Thursday, May 24, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Maytag'd
My life didn't flash before my eyes.
There were no thoughts of friends, family, or deeds left undone.
Only panic.
And the faint drowning voice of reason telling me what to do.
On the shore there was a 180 pound man hanging on to the end of a rope with such tenacity that he was being dragged through bushes and rocks toward the waters edge. On the other end of that rope was me getting my ass kicked by 875 cubic feet of water per second.
I had dodged several large rocks a short distance upstream navigating out of harm's way with my giant flippers and boogie board. In open water such flippers could languidly propel a diver through the water. In this river the resistance was too great to even kick them. Such maneuvering put me on the far side of the river, and the long end of the rope filled bags held by the safety guys on the far bank. But there were two men standing there, and I had river left. I tried to kick furiously to spin around and face upriver but nothing happened. My fins were immobilized by the torrid waters. Sideways, I tried to signal for the safety to throw the bag. Huge seconds ticked off the clock and he spun the bag. It left his hand and I watched it sail into the air and abruptly plunge into the river five feet from the thrower. It still had about forty feet to go.
The second safety fired his bag and it landed in the water about 2 feet in front of me and accelerated downstream ahead of me. Frantically I raced to retrieve it. I have no idea how slippery neoprene gloves could find that rope and hang on with such tenacity that I could drag a man 20 feet. The faint voice told me that if I held on that the river would bury me, that its juggernaut force would take me under. I let the rope slip and in the long interminable period that I remained with the rope the voice told me that there wasn't much rope left, that it was finite, and that there were no more throwers of ropes or even men in position to help. That voice quietly informed me that I was very quickly approaching the end of the world, the end of the world feared by ancient mariners when the world was still flat. The one that I was about to fall from and into the bellies of large scary sea monsters. I had reached the very literal end of my rope.
On the riverbank a man named Gino was performing what he later called
"High-Speed Gardening" as the river reached up and pulled him down
through that underbrush, hanging on to me. He tore the elbow of his
shirt and would later find bits of trees stuck in his pockets and
buttons. One could see the clear path that he had carved and the tilled earth that had been his wake.
In the river I was feeling the awful finality of the rope bag and the cold river flowing around me. Now over and over me. The immense gravity of it pulling me down, paralyzing me, freezing me. I lost sight of the shoreline, now only several feet in front of me and my world vanished in a flurry of white water.
And the last thing I heard over the terrible roar of the river was the faintly drowning voice telling me to let go of the rope.
And I let go.
The river spit me out and I popped back to the surface. I had lost the boogie board and willed myself the final few feet to the rocky bank. My gloved hands searched desperately for purchase and my knees bounced painfully off the now-shallow bottom. I clawed my way back onto the earth from my position dangling over the edge of the world.
I heard my own voice in my head this time.
"Close one," was all it said.
There were no thoughts of friends, family, or deeds left undone.
Only panic.
And the faint drowning voice of reason telling me what to do.
On the shore there was a 180 pound man hanging on to the end of a rope with such tenacity that he was being dragged through bushes and rocks toward the waters edge. On the other end of that rope was me getting my ass kicked by 875 cubic feet of water per second.
I had dodged several large rocks a short distance upstream navigating out of harm's way with my giant flippers and boogie board. In open water such flippers could languidly propel a diver through the water. In this river the resistance was too great to even kick them. Such maneuvering put me on the far side of the river, and the long end of the rope filled bags held by the safety guys on the far bank. But there were two men standing there, and I had river left. I tried to kick furiously to spin around and face upriver but nothing happened. My fins were immobilized by the torrid waters. Sideways, I tried to signal for the safety to throw the bag. Huge seconds ticked off the clock and he spun the bag. It left his hand and I watched it sail into the air and abruptly plunge into the river five feet from the thrower. It still had about forty feet to go.
