A New Routine

I have settled into a new routine. Write. Walk. Write. I set out a block of time where I settle in and write in my notebook, and lately, it has been expanding a short story into something more. Once I reach my conclusion of time or round out the story, I leash up the dogs and stroll around the neighborhood. I return and type up what I wrote and add details and corrections as needed. This has allowed me to write almost 7000 words and counting in two and a half days now.
As soon as I set the pen down from a session of furious writing, I feel lightened and elevated. Like a runner's high setting in, I take to walking. This helps settle my mind and allows me to relish in a writer's high. The story will usually work through my head and I figure out where to take it next time I settle in with pen, paper, and tea. This morning, I was glad to think up the next year in the story of Jack that I am currently working on. I was able to get him from the Portland up to Alaska over the course of several months. Now I have to settle in and write.
As of this morning, he was halfway up the coast of Oregon on his way to Portland. Once there he will sell his truck, find a job, meet a girl, and winter over in the city. IN the spring, the two will set on a trip up to Alaska.
Overall, this routine is healthy, productive, and very easy to fall into. I am sure the dogs enjoy their multiple excursion throughout the day and it keeps them settled down when I sit to write. 

Waste Production 101

It is Friday. Trash day. We have not had our over-sized green trash can out on the curb in five or six weeks now. It feels good to produce less waste. This has been a longtime goal of mine. For me, it starts at the grocery store. Buying whole foods with little packaging. Purchasing staples such as rice, beans, and flour in bulk. When we changed our eating and shopping habits our waste production begin to decline. We take the trash out less often. Cooking from whole foods is healthier and challenging. It eases my conscience knowing I produce less waste.

The way one single species holds together and ecosystem is how reducing waste conjurers itself up. One thing leads to another and they all grow off each other. With less food packaging going into the trash can at dinner time, my footprint becomes smaller. Furthermore, I compost every scrap vegetable, fruit, or left over rice. It all makes its way out to the pallet lined compost heap. It rots and grows more food for us. Not eating meat often, allows me to better control what goes into the compost. We also reuse.

Nearly everything in our household gets used several times over before being given away, recycled, or tossed out. Plastic bags to parchment paper to foil and yogurt containers. This helps eliminate the need to purchase food storage containers, thereby reducing the amount produced—in effect lowering waste production. Plastic bags have a life that seldom exhausted. We wash and rewash our bags over and over to use them again. This not only reduces trash, but stretches our dollar a bit further down the road.

I have learned to constantly evaluate my waste production in hopes of reducing. It is hard to not produce waste for it is part of civilization. I know I am not perfect and don't think anyone truly could be. But reducing my waste production step-by-step helps ease my mind at the end of the day. Knowing I kept just one piece of plastic out of the landfill by reusing it helps. These little steps build up over time and soon conglomerate together.

One area I could improve my waste reduction is tea. We drink a lot and while we have some loose tea and metal tea balls, bu we do buy prepackaged tea. While we do compost the tea bags, the box usually gets burned, in the winter or thrown out along with the wrapping. This adds up. When I cook, I use everything possible. Vegetable trimmings often become stock before getting transformed into compost. This holistic approach to reducing waste has been a challenge. But it simplifies things. Life becomes less chaotic without wrappers, cans, and useless packaging. I cook from scratch. I learn new recipes and this guarantees the food I eat is simple, healthy, and closer to sustainability than microwave dinners. I know what I put in and I know what I eat—and I know just how much waste my cooking produces.

Of course waste production goes beyond the kitchen. We seldom purchase new things. Thrift stores have wonders and treasures up and down every isle. We thrive off of reusing everything even if it wasn't ours to begin with. We purchase items at a cheap cost and utilize it until we no longer need it, where we often return it to the thrift store. Clothing has no wrapping. Cookware comes without a box. And blankets, sheets, and decorations—no excessive packaging.

I would say the bathroom produces the most waste of all. Beyond what goes down the toilet, trash is produced here in a higher concentration then elsewhere in the home. Toilet paper comes wrapped up in plastic. Toothpaste. Shampoo. Tampons. Floss. Shampoo. Conditioner. Face wash. These are all newly purchased and include packaging. I try to reuse my shampoo bottles and fill them up with bulk shampoo. But toothpaste is a tough one to get around. Perhaps making it would be a healthier alternative.

My toothbrush is ideal. It defines my philosophy well. It is recycled. Made from yogurt cups and enveloped in recycled plastic. This wrapper is cleverly a return envelope with pre-paid postage to return the used toothbrush to the production facility. When received, it becomes a new toothbrush. Simple. Effective. And sustainable.

