daughter's life from another time-travelling robot. He ultimately has a showdown in a smelting plant (or something; they were unclear on what exactly it was), in which he says "bye" to the other future robot (which is all liquidy) by shooting him/her into a boiling vat of lava. His gives Edward Furlong a thumbs-up and says "I know now why you cry" as Eddy lowers him down into the very lava that killed the T-1000.

And yay, the future is saved, thanks to Nicholas Cage! All in all, the first half of the movie was lame, but it picked up once it turned out he was a robot. You should rent it, and watch it with Rifftrax.

Click the ads; I'm out!

Writing Metaphors (as in, metaphors of writing [or rather, one metaphor for writing])

The most intimidating thing in the world is a blank page. Seriously, just open up a word document and take a gander. You'll see absolutely nothing (except the empty white). This on its own certainly isn't all that frightening a sight, but when you have to fill it... ahhhh, yes, therein lies the terror. It is the darkness (an ironic darkness because the page is so bright) that looks back at you. Or doesn't; this darkness fills with whatever you want it to contain, but it also can remain completely void (void isn't right, though; it suggests an absence while this scenario the page is utterly blank: neither having substance nor lacking substance).


A blank page is like looking into a mirror and not seeing anything. Or worse, it's like looking into a mirror, moving and shouting, but your reflection merely stands still, looking back at you. God, that's a creepy image! Was the reflection smirking at you, too? And looking right behind you? Oh, man! And then, the reflection just walks the F away! Leaving you standing there, in the bathroom, alone! Which then leaves you to wonder if there was anything in the mirror in the first place, and if so, what was it? That, ladies and gentlemen, is a blank page.


So now that we know what that is, what would that make writing? Easy: solitary confinement with that messed-up mirror.


You're trapped in a room with absolutely nothing in it except for you and the mirror. The only thing you can do is look at that mirror, and try to control whatever it is inside of it. You have to keep it from walking away, but you can't let it petrify either. So, you dance. You dance with your own damn reflection. It's okay; you're alone, so it's not that weird.


But while you're dancing with your image, there, alone in solitary confinement, you also keep track of your steps. You record them, you make them better (more engaging for the mirror's image), and you make them easier for you to take, as well. So you dance for your time in solitary, you lose track of how long you've been in there, but one day, the dance is complete. Complete from beginning to end, and you love taking every step of it, and to you it is this absolutely beautiful and wonderful thing. The only thing that it needs, at this point, is for another real human being to experience it. See, you can dance on your own all you want, but it's boring, and it doesn't make much sense, and when you create or even just find something that's truly wonderful, you have to share it to experience it in its fullness.


So one day, when the guard shovels your food into the slot, you ask him if he would like to see your dance. He says “Sure” but then immediately walks away. Next day, same guard, same question, and you ask why he didn't watch yesterday. He says he thought it was more of a general question, like, “Do you enjoy cake.” I mean, who would say no to that? But really, “sure” means “no.” So next day, different guard, you ask her to see your dance, and he says sure, and this time he peeks in through the slot. So you dance! Perfectly according to your steps, you dance, and she is fascinated by it! When you're tired, sweaty, and spent at the end, you ask him what he thinks. “It was good,” is all he says. So you ask him about specific parts of the dance, parts you loved and parts that were extra difficult, and parts that still felt awkward. “It was all good,” is all he says. And then he leaves. You've spent six months in solitary confinement with a mirror and your own footsteps and the absolute pinnacle of your accolades and success was “It was good.”


So you copy your steps, remember them, and get the mirror out again to start a new dance that will maybe make others see and feel the magic of dance (by which I mean writing)!


In general, I don't like writing about writing. It seems too convoluted and shortsighted a process. But, I do LOVE riding metaphors to the grave! Click on the ads like a simile nosing baited cheese!

Rediscovery

Being semi-retired (unemployed) at 27 results in boredom... a LOT of boredom. I really had no idea there were so many hours in a single day until I had no job to occupy a good third of it. So, to prevent my own mental and spiritual decay, I adopted the use of a daily planner.