The second safety fired his bag and it landed in the water about 2 feet in front of me and accelerated downstream ahead of me. Frantically I raced to retrieve it. I have no idea how slippery neoprene gloves could find that rope and hang on with such tenacity that I could drag a man 20 feet. The faint voice told me that if I held on that the river would bury me, that its juggernaut force would take me under. I let the rope slip and in the long interminable period that I remained with the rope the voice told me that there wasn't much rope left, that it was finite, and that there were no more throwers of ropes or even men in position to help. That voice quietly informed me that I was very quickly approaching the end of the world, the end of the world feared by ancient mariners when the world was still flat. The one that I was about to fall from and into the bellies of large scary sea monsters. I had reached the very literal end of my rope.
On the riverbank a man named Gino was performing what he later called
"High-Speed Gardening" as the river reached up and pulled him down
through that underbrush, hanging on to me. He tore the elbow of his
shirt and would later find bits of trees stuck in his pockets and
buttons. One could see the clear path that he had carved and the tilled earth that had been his wake.
In the river I was feeling the awful finality of the rope bag and the cold river flowing around me. Now over and over me. The immense gravity of it pulling me down, paralyzing me, freezing me. I lost sight of the shoreline, now only several feet in front of me and my world vanished in a flurry of white water.
And the last thing I heard over the terrible roar of the river was the faintly drowning voice telling me to let go of the rope.
And I let go.
The river spit me out and I popped back to the surface. I had lost the boogie board and willed myself the final few feet to the rocky bank. My gloved hands searched desperately for purchase and my knees bounced painfully off the now-shallow bottom. I clawed my way back onto the earth from my position dangling over the edge of the world.
I heard my own voice in my head this time.
"Close one," was all it said.
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Thursday, May 10, 2007
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Community
A 1.1 million dollar business was being run in my neighborhood.
I had no idea.
Two marijuana grow houses just got raided. One of them several houses down from mine.
And it seems this is a mystery to everyone.
How could this be?
These houses were basically empty, no furniture, no items used for living. All business. Hydroponics, grow lights and of course, plants. Very minimalist.
Now I am not one to cast stones about how another makes a living, nor is this about the social pluses or minuses to marijuana.
This is about community, or more specifically, where community has gone. It is no longer in the subdivisions and neighborhoods. Our cities have become dark alleyways of garage doors that open and shut with bear-trap rapidity. We come home, go about our business and do everything to firmly plant our heads in the sands of our neatly manicured yards. We build 6 foot privacy fences and our houses so that the windows don't face our neighbors houses and all so that we can have the illusion that our homes aren't mere feet apart. And what we lack in actual distance, we make up in social distance.
I couldn't even tell you the names of my neighbors, nor they mine. Especially the ones across the street. I know because in 5 years, I have never spoken with them. Not once. And I am a normally social, gregarious even, person. Why aren't we out talking by the mailboxes and inviting each other over for dinner and having block parties for the kids and getting to know each other? We all run our lives as though the rest of our neighbors don't exist. So I guess it isn't a stretch to understand how it can go unnoticed for so long when your neighbors actually don't exist. When no one is actually living in these grow houses it can so easily escape our attention because we are not caring, paying attention to, or otherwise giving a damn about any of the other actual residents of the other houses, why should we care about the phantom ones?
It is indeed sad that we care so little about where we live.
We placate ourselves with monthy dues to the HOA that we tell ourselves is maintaining our little neck of the woods. But in reality Home Owners Association is the latest-greatest oxymoron. There is no Association in these neighborhoods. If anything, we have purposely built, created, and customized a very efficient Disassociation from one another.
And this is exactly what we deserve.
We completely deserve to have drug dealers use this construct to their advantage.
Yes, we completely deserve it. This is our own fault. We are to blame. This situation is completely of our own doing.
We have fostered the perfect environment to harbor this kind of activity. Thus far we are lucky that these houses have been used for growing pot, which is relatively benign in use, has basically no overdose level, and is as safe as growing tomatoes to produce.
The meth labs in our midst are not so safe. Not only is the drug potent, addictive, and completely destructive, but the places themselves are dangerous. And if 1.1 million dollars worth of pot and guns can remain unnoticed for years, so can they.