I see my drive to become sustainable and reduce my waste production a challenge. An average American produces over four pounds of trash a day. I can't fathom that or want to even create that amount. I'd be in and out the house carrying a trash bag. We need to tone down our consumption. Quiet the demanding materialism habits of ours. Play the music a little softer and it can easily start at home, in the kitchen, the bathroom, anywhere is a good starting point. Waste simply cannot fill up our open spaces.

These open spaces are where we come from and where we go for solitude, rebirth, calm and soothing experiences. Open spaces help de-clutter our daily lives from the chaotic flashes of television, phone calls, meetings, shots of espresso, and traffic jams.

I hear the dump truck lift more trash into its greedy mouth. A near fully mechanized process. The large green truck hauls people around the city, daily, to collect the smelly refuse of capitalism. These honorable folk move trash cans around and onto the hands of the truck. From there, the truck whines and lifts up the trash into oblivion. And off to the landfill. A wasteful program with little sorting or organizing of the waste itself. All over, weekly trucks scour the towns and cities devouring our excess. Filling up to the brim, compacting and mutilating the glories and prizes of materialism.

The trash monster loads up on trash, like a junkie on heroin, seems to need the smelly waste. It wheezes its way around my neighborhood every friday morning. Calling out to all that listen, announcing and clarifying just how much waste we truly create. The hero of waste production. But do we hear the implications? I don't know if we do. Trash disposal is taken advantage of. Taken for granted. I know. I once disassembled an old couch and weekly sent pieces of it to the landfill. It was a cheap and clever method of riddance.

With sustainability and eco-this and eco-that and hybrids and green covering the newspapers and packaging of society, we ought to look at our weekly trash production and make an effort to change. It starts in the home, reducing waste production, and in the store, purchasing less power. Now and into the future—it will continue to affect purchasing, which in turn—will affect waste production.

Why Write

It satisfies a deep desire within. Eases my mind. Clarifies this hazy world for me. Challenges. Builds. Defines. And creates. Writing fuels my life. It compels. Commands me to make change—both in the world and within. I must write, the passion burns deep and to ignore fuels a burning growth of angst, fear, sloth, and ignorance. It drives me to learn, to read, to absorb all this crazy world has to offer. A mandate.

Even now, as I furiously write, banjo tunes blaring in the background, dogs playing, tea brewing, dishwasher humming away, I do so in ease. My mind, drives to push the pen, to keep the ink flowing. Satisfaction can only come from within. And I find it most with the pen and paper. It is futile to resist the urge. I must look inwards, not outwards to others. Inspiration I may find from the external, but not what I am. Who I am. I have to look deep into myself, within, to know the truth. It comes forth in writing. The true essence of my being, my existence shines on the paper.

It cramps the hand. The stomach pains with hunger. The mind jitters from too much coffee. It all adds up to something great, beyond words. I hope. Something only I can tangibly find. I have to look deep. It is a goal I aim to reach and upon achievement, to keep going. To sew up one story and become a better person. The power lies behind the pen. Like food providing nourishment to the body, writing provides nourishment for my spirit. Fueled by adventure and Nature—it helps maintain levelness. A soothing to the doldrums of this harsh daily world. Writing provides a release. An escape. A hatch to climb through and into a world of beauty and untold stories waiting to be cast out. I live vicariously—through writing—through Nature—through my daily life. Through doing and nothing more. I never let opportunity pass and I thrive through challenges.

Wax on—Wax Off.

Thoughts develop like the negative;

Pure—Simple.

Writing helps transcend the photograph of life. 

I must write and this is why. It fuels my desires, my sanity, and my existence. It defines who I am. I am human. I am. I do. I write. And I know what I want in life. Life. Itself a grand adventure to be adorned and embellished. I want life—a true existence enjoyed every breathing moment offered. I want to be breathless on top of a mountain, to be awed by the way a tree sways in the wind. To experience the silence of a midnight snowfall in the forest. To walk in fog so thick you could barely breathe and stumble upon a grazing black bear. To watch how a boulder rolls, bounces, and crashes down a mountainside. To write. To distill these experiences through mind, pen, paper, and words. I must write, it defines, it clarifies, and it soothes. I want Life. Words. Writing and existence—nothing less.