Then I immediately abandoned it. I mean, I fill it in, but I never look at it (I know what I'm supposed to do every day). So, I'm still frequently fighting boredom. Did I mention that I have no TV, internet, dvds, or videogames? That doesn't help! I digress... I'll rant about videogames on some other post later. Right now, it's about my experience yesterday riding around my home town on my bike.

I'm not sure to what special niche of cycling I belong, but I have had a special spot for touring. The idea of exploring unknown territories from the vantage point of a bicycle has an allure to me. It's the whole “venturing into the unknown” thing, I think. I mean, I know the route I'm taking, I know my ride, and I know my body. What I do not know is the texture of the roads, their makeup, what their particular signature of gravel feels like beneath me! You learn what hills deserve your curses, which yards and parking lots you can cut through, and where those rare spots of shade always happen to be. And who knows, you might just end up passing by a winery you didn't expect (totally happened to me!).

Sure, I could drive through many of those routes, but that is nowhere near the same (and you know it!). Consider the following: I grew up in Green Bay, and have been driving its streets for the better half of a decade. But yesterday was the first time that I rode down them at any length. It's what I would call an Urban Tour, in which I pretty much just rode along the city streets, more or less aimlessly. I took routes I've driven for years and years, but they were entirely new to me from the perspective of my bike. Because I rode, I got to experience their subtleties in a new and very intimate way (If there's a bump, I feel it. If there's a patch of gravel, I swerve). Example: I rode almost the entire stretch of Broadway, a route I've driven plenty, but I never noticed until yesterday that it was at a slight slope. It's what's called a “false flat” that appears flat, but in fact is not. These things are amazing, or grueling, depending on which direction you're facing.

Fortunately for me, I was facing downhill and I had the wind at my back. So I was pretty much flying down that sucker! And it went through downtown and an industrial district, so I was flying while weaving around gravel and broken glass (more fun!).

But yeah, I learned that there's always more to discover out there, wherever you are.

In a final note, I would like to say that I actually enjoy riding around cars in cities. Cars out in the country are sneaky and fast, so they're like bad Strong Safeties (they never actually hit you, but they are loud and fast enough to scare you into screwing up). Whereas, in the city, cars are predictable and slow; you know where they're going and you know that you are far more agile than they are, and can fit wherever you put yourself. So they're slow, predictable, and way more afraid of you than you are of them. They're like (seriously, it took me a half an hour to think of a good analogy) student loans: as long as you're careful and keep your head on a swivel, they're harmless.

The tipping point for me, that moment I realized that it was no big deal riding around cars, was when I was riding singletrack. It occurred to me that I only needed about two feet to ride safely, and there's WAY more than that on roads!

It puts the lotion on its skin and clicks the ads again!

My Fish Died and I Misplaced my Legs

Yeah, my fish died. His name was Blue Moon Two, and he was (is?) a Betta, blue with red coloration in the fins and a jet-black face. Very intimidating, and he was a bit of a badass (still is, in fishy Heaven). I picked him up in a local Petco back in Arkansas, to replace Blue Moon, who died when I moved to a new apartment. THAT was a tragic death! I actually watched his last moments, unable to do anything as he freaked the hell out and then... just... stopped.

That sucked.

But, after an appropriate mourning phase, I replaced him, because, well he's a fish and a cheap one at that. So I got Blue Moon Two, and let me tell ya, he was a fighter. Like, literally, he had scars from squirming around massive (proportionally) boulders in his tank. And he made it with me for a year and a half, when I had to move. I didn't just flush him, and I couldn't give him away, not when there was a chance that I could take him with. The chance was a most ingenious plan: put him in an insulated cup of properly treated water for the drive.

It worked, too! alllllmost... See, he made it to my new home, Green Bay, WI. And that was a 850-mile trip, so THAT was certainly a testament to his fortitude and determination. But, after I had everything unloaded, i went to check on him, and nope. He was just floating there, suddenly lifeless.

I'm glad I didn't see him die; that would have been too much for me to handle at the time. But, BM2 went through the effort of seeing me safely to my new home, and I wish I could have done the same for him. It's strange how we can become attached to things that have such inhuman characters. But still, there it is; my brother from Arkansas (kiiiinda southeast Asia) died, and I was unexpectedly broken up about it that night.

