A Thousand Years

“That's stupid!” I said it indignantly. It had come out so quickly and with such feeling that it even surprised me that it was my first reaction to the information.

“Stupid?” Saya repeated, laughing at my outburst.

“Stupid long,” I elaborated a little.

“Why is it stupid?”

“Just think of what we could build today, given 1,000 years,” I said, feeling the absurdity, no, the magnitude of the idea.

They finished 1,100 years ago. They built this in 1,000 years, back then? We were standing among the most impressive ruins I'd ever seen.

“Saya, imagine what we could do, if we did anything for 1,000 years with a single purpose.” I was going to rant and rave a little now, and Saya knows well enough to let me get it out before she talks any sense to me.

I continued, “Saya, we built the International Space Station in, what, 20 years?

“We built a satellite that exited the solar system after only 30 years.

1,000 years!

If any group of people could work together for that long, think about it! We could build Elysium; a space city. We could build it in space, bigger than one thing that could be launched from earth.”

“Yeah, but we can't even decide on a direction for our country from one year to the next,” Saya pointed out.

I had to concede the point. There wasn't anything I could think of that everyone agrees on.

“Yeah, you're right, but that's what makes this so amazing; no matter what their differences were, they spent a millennium building these temples, and that went on, no matter what they disagreed about, no matter who died or who held power. This was a continuous effort over generations,” we figured it to be about 50 generations for 1,000 years.

“I know people these days can't decide on anything to do together, but if we did, humanity could do something truly great.” I continued.

“We could build a spaceship for 700 years, and in the other 300 years we could be far outside the solar system.

We could colonize another planet,” I was frantic at the thought, at the idea of how much potential lay in the combined efforts of humanity working as a whole for over a thousand years.

It seemed perfectly clear to me, the moment I heard it, that we'd been wasting our potential, we humans, for most of our time on this earth.

Why didn't others see the same point before me, I wondered to myself.

Indeed, after reflecting, it seems that the only thing we've done in concerted effort is to strip the earth of natural beauty, and to build strife among ourselves.

Later, I was to made to understand that I had misunderstood the meaning of the information. The map of Tikal from which Saya had read that the temples had taken 1,000 years to build did not mention that one temple was built upon another, as a sign of the succeeding ruler's power and wealth, since it was built on the foundation of his predecessor.

In that sense, many of our cities are very old, and by the same principle, marvels of humanity's achievement.

However, the idea has already struck me, and it seems to me the more important idea.

It coincides with a growing idealogy of concerted effort toward solutions and improvements, rather than lingering in disagreement or blame throwing.

We are capable of the extraordinary, as a race. We can accomplish things together that no individual could ever do in a lifetime. It's our ability to cooperate that gives us unprecedented potential.

Unprecedented; no prior precedent has been set so high as what we can achieve. It is there for us to discover: our full potential. We need only to work together in order to glimpse it.

Our greatest collective efforts seem to be wars, as far as I can see. World War II being the greatest example of our cooperation. For even in war, enemies must be cooperative and fight and kill one another, lest you have an aggressor-victim dynamic. So only there, in the destruction of ourselves, do we cooperate so highly.

Everyone got together and helped each other have a war. We killed millions. What if we had collected to build something instead? A body of knowledge, a city, a technology—anything besides weapons that ultimately will only be used against ourselves, speaking as a race.

The idea that we could leave this planet, or repair it, or inhabit another planet, that idea does not leave me. I know it to be a distinct possibility, not fiction. I know that it's only humanity as a whole that stands in the way of a better future for itself and this planet.

So I challenge myself this: the next time I witness a disagreement—the next time I'm faced with a disagreement—to look for the solution, the thing that will suit all parties to the disagreement, rather than chasing the blame, or seeking revenge.

I say this is the better way. I believe that we can achieve something unprecedented—and something good—if we work toward solutions for everyone instead of solutions for one. 

Call it pie-in-the-sky thinking, but I'd rather have been born into a world where 70 years ago we had begun work on the building a city in space, than a world where millions of people died. 

And I know that seems naive, but I know I've caught the thread of a good idea, one that's better than the better formed and more familiar one that it seems to contradict. I'm happy being thought on the fringe if my idea means a better world, and the prevailing ideas mean the world we live in. 

Possibility Abides Here

This is something I wrote during my first week here in Guatemala. I refrained from posting it, because I thought I would add more to it.

Upon reflecting, I think I would like to post it here, unaltered, for posterity (as much as that can be accomplished via the internet).


circa Septermber 6, 2013

Greetings from Guatemala!