Coffee Ceases Time

The dirty gray kettle rattled as steam billowed out in a high pitched whistle. The freshly ground coffee rests discretely at the bottom of a press pot. Two chipped mugs stand nearby. I break away from the radio show to cease the shuttering kettle and commence the brewing. The water spilled onto the grounds, frothing and foaming violently, as the coffee bleeds into the water. I fill up the empty mugs with hot water to fight against the cool basement air.

Winter has settled in and we are bundled up, listening to our favorite radio show. My hands are tired and stiff from the biting cold and I want to settle in next to a campfire and stare into the depth of its soul. I envisioned the snow falling at my back and the smoke rising up, flirting with the snowflakes. The whiff of coffee stunned me back to the cold and I brought the press pot over to the table. The air was arthritic with cold and the mugs warm my slow fingers.

We are poor—I am unemployed and my wife brings home less than $900 a month. We save pennies by bundling up and avoiding our heater. It burns expensive oil. After several minutes, I turn up from my book and plunge the press down into the dark, thick coffee. I pour one mug full and pass it over the table to my wife who knits and hums along to the radio.

This particular show is a time when we can settle in with one another and enjoy hearing the music we don't have. I fill the remaining mug with coffee and set the press down on the table. Wrapping each finger around the mug I grasp it smoothly—I cherish each piping steaming sip. The bitter and sharp coffee warms from the inside. The music dancing with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the small white kitchen. We sit at table—her knitting, me reading—drinking coffee.

Our weekend ritual had organically grown out of love for music, coffee, each other, and simplicity. The kettle slowly winds down its wheezing and sputters of whistles as the burner cools down. As I sip the honed coffee, I dream of warmth and the campfire returns to my mind. I see the flames licking the snowflakes, melting them instantly. The darkness, the chill of the night seem far away as the fire dances.

The moment seems to get lost in time. Or time stops, finally. I dissolve into the now and enjoy every bit of it. The coffee. The thoughts. The music. The company. It all comes together. The static of the radio seems to float somewhere in my conscience as I absorb the hubbub and caffeine. The steady sips set the tempo of the morning. And it may be snowing, it may be freezing, it may be raining or the sun may be shining, but right now, time has ceased to exist and this moment it is all I have.

A Tasty Treat and Read

Mexican Chocolate Brownies

about 16 brownines

2 oz Mexican style Chocolate

8 tbsp, 1 stick unsalted butter, softened

¼ cup half-and-half

¾ cup sugar

2 eggs

½ cup all-purpose flour

¼ cup almond meal

Pinch salt

1 tsp vanilla extract

½ tsp cinnamon, optional

1 or 2 pinches of cayenne pepper, optional

1. Preheat the oven to 350˚ F. Grease an 8-inch square baking pan, or line it with aluminum foil and grease the foil.
2. Combine the chocolate and butter in a small saucepan over low heat, stirring occasionally. When the chocolate is mostly melted, stir in the milk. Remove from heat and whisk till smooth.
3. Transfer chocolate to a large mixing bowl. Add the sugar and mix until fully incorporated. Add the eggs, one at a time, mixing between additions.
4. Sift together the flour, almond meal, cinnamon, and salt. Add to chocolate mixture, along with vanilla, and stir to combine.
5. Pour into prepared baking pan, being sure to spread batter evenly.
6. Place in oven and bake for 20 to 25 minutes.
7. Cool 10-15 minutes before enjoying.

A ethnic twist on an American classic. Commonly found in Mexican grocery stores, Mexican chocolate is a popular choice for hot chocolate. Milk and a tablet of this unique chocolate warmed up and frothed together until hot and fully mixed, commonly served with a cinnamon stick as a straw. I decided to bring this sweet, grainy textured chocolate into the classic, chewy dessert.

This chocolate is made in a way that does not fully incorporate the sugar into the cocoa butter, making for a sandy and sweet chocolate. Almonds are commonly mixed into the chocolate adding a nuttiness that accents the chocolate. I found this to be a plus in the brownies, as it builds the flavor depth. I took this a step further by including almond meal, which can be found at many grocery stores, into the recipe in place of some of the flour. To round out the recipe out and provide creaminess, I added a touch of half-and-half. This will provide a smooth, fudge-like consistency while helping to keep the brownies fresh and tasty for a few days.

Additional flavor accents include vanilla extract, always a booster when chocolate is involved. If the Mexican variety can be found, use it, it has a distinct taste an aroma. Finally, cinnamon and cayenne pepper—traditionally combined with chocolate in Mexico for hundreds of years, dating back to the Aztecs. The two provide a warmth and spiciness to the chocolate. Unexpected most of the times, it will always provide a smile and delight to young and old alike.