On another note, I went on the first leg of my epic journey today, a practice run. It was a nice ride, but my legs are useless now, and I expect they will be tomorrow, too. Like, this is the first time that I was so exhausted from a workout of any kind that I almost fell asleep in the middle of it! Really, right there, on the bike, I almost dozed off near the end! That was a big first. But, the one thing that is apparent is that I have more conditioning to do, and if I wanna go on rides this long, bring more food than two cheap granola bars... or eat more than cereal before hand.

Anyway, see what happens when you click the ads... I think you'll be pleasantly surprised!

Packing & The Best Wine I Ever Had

I am awesome at packing!

Like, really good.

I don't mess around with any of that "sorting by room" crap. I just throw whatever into boxes over and over again until I'm done. Boom: awesome. I felt like a genius when I discovered that I could use clothing as padding. So yeah, that's why my champagne flutes are wrapped in socks. Don't give me that look!

Seriously though, I'm terrible at packing and am not looking forward to having to unpack any of this (I'm moving a few states over, for those of you who don't know). I've had a week to pack and it in no way would take me an actual week of time to pack it all, so of course, I put it off. That and the cleaning (mold is pretty much all over the place here in Arkansas). And of course, now, I only have a few days to pack everything and clean everything too. So I got most of it done in one day, like ya do. The side-effect of this particular method, though, is that everything's a jumbled mess and I already forgot where the hell my stamps are!

not cool, Chance; not cool

The first step, of course, is donating all the stuff I don't want or use any more (done twice so far). Next, is the throwing away all the stuff that's trash, but collectible, or memorable, but essentially junk for which I have no use. Most of that process is easy, but there's the memento value in these objects. The best example I have is bottles of wine and liquor I really liked. Once drank, little remains of the liquor but the memory of it tingling our tastebuds. Nice line; quote that shit. I was carrying out those empty bottles, when I recognized the one small one remaining in my hand. It was wine from Parallel 44; their "Meditation" wine from 2007. This stuff was the best wine I've ever had, hands-down and no contest. This amazingly luxurious texture accompanied a deep, dark cherry and chocolate flavor that lingered for hours. It was good, and I will never forget the first time I had it. I won't forget any of the other times, either, but they were all a little off, and never quite matched the explosive experience of that first bottle (the cheesecake accompanying helped, too, but that's a small detail). Not only can I never find that wine any more, but even if I can, I do not expect the same overwhelming flavor of that first bottle.

Sad as that is, I will never forget it, and the fact that I cannot repeat it again makes it even more powerful a memory. It becomes all the more beautiful an experience for that one moment it existed.

So that was in my mind, as I was about to toss the bottle away. I knew I wouldn't forget that amazing flavor, that the bottle would be an idle memento. But still, it was a good moment, and it deserves its idol. So that trash, I will pack and take with me, along with its memory.

Good night, all y'all's, and click some ads (close them the moment they open a new page).

Rules (bonus: review of Can't Hardly Wait)

Hokai, so, I need to pace myself with these things. I mean, sure, I can write nonstop, but I don't want to burn myself out. Or burn out all y'alls readers with too many words. People don't like words, not on the internet. They're heavy. And they're slow. And nobody likes a slow internets.

So this'll be quick this time, after my yesterday's essay. (scroll down for the review of Can't Hardly Wait ... you can also click on all the ads several times; it may help)

I'd like to have some ground rules for Triple-Stamped. Not written in stone or anything, but more like spiritual guidelines to direct each post. Saying it that way sounds weird, though, as if voodoo or Oprah were involved somehow. As a society, we have a vague (at best) understanding of the word "spirit" and all things spiritual in general. I'm not saying I'm going to light some candles or listen to some crystals or anything... I'm just saying: we don't get it. But that's a deeper topic for another post (a "The More You Know" post).

Tonight: the six rules of Triple Stamped!*

1: There are no rules

2: No, really, there actually are rules; I've just wanted to say that (wasn't all I hoped it was)

3: You do talk about Triple-Stamped

4: One post a day

5: Don't be afraid of the heavy stuff

6: Keep it fun

G) rules are made to be broken

* subject to change at any moment and with or without notice

And now: the review of the 1998 modern classic of our generation: Can't Hardly Wait.