A week has now passed by, and I've settled into a new life.

Saya and I have found a spacious studio apartment for what would be felony theft in Los Angeles.

I'm taking Spanish lessons 2 hours a day, thanks to Saya, and I'm finding language learning to be difficult and easy in turn. I think: babies learn languages, so it can't be that hard. On the other hand, to master a language, well, some people never do. Then I think, what does it mean to master a language? If I can communicate my ideas effectively, isn't that enough?

Guatemala seems to have a lot to offer us, but we haven't left Antigua, yet. Immediately after arriving in Guatemala City, we headed to Antigua, so there's a lot more for us to see here.

My intent (not speaking for Saya) is to experience a different mode of living. So the fact that I have found a way to live and be here in Antigua—I have already accomplished my goal.

Life is simpler, and it reminds me of the country living of my childhood.

We hand wash everything—dishes, clothes—and everything must be air dried, albeit sometimes slowly because of the high humidity. For now, I find it quint and charming, but who can say when that novelty will wear off?

We cook our own meals, and we apprise ourselves of the local farmers market.

Now, don't mistake the local farmer's market in Guatemala to be as the one you might find in the states. Better or worse aside, the differences are real, and the reality of the market here is an example of the type of old-world traditions modern-day America tries to recreate.

The market is maze-like, and a little bit unknowable, because you can't see it in its entirety from any single vantage.

The produce is managed and sold by predominantly women, mostly middle-aged. Children are ubiquitous, the helpers and bored attendants to the matrons.

The market—as an entity—having no need for pretense of “organic” or “all-natural”, will present bizarre displays of produce in order to jazz up the appeal of otherwise unappealing but essential crops.

We're talking brightly dyed peanuts and other legumes. Fluorescent magentas, yellows and blues. Beans really aren't that fun by themselves, after all, are they?

It's the little touches, and the feeling that nothing is prohibited that makes Guatemala shine with a certain twinkle.

In conversation with our language school's tour guide, Saya asked of the three-wheeled tuk-tuk taxis (essentially a motorized tricycle that has a bench seat over the rear axle), “Is it possible to fit 5 people [the size of our group] into a tuk-tuk?”, to which our guide, Hugo, responded, “It is prohibited, but it is possible.” Punctuating with a wink. And he added, “In Guatemala everything is possible, but it can be dangerous.”

I don't feel that same feeling of possibility in America. In America, everything is prohibited, and not possible. Our era of possibility, has it passed us by?

The allure of possibility is everywhere in Guatemala. It's a frightening, exciting feeling.

Through the Window

Flying into Guatemala, clouds are being launched into the sky from the depths of the grey-blue Atlantic. They are pulling the sea up their wide columns. Upon reaching the troposphere, the thick columns mushroom out.

The sun is low and fresh. A yellow sun and growing in strength, second by second. Though the sun's energy is strong and magnificent, it is not the object of my eye.

Where am I?

I stepped into this room from a place that I knew—of squares and right angles—but it has now taken me to a strange and alien jungle, one not of trees and green and smells of earth and life.

I have seen 2,000 year old Sequoias, massive trees that are tall but not lanky. Here I am faced by a forest of things much older (or are they much younger?), and much more impressive. This cloud forest, one without definite origins, one that must have crept in during the night. I can sense the power of these creatures. I know their strength comes from the most powerful and timeless forces on our earth: the sun and the sea. Their great energy is evident in their size and the mass of their vaporous but somehow solid bodies. They stand on common ground, blue and grey, not green and brown.

I catch glimpses of the water below and it forms a vast floor. I can see it is feeding these giants. It is as shadowed and nuanced as most things are from six feet away. We are 29,994 further out, and it still looks as rich and detailed as a forest floor—one filled with tracks and detritus of the fallen, upon which plants still alive may grow stronger.

In this forest of clouds, with their powerful blue trunks and grey mushroom tops, if I were not in an aluminum tube looking through a piece of clear plastic, I'm quite sure I'd hear a quiet song on the air, deep and ancient.

The light fills all the gaps loudly, not tip-toeing, but blazing through breaches of the canopy, and if it makes it to the forest floor it does not stay there. Instead, reflecting off the water, its glittering light sears my eyes. Blinded, I look away. It is magnificent.  

Updates and Essays

It’s been a very long time since I have written here.

Many things have changed and I will not go into them now.

I have stopped climbing, and sold my rocking climbing gear out of necessity.