What comes out of the oven will smell of warm cinnamon and chocolate and provide the taste buds with a dance in the exotic. Certainly, a great way to warm up the soul among a cold and snowy night. Goes great next to a warm cup of hot cocoa or glass of eggnog. This recipe appear normal, but will amaze and delight anyone caring to indulge. Let these brownies be your surprise for the holidays.

Laundry Day

I am at the laundromat. Waiting for clothing and blankets to dry. I washed all of ours today, as we use them nightly. We recently shed our bed, box spring, and makeshift frame for a more modest simple bed-the floor. Part of the Tao de Ching mentions sleeping close to the ground. It also helps my back and is easier to get up in the morning. Furthermore, I feel like a kid at a sleepover as I slip under a comforter, wool blanket, and a quilt we got for our wedding. Any chance to feel youthful and childlike I flock to. It reminds me that our time is short so enjoy it.
My laundry is probably dry by now but I care not to turn to it and rather just want to write. People shuffle about moving dirty clothes, wet clothes, folding clothes, talking, and sauntering. A baby whines. The money taking machine talks in a digitized voice. For now this blog will remain short. Sweet and short. I am making bread at home and have dived into the world of writing about my bread escapades. I have had a few and look for those words to be up soon.
 

I keep meaning to post more to this and that has become a monthly goal of mine. I feel this blog will begin to take form as my essays on sustainability, as my journal reflects just that. Today I want to revise and finish a poem and throw it out into the world wide mess. I am enjoying my time away from the time-clock. I quit my job to write and to follow my ultimate dreams of working for myself, from home. It was also fueled by the necessity to be creative, to explore and define my creativity. I plan to photograph more and play more music as well. Here is the poem....

A Bee Buzzing
As the fog melts, the frozen trees thaw.
As the frozen trees begin to thaw, the birds soon take flight.
As the birds fly, gracing the sky with songs-
The melodies flow through the melting fog.

As the ice melts, flowers soon bloom into color.
With the yearly bloom, Spring arrives.
And with Spring, a rebirth spills over the land.
Rebirth soon flows into growth;
The birds continue their song, while the green grass grows.
The trees sprout green tips while bees buzz around blossoms.
Buzzing into flowers
Pollinating.
Indulging.
Ruminating.
Buzzing turns into fruition.
And as the flowers bear fruit, summer has arrived.
 
Animals will eat and will animals die.
The cycle goes on, continually turning. 

That poem will probably take form and shift into something entirely different. For now, I am content to let it stand. I enjoy the impromptu writing style when I write poetry. My mind has little time to inflict upon the chose words and my images must stand alone. I must create solid imagery with select words right of the bat. Revision never gets me far in poetry. I like to let them stand and ruminate on poems for months before rewriting or revising them.

A letter written to the City Council

Greetings,

It seems the time has drawn near to make the final decision on whether or not to rezone the Main Station Farmland. I have been opposed to this ever since I first learned of it and have attended several City Council Meetings. I received an email from the Great Basin Community Food Co-op that sums up how many in Reno feel about this decision. It reads as follows: 

Farm land in this country could be classified as endangered. In the last 20 years, much farmland has been turned into neighborhoods, shopping malls, and warehouses, because as a general rule, farmland is on flat ground that is easy to develop.
The last decade, though, has seen the rising desire and need for locally grown foods, mainly because of the fresh taste, lesser impact on the environment (in particular fossil fuels), and the opportunity to support local economies and meeting the farmer that grows your food.
The administration at UNR wishes to rezone and sell 104 acres of farmland at the Main Station Field Lab located at McCarran and Mill, the last remaining big-acreage and thus endangered agricultural land in our City.  This acreage is part of the land grant university that has a function to provide land for research and education of agricultural crops and practices, and serves to support both our rural and urban communities.
These 104 acres also lie in the flood plain, thereby serving as much-needed area for water storage in times of floods, such as the 1997 and 2005 floods, which were classified as 100 year floods. Development in surrounding areas has caused this shift in flood waters, including inundating houses in surrounding neighborhoods. The City of Reno also has a mission to serve its citizens, and this case falls under their purpose of protecting citizens in emergency situations.
Lastly, the 104 parcel is also located near Wolf Pack Meats, which is at risk of being negatively impacted (and potentially closed) by this rezoning proposal. the UNR administration has requested to rezone the acreage to commercial/industrial, which would allow warehouse development in the flood plain.
Many local citizens working to help save UNR Farms envision Main Station Field Lab as an ideal location to create the community's food security hub. We believe that UNR should hold to its premise to serve the community and provide agricultural research and education to support local agriculture for Nevada. This land has ample well water allotment and the best soils for growing food of the total 1,000+ acreage at Main Station Field Lab. Creating a signature agriculture education program, Master Gardeners' demonstration garden, and high desert specialty crop research fields is a smarter and more sustainable solution for the last remaining farm land in our area.