Where have our communities gone? We are all turning our backs on each other and forgetting why we built cities in the first place: The simple principle that we are stronger together than we are alone. Yet we do everything in our ability to attenuate that basic tenet by huddling in our own little foxholes day and night. By not getting involved in each other's business. By not knowing each other's names.
We have a choice to make: We can be a community. We can be strong and make our streets safe and know what is happening in OUR neighborhood. Or we can turn our heads. We can live our own little lives and bury our heads in the sand. And in so doing we choose to fall.
The choice is simple.
Talk to your neighbors. Get to know them. Ask them questions. Answer theirs. And in so doing we will mend fences far more effective than the ugly wooden privacy fences in between our property. We will rebuild the community that we have somehow lost. We will find our strength in each other.
I had no idea.
Two marijuana grow houses just got raided. One of them several houses down from mine.
And it seems this is a mystery to everyone.
How could this be?
These houses were basically empty, no furniture, no items used for living. All business. Hydroponics, grow lights and of course, plants. Very minimalist.
Now I am not one to cast stones about how another makes a living, nor is this about the social pluses or minuses to marijuana.
This is about community, or more specifically, where community has gone. It is no longer in the subdivisions and neighborhoods. Our cities have become dark alleyways of garage doors that open and shut with bear-trap rapidity. We come home, go about our business and do everything to firmly plant our heads in the sands of our neatly manicured yards. We build 6 foot privacy fences and our houses so that the windows don't face our neighbors houses and all so that we can have the illusion that our homes aren't mere feet apart. And what we lack in actual distance, we make up in social distance.
I couldn't even tell you the names of my neighbors, nor they mine. Especially the ones across the street. I know because in 5 years, I have never spoken with them. Not once. And I am a normally social, gregarious even, person. Why aren't we out talking by the mailboxes and inviting each other over for dinner and having block parties for the kids and getting to know each other? We all run our lives as though the rest of our neighbors don't exist. So I guess it isn't a stretch to understand how it can go unnoticed for so long when your neighbors actually don't exist. When no one is actually living in these grow houses it can so easily escape our attention because we are not caring, paying attention to, or otherwise giving a damn about any of the other actual residents of the other houses, why should we care about the phantom ones?
It is indeed sad that we care so little about where we live.
We placate ourselves with monthy dues to the HOA that we tell ourselves is maintaining our little neck of the woods. But in reality Home Owners Association is the latest-greatest oxymoron. There is no Association in these neighborhoods. If anything, we have purposely built, created, and customized a very efficient Disassociation from one another.
And this is exactly what we deserve.
We completely deserve to have drug dealers use this construct to their advantage.
Yes, we completely deserve it. This is our own fault. We are to blame. This situation is completely of our own doing.
We have fostered the perfect environment to harbor this kind of activity. Thus far we are lucky that these houses have been used for growing pot, which is relatively benign in use, has basically no overdose level, and is as safe as growing tomatoes to produce.
The meth labs in our midst are not so safe. Not only is the drug potent, addictive, and completely destructive, but the places themselves are dangerous. And if 1.1 million dollars worth of pot and guns can remain unnoticed for years, so can they.
Where have our communities gone? We are all turning our backs on each other and forgetting why we built cities in the first place: The simple principle that we are stronger together than we are alone. Yet we do everything in our ability to attenuate that basic tenet by huddling in our own little foxholes day and night. By not getting involved in each other's business. By not knowing each other's names.
We have a choice to make: We can be a community. We can be strong and make our streets safe and know what is happening in OUR neighborhood. Or we can turn our heads. We can live our own little lives and bury our heads in the sand. And in so doing we choose to fall.
The choice is simple.
Talk to your neighbors. Get to know them. Ask them questions. Answer theirs. And in so doing we will mend fences far more effective than the ugly wooden privacy fences in between our property. We will rebuild the community that we have somehow lost. We will find our strength in each other.
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Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Rapid introduction of entropy into this system.....
..resulted in catastrophic gyroscopic destabilization and loss of yaw control.
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