Watch it (why not; it's on Netflix right now). The story's one we're all familiar with by now, since it was successful in its time, repeated, and then spoofed (repeatedly). So you won't be surprised, even if you miraculously haven't already seen it. But what very well may be surprising to you (as it was to me) is the sheer number of actors you will recognize in this movie! Jennifer Love Hewitt aside, there's Charlie Korsmo, Peter Facinelli, Seth Green, Donald Faison, Jaime Pressley, Jason Segel (seriously), Selma Blair, Steve Monroe, Chris Owens, Jenna Elfman, Breckin Meyer, and of course Jerry O'Connell. Many of these names you won't know, but IMDB them and you'll know their faces and start remembering the movies you've seen them in. Watching this movie, literally over a decade after it came out, is like visiting a highschool party after you've been to college. You recognize faces but not the names, spending the movie trying to figure out why you know them. It's a cool experience, but the best part is, that's exactly the experience of one of the characters in the movie!! But it's a messed-up feeling because that character's played by Jerry O'Connell... and nobody wants to relate to him. Dude peaked at Stand By Me. Bonus points, though: main character (if there is one) is played by a dude who looks just like a young Jay Mohr (but isn't)! Oh, and there's the wonderful 90's soundtrack with an inordinate amount of Smashmouth. Who doesn't love that?

Anyway, click the ads on your way out!

Triple-Stamped, No Erasies

Hokai, so, I had a job, selling mattresses, but I don't any more. So I have a lot of free time to look forward to these next few months of unemployment. See, I'm terrible at personal discipline, so this is a problem. Seriously, I've watched Star Wars twice in one day, just because I started with the first one! It's not inherently evil, sure, but there's a certain point where inactivity warps you and you discover that all you've got left to prove your existence is a broken-in couch.

I don't want that for me. I want adventure , so this blog will stand as a re-branding of, well, me, as an adventurist. The idea is, have this as a public record of what I do, which will also give me reason to do adventurous things... like, I dunno, parkour or something (please no parkour, for the love of God). I'm also writing a novel, so the plan is make this blog wildly successful over the next few years (well, overnight would be great, but I am still pretty lazy).

Successful to the point at which people say "Hey, I love your words and want you to lie directly to me, but not on the computer, can you write a novel?" To which I shall respond, "Why yes, of course; here it is!"

And they'll throw money at me (and claim I can see the future, which I of course will not correct) until I can retire and do nothing whatsoever with my life. To the casual analyst, it would seem that I plan on taking a very long route to the same place (why not just skip the writing and the blog, and just do nothing but maybe working crap jobs?). However, they would be forgetting one thing: I have to feed my ego.
Yup, there it is. I like to think I'm important.

That there's my life plan. Subject to change at the drop of a hat, of course (see the rules... listed somewhere).

But, I want to write daily in this blog, because otherwise people will just forget that it exists (seriously, that's how it is with me). The catch is, I get bored, and I lose focus. My solution is to have seven subjects I can address in any given entry. Seven things I feel I can write about entertainingly (totally a word; suck it, dictionary!) enough to actually get people to read all the way through things and again, make them buy my book once it's written.

Here are the ideas I have so far:
1) Mind-jobs (at some point, I will try to convince you that circles don't exist)
2) Principles of a Dignified Life (living by a code, so to speak... seriously... like, tip even when you're poor)
3) Outright Lies (storytelling, of the freeform variety because thick fiction doesn't mix with the interwebs)
4) Cultural Analysis (how Star Wars episodes 1-3 should have been, and the implications of Twilight)
5) Adventureblogging (doing stupid shit for attention, like, unplanned bike trips)
6) People-Hacks (like life-hacks, but with people... manipulating people)
7) Beginner's Luck (I try something with little to no preparation or experience in it, like building a chair)
8) anything else

And lastly, I'll leave you, dear reader, with this thought: click on the ads!! please for the love of God, click on the ads! I don't care what they're for, just click on them; that's how I can make money out of this! Click multiple times! I don't care if you read the blog or not, just visit it ten times daily and click every ad that shows up on it! Make a game out of it somehow, like, how many different ads will Google put in there for you to click?

you'll think of something; you're creative