With that being said, I would like to point out the the University of Nevada is a Land-Grant Institution, a college founded on the principles of farming, of research, of developing new ways to grow food. This cannot and should not be ignored, especially in such an unstable economic climate. It should be seen as an opportunity, a chance to change, for the better, how we, the city of Reno, treats its land and food - and as a step towards sustainability.
We have a gem, a swatch of extremely fertile land - and some people want to develop it. For what, money, power, status? What will those things get anyone? To close it up, pour concrete over it, fill our valley with more empty buildings would be detrimental to every person in this valley. It would not be development in the name of progression, but rather digression, it will not move us forward.
Why not take this land, develop a new Master Garden and provide fresh local food for local school lunch programs? Or homeless shelters? Or the Food Bank? Why not develop a new curriculum at UNR that focuses on high desert farming? Or develop a perma-culture class, where the land is properly stewarded into sustainability while producing food as well as habitat for fauna? The options are endless and each one, would put the City of Reno on the national map of the food culture. Many of these ideas have been presented in the past, but I fear, with the delayed progress of this decision, many of you have forgotten the severity of this situation. And the new members, some whom I previously emailed before the election, had no idea what I was talking about. I want this email to serve as a refresher, a breath of fresh air, while it lasts, to remind you just how important this land is.
It provides me with a space to visit, to smell fresh air, to see the Natural world as it once was in our concrete ridden valley. It is fertile land. Land most farmers dream of having. Land that would be a shame to see covered in concrete and steel. I will finish with an essay I wrote while studying at the University of Nevada. It is about the Truckee Meadows, and I feel the overall message is pertinent to saving the Main Station Farm.

Truckee Meadows:  An Epitaph

Right now, the sun is breaking through the clouds and shadows sneak across the Truckee Meadows.  Wind is blowing away the snow, pushing the clouds east—over concrete—across the meadow.  Flowing through this meadow, a river meanders its way towards Pyramid Lake.  Breathing deeply, what trees remain cough and stagger weakly in the wind; this meadow lies fallow and tainted.  Glancing out my panoramic window the flurry of telephone poles, wires, pigeons, and casinos harass and harness the meadow.  I stop for a second, in an instant the meadow was as it was, before progress paved over it like a summer thunderstorm.

* * *

An oasis thick with trees and a youthful river flowing east with animals coming, going, and eating the greenest of leaves.  The calm drift of the water carries a lazy otter and a rambunctious beaver.  Slapping his tail, the beaver eagerly searches for the right cove to build his home.  Another slap on the glassy water and he disappears.  The otter indolently floats down the river. Disappearing under the bridge and cloud of car exhaust.   

A fresh rain has passed over, leaving a deep smell of sage.  Smelling the sage, a fox looks up from across the river, and his eyes point to a scurrying mouse, fleeing death.  Mentally noting the mouse’s destination, he takes a drink and continues along the river.  The wind glides above the river and the rustling of the trees awakens a hawk from an afternoon nap.  She, too, tracks the mouse as she soars among the clouds, eyes riveted on the meadow.  But buildings and wires that drape over the meadow like a dense cloud of smoke skew her vision.   

The receding smell of sage leaves a fresh and sacred cleanliness to the air.  The animals coexist peacefully.  The otter—now with a partner—playfully meander upstream.  Below their games, a world of fish and insects respectfully swim, giving life to the river basin.  Admired most, the Brown and Rainbow trout loyally succumb as nourishment.  For the bear, the cougar, the eagle and the coyote, the trout is a giver of life. 

Coyote appears, coming out of a thick wooded area.  He stops and catches the scent of something.   He notices a large brown bear preoccupied near the river.  Realizing the bear’s fixation is a fat rainbow trout lying disemboweled on the ground, his eyes widen.  Not as successful of a hunter as the bear, Coyote quickly devises a trick to get the trout for himself. 