I’m barely getting by financially, but I am getting by.

I live in California now, and I’m living “temporarily” in a small room attached to a garage.

It would make a perfect writer’s hovel. The only factor that prevents it from being such a thing is my reticence to write. Therefore, it’s just an ordinary hovel, and not the much more romantic sounding writer’s hovel.

I’ve looked for employment—which says a lot about how my attitudes and philosophies have changed in itself—yet I have not been offered any gainful employment.

No longer do I frequent the beach daily, as I had when I was living and abiding in that magical, slightly dystopian place. In fact, I hardly go to the beach at all, any more.

World travel calls my name, but a pauper am I, and I cannot decide my course. The piece below I wrote as I imagined I might write many pieces were I to travel and respond to the inspiration I can sense palpably waiting for me.

To travel is to be inspired, and I recall fondly the first days I lived in the Creek or the Valley and how I was so willing to overlook the difficulties of my situation and be inspired by the grandeur.

Yet, I know that I have a tendency to recall fondly events and times that others will recall my complaining, so maybe I have a rose-colored past-view mirror (to mix some metaphors).

I’m dating a woman named Saya (rhymes with Maya), and that’s the glue that holds this disparate way of living together. Without her as a focal point, I’m sure I would have scattered with the wind on the path of least resistance.

So, I’m striving, and I’m now trying to be more forthright in directing my course, but it’s difficult. It’s a challenge to remain honest to myself about my true intentions for life and to be honest about where I am and whether it’s propelling me toward where I want to be.

Were I to Travel

I am among a step farming ruin preserved in the mountains in some south American country, Peru, perhaps. I am sitting in the corner of a room unused for millennia. I face the wall and place my palm against the cool stone. Walls are barriers, inhibitors. But I am more than just feeling this wall. This wall is conducting, uniting. I am reaching back, back through time, touching humanity, touching the work of a man, woman, or child who knew a different world.

This world is not static. This world changes. I am the traveler. I am the observer. I am the privileged one. They, the workers. They are the ones that live. They do not travel. They live and survive and make do, and though they do not have my wealth, they have the earth as a healthy mother. It provides for them, houses them, and nurses them into health with its bounty. The earth is their healer.

The earth I know is sick. I can feel the air sting my lungs when it’s overcast and humid—I guess that all the exhaust gets trapped under the clouds and becomes concentrated. I feel the air take health from my lungs. All it leaves in its place is discomfort, unease.

I have come from the site of infection, and I have brought some of the disease with me. I have ridden in the virus, as it flies the grey skies.

So I sit, and I reach back, and I ask, “oh brother, what would you have us do? What would you have done, were you me?” I long to converse with humanity, to hear its words spoken in one voice, loud and clear. I long to commune with the spirit of my kind, to ask it, “why do we go on living in the ways for which we did not bargain? Why do we remain as we were, and change so little?” It has taken so many small changes over time to bring about any great change. Where does one man’s capacity to have an epiphany and reverse his course go, when he is viewed in the larger context of humanity?

It is of no matter that I ask these things of my brother, for he will not reach back and touch me. His voice is mute. He has only left a testament to what he valued, and maybe that is not so different from what we value today, if I can be said to be part of “We” and we all value the same thing.

Even yet I wonder, would my brother have worked until he died, loved until there was no light, and stayed with those who bore him into his plight? I think that he might.

But if that is he, then who am I? Am I the same? Have I stayed with my family, gone where I should go, on the road paved by those I know? I would want to think I haven’t, but I might admit that I have. I think I have, but I’ve tried so hard to stray afield from the path that is easy and straight. I long for the winding road, the revealing path, the one that—through virtue of mystery—has so much more to offer through the power of revelation.

I long to round a bend in my path and to be shocked, elated, dumbstruck—by what I find, see, hear. That is my way of living. Am I addicted to cheap tricks? Am I the one who must find the least sure path, to declare my intention to not go down on the ship of steady dreams, common goals and expected outcomes?

By living this unsure life, am I able to strive for something great, even though I may not achieve it, something that I could not do in the ordinary life that is found on that long straight road?

Finding Edges

When I think about where I’ve been in the last year the most vivid memories are those that I experienced in the midst of physical exertion. 

Canyonlands

I’m in Canyonlands National Park. It’s a crevassed expanse of red and brown and tan banded sandstone. You might mistake it for an alien planet when you get in deep and you can’t see anything but the high walls and deep canyons—a landscape utterly unfamiliar.

