Repeated punting, mormon bumper stickers, and when to say enough is enough

     It's been awhile since the last post, but I promise all is well; I (and, more importantly, the van) am well intact, and still wrestling up rocks and calling it fun. I had planned to save this post until after a send of my most noteworthy goal of the trip, "Throwing the Houlihan". And man, was I close to writing that victorious entry. Each of the four times I touched the finish jug, my mind began to imagine what I'd write. "I was inspired by Todd Skinner's Wild Iris masterpiece ever since I saw it in a video while still a young gym climber...". But I guess it wasn't to be. Early in my time at the Iris, I found some great partners willing to belay my heartbreaking send attempts, but after an amazing newlywed couple left back home for St. Louis, I was high and dry. I would spend my days sitting under the route reading, hoping for a belayer to come by, and hoping with even greater intensity I would be warm and ready to give a good attempt should such a rare occurrence come about. I didn't get in much climbing for those weeks, and gradually the process lost its appeal. Even after a hiatus from Wyoming to meet with some old friends in Rocky Mountain National Park, belayers didn't appear. I've never been that obsessed with a route- I began to lose sleep rehearsing beta in my head each night, hoping that, like the infamous H orst boys, I'd be able to send such a notorious line before exiting my teenage years.
     Ironically enough, it took the discovery of a quick belay towards the end of a day filled with tense waiting for me to be motivated to throw in the towel. The interaction I had with the man who gave me that catch is something I'm still trying to wrap my head around, but I think I can sum it up by saying he was one of the most morally bankrupt people I've ever met. I don't feel good about even typing the things he said to me, but I've never witnessed that kind of misogyny from another human being before. And the worst part? I didn't say a word to counter it. I needed the catch, after all, and a send was far more important than any other values I hold, so I smiled and nodded through a barrage of absolute unadulterated hate. For that I still feel terrible- that was my moment to stand for something important within this community and culture I care so much about, and I completely failed to do so. So in light of that, and an ever-heightening desire to explore beyond the comforts of last summer's home, I'm now doing a stint on the unforgiving slick limestone of American Fork Canyon, outside Salt Lake City, in order to train old-school style for the brutal enduro routes I anticipate at my next stop, Mt. Charleston. The climbing here is technical, steep, and incredibly pumpy- in other words, the perfect thing to supplement a month of one finger power spouldering on Wyoming dolomite. The grades I'm capable of on this stone aren't especially noteworthy, but I can feel my sport climbing prowess increasing (and skin rapidly diminishing) each day I spend on Boone Speed test pieces in Hell Cave or Cannabis Wall. The people here have been great (one went so far as to dive into violent rapids in order to save my waterlogged climbing pack), and each day has been exhausting, painful, and nothing short of wonderful. I look forward to my next week or so here, and will hopefully be able send some historic lines after the benefit of today's rest.
     As far as the artsy section of this blog, however, my most recent piece of writing has yet to be finished, but after reading the novel "Life is Elsewhere" and the verse of Pablo Neruda, I've been inspired to try and improve my ability to compose poetry. I've tried to write poems for awhile, but they've always been...well...pretty terrible. Though I don't claim my most recent creations to be anything outstanding, the've at least reached a point to where I can share a few without extreme measures of embarrassment. So, until I figure out where my next story is going, here are a few pieces I feel pretty good about. 'Till next time!

-

Each time the trail curved

he wondered what could come about

if he disobeyed

striving off

against the marked flow

of feet before-

through trees

tight as sisters sharing fluttering gossip

and voluptuous bushes

plucking at his clothes, saying

"Stay, stay

the future will encounter you

as readily on the ground

beside us

as it could beyond

the trembling horizon."

Walking towards nothing

as the sky folds inwards

and clouds pull

crisp, clear rain

from the ground beneath.

As the soil

falls in deep, youthful love

with a prideful moon

and allows itself to be pulled,

sifting with murmurs of lust

around the man's feet,

in terrestrial tides

of ecstasy

by her infinite dance.

Yes, he wondered

walking the packed earth

like so many before

if with a simple,

unforeseen turn

he could depart

the rolling hills of normalcy

and stroll instead

through the valley of a dream.

-

A minuscule child

eyes dark with focus

arms splayed as if to embrace

the air in front of him

walks

step by step

breath by breath

from one end

of a sparkling razor blade

to another.

A larger boy

lips pressed

with apprehension

disturbs the teetering journey

to make an initial attempt 

at removing the blonde prairie

of foreign,

wiry grass

from his quivering chin

sending the child soaring

to gaze

at his surprised reflection

in the glimmering porcelain

of a curved bathroom sink.

There he plays

humming with innocence

amongst the falling stubble

which becomes an itchy bed

and the turgid water

serving

as a soapy pool.

The boy sniffs

his father's chalky deodorant

with raised eyebrows

and nervous frown

as the child laughs

and allows the musky perfume

to wash over him.

As the boy slicks his hair

with experimental

searching fingers

the child begins

a rollicking backstroke

through white islands

of shaving cream

gazing towards the giant above

yet unable to escape

when its fingers

depress the sink's plunger

initiating a vortex

of roiling, grey water

sucked towards oblivion.

And as the child disappears

with a helpless cry

the boy walks hopefully

through the doorway,

towards his first hint of manhood.

-

Laying upon an anonymous shore

the world will not cease singing

shouting

dancing

as if to willfully counteract

purposeful efforts

towards sleep

towards dreams-

press mute, mute

blind fingers searching.

And now it is shaking

trembling

unable to contain

its own vitality

bursting

with screams from the north

hope from the south

tears from the east

and sin from the west-

press mute, mute

mouths forming

silent words in air.

And still the script

runs on, the masses

holding hands over ears

drowning in the silence

of the pipe,

the needle

shutting dry eyes

to be woken by policemen

or angels-

press mute, mute

as the oceans overflow

with ice and tears.

And we sit, scared

to add to the cacophony

that our voice

a singe, whispered syllable

may be the straw

breaking the world

to noisy chaos.

So much safer

to swim in silence,

in fantasy,

withdrawn to a secure

world of lights-

press mute, mute

or speak in bold color

before there is nothing left to say.