The bear is left dumbfounded as Coyote wily dashes away, trout in mouth.  The bear humbly lumbers down the riverbank.  He stops. Stands.  Sniffs.  He falls back to the sandy earth with a muted thud and continues on, hungry.  The sun is getting lower to the mountains and the shadows of the buildings grow longer.

Across the river a deer pokes her way through a willow shrub.  Nibbling the bark and leaves, she looks away from the willow, her eyes are directed at the bear.  Raising her nose into the air, she too, sniffs.  She grabs one more mouthful of leaves and heads back into the protection of the forest, which grows thick with pine, oak and cedar.  Offering protection, this grove of trees is inhabited by the deer, Coyote and the bear.  Not too far from the river, the forest thins out giving way to the high desert.  Pinion pine, sage, and juniper trees populate the hills as the highways meander in every direction like the snakes.

The sun quickly slips beneath the mountains as darkness approaches.  New animals come out while others blend back into the landscape.  Steeping in the twilight, the air over the river has cooled and the flows on.  The stars watch over the meadow as they give light for the owl.  Ready to begin the hunt, the owl swoops over the river.  The timid mouse fears to leave his hole in the ground. 

The night is filled with life and soon melts into morning as the cold simmers into warmth.  The seasons are changing.  The leaves near the river evolve from green to yellow, red to orange.  Daily, the temperatures cool as the sun sinks lower while the animals busily prepare for the snows ahead.  The leaves have all fallen, composting on the ground, fertilizing their creators.  The city is growing as the pavement hardens.  

The bear is timid yet eager to slumber.  Fat and cheerful, he lazily absorbs the last delicate moments of the fall.  Breathing deeply, one last lungful of air.  He is puzzled.  He shuffles into his den of solitude and rest—not knowing his world will never be the same.  The deer, the fox and others find shelter among the snow and tuck themselves away with companions.  Coyote quietly walks through the snow along the eight-mile bicycle path.  Now entombed in ice and snow, the river carries on.  Nervously, he notices the air is not as fresh.  He is lonely.  An intangible angst flutters with the frozen air and he ponders over the yellow earth moving machines. 

The air is still and quiet and a soft snow warms the ground.  Coyote can see his breath and the rising sun reminds him of his solitude.  The stillness smells fresh and calming.  Coyote hears an unfamiliar noise.  Loud.  Menacing.  This noise startles Coyote.  A thunderous roar.  The snow springs off the trees.  Coyote is uncertain of what to do—he runs—fast, towards mountains and towards wildness.  Soon the deer, the cougar, the badger, and the raccoon run with him.  He no longer feels lonely but his whole world has changed.  Beside the fleeing animals, the concrete sound shatters the ice, sending it down the flowing river past plastic bottles and rubber tires.

The noise, now accompanied by a somber gray mass, flows swifter than the river.  The noise has unseasonably awoken the bear.  Drowsy, he stumbles out of his den with little time to escape.  His lungs fill with dense, black smoke and he cannot run fast enough.  His tracks fill with oil.  The oily mass catches the bear and entombs him in bricks.  Cars and buildings sprout up replacing the trees.  Wires fill the sky and large planes spew smoke as they float across the sky.  The world has changed in this meadow but the river has persevered and continues to flow. 

* * *

Though the river flows, it is not the same.  No longer does the beaver slap its tail and the trout feed the bear.  Plastic bottles, bags, drunken humans and aluminum cans now float down the river, clogging this essential artery.  The coyote has left for the mountains, along with the deer and the eagles.  He rues the bear’s demise.

* * *

Still standing, I gaze out from the confines of this little box, the clouds drift over the mountains.  The winds howl, leaving little snow.  Below the clouds, tall buildings and streets of concrete intermingled with telephone wires and poles pollute the sky.  Helicopters and airplanes hover loudly over the meadow.  The smell of sage seldom drifts across the meadow.  The river chokes, slowing to an unseen trickle.  She is losing her will to survive.  We are suffocating her dwelling among the tall buildings, wires, and smoke—glowing, day and night. 

Sincerely, 

A concerned Citizen.