I’m chasing a zealous Czech. What is he zealous for? Exertion.

Martin’s a former pro bicyclist, and an avid adventure racer. Right now though, he’s just kicking my ass. I’m running after him in zigs and zags. Around that boulder, through this narrows; the walls nearly touching both my shoulders, I hold my fingertips out as I enter the red, cool hallway, caressing the walls as I run through.  Martin ducks the low branches. I jump the stream as the path winds. We move like we are native. We are nimble, riding on our legs as they move powerfully beneath us.

The Czech will not tire. I am inspired. We’re in single-track now, the path too narrow for two to run abreast. We’re running on softer soil than the decomposing sandstone of a moment ago. It’s the fertile loam of a riparian zone which hugs and mirrors the small stream that runs through this desert, this runneled and channeled soft rock. We are animals frolicking. We are reveling in the youth and strength of our bodies.

Cresting a hill of monolithic rock, we stop short so as not to fall into the valley that comes sprawling to our feet. The stream has found its way around the rock we have climbed, and we see what we have been running in. The scene is laid out before us: the lush riparian green is complimented by the red rock. The effect is bold.  Our path leads into this valley. We strike out, down the hill, rejoining the single-track.

We are running, running, always running. Breathless at times, but always exuberant in the surreal landscape we encounter.  The bare, naked calico rock beckons. It begs us to explore its curves, undulating and breathing, enticing us. The rock holds the promise of revealing something, but that something is never quite revealed—the essence of sensuality. Our bodies rise and fall as we run, tracing the forms of the great rock. We are so small. We run on.

After Six

After Six, 5.7, five pitches (approximately 500 feet). Mike’s friend Thomas already ran some laps on the route, and he is telling us the conditions are good, and it’s been nice so far today. Mike and I are slipping into our shoes, and fastening our chalk bags around our waists.

I’ve never free-soloed before. I’m nervous, but I’m optimistic in my abilities—a feeling that almost passes for confidence. Thomas leads off. Mike gives him fifteen feet, and follows. I do likewise. We begin climbing.

Instead of feeling foreign or strange, it feels incredibly natural; free-soloing. With no rope, no harness, no gear, I move unfettered. A rhythm of movement develops and I can feel the way I am supposed to move over this rock, with this rock. Moving steadily, I’m aware of Mike and Thomas above me, but as I begin to concentrate more on the climbing I move into a mental space that blocks out most of the world.

We use an alternate start that is only 5.6 or 5.5, and we aren’t climbing anything harder than 5.6 the whole way. The terrain is easy, and that’s good because I’m nervous and awkward in my movements. I’m not focused enough to shut out everything; I scramble a bit just to keep up with them. They seem to be walking up the rock. I’m trying to climb it. I feel like the little brother. I tell myself that I can’t allow my pride to force me to climb faster than my ability, I tell myself about the danger of chasing them.  There are big ledges along the way at the bottoms of each pitch. Most of the time, a fall will be a serious injury, but probably not fatal. Regardless, the whole climb demands to be treated as a no-fall scenario. 

Thomas disappears, then Mike. They’re pulling over the lip, summiting. I’m close behind.

On top, the view is magnificent. Yosemite is majestic (one of the few places I’ve seen that requires the use of a word like ‘majestic’). It is one of those perfect days: temperature, breeze, light—all perfect. What do you want me to say? The light is bouncing off the thousand foot grey granite walls like they are mirrors—big, grey slabs of mirrors. That light is deep yellow and orange, and it’s shooting beams through breaks in the horizon of granite as you’d see in a painting, but this is real. The sky is blue, with clouds thick and full as they can only be in the rich air above the Sierras.

So, the sky is blue, and white clouds. The sun is a low afternoon sun that’s blazing in glory. These colors are absorbed and refracted by the rich grey of the tall granite. That granite is hung above a soft, green floor of coniferous trees in their summer best. All of this is spread out before me, for me. The sky comes to me as a soft cooling breeze. I have reached into the rock, placing my hands and feet into its faults. I have felt everything, seen everything. I feel very connected this place.

A Long Walk

I spent 6 hours on an air-conditioned bus. From Phoenix, AZ to Huntington Beach, California. By contrast to what I knew I was about to do, I felt ensconced in luxury. I had everything I needed on that bus; a comfortable place to sit that was mine, food and water, a bathroom in the back, and a book to read. My human needs were taken care of.