EXCERPT: A Plight of Routine

The alarm erupts into a harsh beep and another day for David begins. He shuts the alarm off and rolls back over to hug his wife. He holds her in his arms and kisses her forehead. “Are you awake?” he whispers. The light slowly wanes brighter. The east-facing window allows the growing light to fall into the bedroom and awaken the two people inside.
“I am. What time is it?” replies Eleanor. The light casually grows brighter. The sunrise comes later and later with each passing day. “Six-thirty. I work at 8 today. My boss wants all of us to come in early the next few weeks. Too much work. I don’t want to go. You know, this routine, it is killing me,” David says as he rubs Eleanor’s stomach.
“I know, my love, but you must go. You can’t get fired. We need the money. I wish I could go for you,” she responds as she nestles her head under David’s. She wraps her arms around him and holds him. “Maybe I can find another job? One I enjoy doing,” mumbles David.
“It may be possible this time of year, but who knows? With unemployment so high these days, you know?” Eleanor states as she tucks her legs over and under David’s. “I know, but I just hate this grind—day after day—it’s not for me.” “Hey, this is true, but we must persevere. I’m at your side, love. When my leg heals up, I’ll work for a few months. I can’t work with this broken leg and we need this job to get through the winter,” considers Eleanor. David sighs. He knew he had to go to work. Today, next week, and on through the winter. She was right. The job was necessary.
The day was Thursday and David rose out of bed and went to the bathroom. He glances back at himself in the mirror. He made a mental note to trim his beard. It was already several scraggly inches down from his chin. And his boss John did not like the beard. It was not professional. Several occasions had passed where his boss threatened termination for the beard.
Dressed and hungry, David kisses Eleanor and told her to have a great day. He walks out of the bedroom and through the hallway and into the kitchen, his stomach grumbling. Breakfast is his favorite meal and he must begin each day with it. The food is plentiful this time of year. The garden the two worked all year produced a good harvest. He quickly assembles a fried egg, a bowl of porridge with butter and blueberries from the garden, and a slice of toast. He sets a pot of water to boil for coffee, pours a glass of orange juice, sits down at the large reddish-brown table, and eats.
He built the table over the past summer. He collected wood from scrap yards around the city and driftwood from lakes and rivers. David spent several weeks collecting and assembling the materials. He cut each piece to fit together, like a puzzle, sanded each one by hand and pieced them together. Recycled wood and nails came together in consonance creating an oblong table. He used the heart of his first deer of the season to stain it. This gave the wood and table a new life, a reincarnation.
He ate breakfast in solitude on workdays. Eleanor is not an early riser. This is one reason he hates the routine of work, and the idea of going to work—he is plucked away from the people he loved. He devoutly believes work should derive from the heart and establish itself near the home. Among friends, family, and neighbors. A community. But this is not the case. His office job requires the skills of a pimply, nervous, high school kid, which he surpassed greatly. But it pays well. He works at a marketing firm, reviewing reports and creating synopsis of them for advertising companies. He has a cubicle, on the fourth floor, right downtown, just south of the Truckee River and it measures eight feet by another eight. And the walls climb up, closing him in. His only solace comes from the few photographs of Lobo and Eleanor. But even these loose their luster in the never-changing fluorescent lights.
The pot of water steams and rocks under the boiling water. The last bit of porridge eaten. David retrieves some coffee beans, grinds them in a manual grinder Eleanor found at an antique store, pours them into a French press. Pouring the boiling water over the ground beans, the aroma of coffee arises and further awakens David. He sets about to collect his work belongings as the coffee and water dance together. Putting on his jacket and shoes, his shuffling around the house awakes Lobo. She stretches at his feet and wags her tail merrily. David lets her out into the yard.
“Now don’t do your business in the garden. That soil did well this year,” he tells her as she darts into the gray morning light. He returns to his coffee. He presses the grinds down and pours the black, steaming liquid into his rusty thermos. He turns to let Lobo in as Eleanor lumbers into the room. Limping without the aid crutches. He smiles at her and she returns the smile. Her hair, a light brown, flows down from her head like a waterfall to the middle of her back. She is wearing red panties with white dots on them with a blue tank top.
“Well good morning, Elly,” David says, as Lobo comes back in and settles down on her
bed.
“Good morning, my love. Are you all ready for work?” inquires Eleanor, as she takes David’s hand in his.
“I am,” David sadly replies.
“Have a great day. I’m going to work on my painting today. And, I’ll be home when you get off. I love you,” exclaims Eleanor as the two embrace.
“I love you too, have a great day,” sadly replies David as he grabs his bag and gives her a long, romantic kiss. Woefully, he walks out the door, unlocks his bike, a red Schwinn with rusty rims, and rolls away. Eleanor, standing on the stoop, waves goodbye, her hand saying I love you.