I got off the bus, shouldered my pack and walked six miles to the home of the family that allowed me to keep my belongings with them. There, I repacked my 50 litre pack to be as light and minimalist as possible. I knew I had a 25 mile urban hike ahead of me.  I took only the bare essentials, and left everything else behind. I was bringing clothes for a California Autumn, a poncho for rain protection, and a sleeping bag.

After 30 minutes I had repacked and set off on my hike. It was late in the afternoon, and I passed through the south-eastern neighborhoods of Los Angeles like a ghost; seeing everything, paid no attention by anyone. I walked north, into the night. I became weary and decided to pass the last five hours of darkness in a drainage canal under a bridge in a heavily industrial area. All night, lights and buzzers from the factories that peered into the canal kept me awake.

I slept fitfully.

I was awoken; discovered by a man in silhouette. I sensed he meant me harm. Everything felt off, though, and I couldn’t move properly. My heart started to pound, pumping adrenaline. Then I woke up, my pounding heart the throughline that connected the dream to reality (there’s always a throughline). Everything looked the same; I dreamt my dimly lit overpass in perfect accuracy. I searched the area to ensure I was alone. The rest of the night I felt haunted, though I was not visited.

In the morning twilight fog rolled up the canal, moving slowly, it was mysterious and foreboding. I had had enough hiding down there; I got up and packed quickly. Walking up the steep, ramped sides of the canal, I felt I was ascending to the world of the awake, and the living.

Traveling on foot early in the morning, I witnessed the workers streaming into the factories. Walking on, I came to the residential area of this city, and saw the children going to school. Again, I went unnoticed: just a stranger, no one’s interest.

My destination was a bike shop, where after walking 31 miles, I intended to purchase a bike and ride to Santa Monica, a 40 mile ride. I arrived on Tuesday, to find that the bike shop was open 6 days a week—even on Sunday!—but was closed on Tuesdays. Excellent.

 I bought some KFC (I could afford a high calorie meal by now, to speak nothing of my finances). Then I walked an additional 2 miles or so and found a quarry that seemed disused, again, it was in an industrial sector. By this time, having walked over 30 miles in a 24 hour period, I felt quite tired and my feet hurt.

The quarry was fenced off and appeared no longer to function.  I hopped the chain-link fence right next to the sign that promised $500 fines and criminal charges for doing things like hopping the chain-link fence.

I walked along a dirt road away from the industrial area and bedded down next to a felled tree limb, and above a steeply banked hill that fell away from the road at about a 30 degree grade.

Lying in my sleeping bag, I’d startle at any unusual sound, paranoid I’d be found out. I was suspicious of every movement, any unexplained noise. Then I woke to this sound: softly crunching gravel, the consistent sound that betrays the rubber of a wheel as it rolls. I looked down the road, expecting headlights, but there were none. Was I hearing things? The gravel glowed red, but only for an instant. Was my paranoia making me delusional? I thought it must be in my head, so I stared at the road like so many bewildered animals before they meet blunt trauma, trying to make sense of my confusion.

The truck began to crest the hill, 25 meters away, and I understood in an instant what had happened: there was a dip in the road as it approached me. The truck was traveling at engine-idle speed, and its lights were off. As it descended the dip, the driver had momentarily applied the brakes, and then the truck and its sound were hidden from me by the near crest of the road, which the truck was now surmounting. By the time I realized this, I was also simultaneously picking up the four corners of the poncho I use for a ground cloth (with everything I owned laid on top) and scurrying down the bank.

Barefoot, I was thankful the ground was covered in soft, dead leaves, though they made my footing insecure.

I scrambled behind a bush and a downed limb, and stopped about 20 feet below the road. I wanted to breathe deeply—to catch my breath. Instead, I held it. About 10 seconds had elapsed since I saw the truck cresting the hill.

Now I couldn’t hear the truck. Then I realized; it had stopped, about 5 meters from where I had been sleeping. The doors opened, and I heard faint voices, unintelligible.

My heart was racing. I had to breathe, but I dared not to move. I exhaled. My breath carried a prayer that they wouldn’t hear me. I couldn’t see them, and I prayed they weren’t looking for me; that they were only here coincidentally, on unrelated business.

They seemed to arrange something in the bed, maybe even dump something—I couldn’t tell. Then they got in the truck and backed away, as slowly as they came.

I waited a while longer to ensure they wouldn’t return, then I returned to the road. I barely slept that night. Instead, I passed the darkness in vigilance and found a park in the morning where I could snooze unnoticed until the bike shop opened.