The commute to work for David always relaxes him and prepares him for the monotony of the day ahead. He is able to follow the river for most of the ride, keeping away from the crazed drivers and fumes. The day is cold, clear, and brisk. It is mid-November and the skies have remained oddly clear for a week or more. And David hopes to employ his luck and get a last season fishing and hunting trip in. He hopes the weather will hold off. He knows the snows that bury his favorite fishing river will be here any day.
Nearing downtown, his heart grows heavy. Another day at work, dealing with John, his boss, and all the paperwork. The air thickens from all the cars as his path turns away from the icy river. Turning onto the busy streets, he winds his way south to a giant corporate building. Looming tall over town the Imperial building rivals the casinos just north—looming tall and ominously. He looks up at the building. It dominates the sky above him—steel, concrete, and glass—not trees, dirt, or rock.
He locks his bike up in the same place every day. Arriving at work a tad early, he decides to enjoy the time outside in the brisk morning light. The air is frigid and his face stings from the ride. He nods to a co-worker as she walks into the building. Another co-worker walks by and greets David,
“Hello, when are you going to start driving? It’s quite cold out today,” he says, stopping to make small talk.
“Not sure really. I enjoy the keenness of the morning. And the ride in helps wake me up,” John replies as he locks his bike up.
“To each his own man, I know I wouldn’t be caught dead without my car in the winter.” The man, in a slick gray suit, red tie, and blue shirt, walks away, heels clicking, briefcase swaying, and into the building. David has no chance to reply. He turns back to the east. The sun has recently spilled over the mountains and he catches the golden moments it offers for enlightenment. His watch beeps—seven forty-five. He thinks of what he has to do for the day and his tardiness does not concern him. It is Thursday but he has the next day off. A final sojourn into the mountains awaits him and Lobo. The last solo venture of the year. He does not travel in the winter alone. He needs Eleanor to be there. Deciding to spend as much time outside, amidst the cold sunshine, he walks to the river.
The river flows, cold and dormant. The concrete walls direct the water eastward. David loves this river. He wishes it could flow free—Tahoe to Pyramid—as it once did. He absorbs the last of the sun, takes a deep, slow breath, and walks back to the building. He gets there soon after his watch beeps to signal the top of the hour. He pulls open the main door. His heart is heavy but David optimistically approaches the elevator. He presses the translucent white button, marked with the number four. It lights up. He waits. Soon the left elevator door opens and he shuffles in, no one else. The elevator glides to a halt. Ding. The doors slide open. He shuffles out into the busy office.
“Good morning, David. You’re late,” annoyed, John greets David as he walks by. David stops, returns to the door of John’s office. John looks up from his computer screen and awaits David’s response.
“I know, I had to catch the sunrise this morning, did you see it?” he calmly replies.
Sighing, John retorts, “I did not. You will stay an extra hour today, no pay. Don’t be late again, we have too much work to do this time of year.”
And with a ten-hour day ahead of him, David walks to his desk. Without saying a word. Already his heart throbs in pain; he feels no urge to start his work. The motivation cannot be found. But he knows John will be out and about, any moment, and he must look busy. He starts up his computer and while waiting for it to turn on, he flips through his daily assignments. Every morning, a co-worker, Gary, a zealot of a businessman, comes to work, and places a stack of paperwork on each desk. This stack varies in thickness with each day, and today’s is thicker than normal. Sighing in indignation, he pulls out his thermos and pours a steaming cup of coffee into a blue tin cup. The bottom of the cup wears several chips where rust grows, adding color and character to his favorite mug. His heart sinks as he thumbs through the stack. He sips at his coffee. The warmth and robust liquid warms his heart. “What am I doing?” he says to himself.
“I cannot live like this, I just can’t do it,” he mutters. A co-worker hears him, “Do what?” she says. Surprised, he pauses, thinking of a response. “Uh, oh, nothing. Just a lot of work,” he
replies, as he opens the first file of the day. “I hear that. Hey what are you doing after work?” she says as her head pops up from
behind the cubicle wall. “Driving to the mountains. Goin’ camping and fishin’,” he says, looking up to greet her. “Really? It’s cold, are you taking Eleanor?” she replies. Her short blond hair falls over
the cubicle wall.
“No, just Lobo, my pup. I’m taking the day off tomorrow and will enjoy the last of this good weather,” exclaims David. He begins typing, staring into the computer screen.
“Well, stay warm and be safe,” the co-worker replies as she returns to her cubicle. Sounds of furious typing soon emanate from her desk. And the morning continues on, David pointlessly typing and assessing, making small talk here and there and avoiding eye contact with his boss. The day slowly wanes by and he feels as if it will never end.