More Pictures

Rise and shine.

 This is the main bus stop on the way up to the resort. On a powder day, there's a crowd of people out front.

  This is Wily (as in cunning). Arvin and Danica got her from a rescue shelter in Santa Fe during Thanksgiving. She is a master of the puppy-dog eyes. 

Home sweet home

I live in a house. My bedroom window is on the upper left.

Enter the house, go up the stairs, turn left. (The ice cream is guarded by Spiderman)

Turn left again.

Up the stairs. (the red star is the window is visible in the exterior shot)

Turn right.

And if you look out the window, to the Northwest...

Or off the porch, to the Southeast...

Behind the scenes

The staff of the Ice Bar had to take a skier proficiency test today. With the exception of the head chef, we all did fine. The head chef, however, fell and hit his head. Disoriented and incoherent, he was diagnosed with a concussion and his ski pass was flagged. Ski patrol must green-light him before he can access the restaurant by himself. The opening schedule was pushed back three days, so I have tomorrow off.
And Brother, it's ripping.

Yesterday featured a snowmobile ride around the resort. It was a bit like riding a golf kart around the Disneyland backlot, only with stunning vistas and serene natural beauty. And a fox. I mean, a Fox. Like a fox fox. You know what I'm talking about.
I spent the rest of the day working one-on-one with the as yet unconcussed head chef prepping lobster soup and hand-made gnocchi. He made us a special dish combing the gnocchi, lobster stock, fried tomato, and elk sausage. We ate lunch in the fancily furnished, but completely empty restaurant overlooking the resort. It reminded me a bit of this business.

On Imagination and Reality

Is it weird that I'm into this kind of stuff?

I'm living with a couple, Arvin and Danica, in a duplex. Arvin and I have connected over pop culture. He has a lot of comic books, hero movies (Super, Bat, Spider, and Iron men, the Bourne trilogy, etc.), and a huge box of NES games. Last night I got through two and half episodes of Batman the Animated Series before putting in The Dark Knight. We had a stimulating conversation about the timeless values and themes present in Gotham's struggle for salvation and the role of the Caped Crusader as a characterization of our conflicted desire to disrupt our own moral weakness.
Which is my way of saying that I really like Batman.
But it also got me thinking about Fantasy as a lens to view Reality. I'm a sucker for romantic comedies, nostalgic music, and the wild adventures of colorful heroes. I like soaking up the drama because it inspires me to savor those qualities in "real life". My concept of reality is as far from Truth as any child's fantasy, so why not have some fun with it? 
I think that's why comics and animation are so appealing to me. It's one thing to watch a movie where the hero never runs out of bullets, but consider the sense of wonder that comes with stepping into a whole new world. I'm not talking about anthropomorphic animals or advanced technology. I'm talking about the difference between this and this. 
Evocative, colorful, and exagerated ...but compared to what?
"Normal" is a relative term. If you couldn't detect it, there are some Buddhisty themes swirling around in here. Try this: step into this world for a moment. OK, now look around you. Is it possible to apply the curiosity with which you studied that image to the keyboard in front of you? Or the pattern of the wall? Or the texture of your pants? Even harder, can you see your life as equally colorful and bizarre and exciting? Just because what you're used to seems less interesting doesn't mean you have to ignore it, or— God forbid, get bored by it. 
Savor the flavor.

Ski to Kill

I think we're gonna need a helmet.

Day Two on the mountain found me trying to keep up with part of the Ocho crew, including the Philippine-born, Tennessee-raised, army-trained sonofabitch who's been watching my back for the past week. He's hooked me up with a job interview, ski poles, down-home dinners, and a whole lot of encouragement. He describes Crested Butte as a town of world class nobodies, and I'm here to you he's one of them. Laddies and gentlemen, I give you Zi:

I can't say I've ever seen anyone move that fast across snow. Just trying to keep up with him was enough to put the fear of God in me. He rides with a motocross helmet and body armor, so the least I can do is put a shell around my green melon. This decision seemed in line with sentiments overheard waiting for the lift:
Ski fast, learn or crash.
It's nice to be surrounded by people who all share a drive to excel at the same thing. So much of the language around here is based on getting some, going huge, or doing the stupidest fucking thing anybody's done all week. When it snows, it's ripping. I'll always love the sense of community in Davis, but the focused energy around having fun on the mountain is invigorating and creates a unified social emphasis on play over work. And there was much rejoicing.

Thanksgiviiiinzzzz

Thanksgiving Day, 2010 
Fresh powder means getting an early start on the day. By the time I showered and left apartment #8, the boys (and girl) of "the Ocho" had already been up on the mountain for a couple hours. I had an interview with the head of Guest Services to volunteer as the resort's mascot. Even though I'd landed a job that earned me a ski pass, I wanted to follow through on the interview as a show of good faith. When I explained the situation to the jolly, quoth the secretary, "Australian Matt", he looked at me like I was crazy and sent me out the door.
Better to be seen as crazy, than lazy.
I got back to the apartment around noon. The boys (and girl) had planned to be back by then to deal with the 18lb. turkey defrosting in the sink. At 12:30, I got a call: They had come in from the cold (20º in the sun) and started drinking at the Avalanche. They would be back in an hour. Yeah right. I settled into an ancient Thanksgiving tradition of mine, and awaited their "shit-hammered" return.
At 2:30, they stumbled upstairs and collapsed in front of their totem— that ever-erect polyurethane dispensary of their wacky-tobaccy. I was prepared for the worst, but over the course of the next seven hours we would miraculously assemble an array of dishes that, heaped high on our plates, fulfilled the highest standard (did I mention it was a miracle?) for a Thanksgiving feast.
The turkey was moist and perfectly cooked. The mashed potatoes were barely able to contain the fresh gravy made from the turkey juice, the green bean casserole complemented the stuffing in both aesthetic and pallet, and more pumpkin pie and ice cream than we could master taunted us from the table as we rolled onto the couches.
For the first time since I can remember, I actually fell into a food coma. Never underestimate the power of the muchies.

The Report

So, I guess I kind of live here now. I went to get a burrito at this sweet little taqueria and the owner recognized me. He called me by name and then gave me the locals discount. Good burrito, too (rice fried in cilantro and lime juice, spiced roast potato, and enough beans etc. to make me pace myself). Every day is full of new experiences and new people. My doubts about this harebrained venture are waning and I'm feeling less self conscious around prospective friends.
The short version is, I'm glad to be here.
Highlights from the weekend include

• getting a place to live with the owners of a coffee shop (pictures to come; this place is right out of a Hallmark card)
• sitting in on a mediation group (mixing it up from the bong-ripping, gnar-shredding crowd)
• watching a free screening of a Broncos/Chargers game at the local theater (quote of the week: "If he gets long-winded, ask him if he's writing a book. If he says yes, tell him to leave that chapter out and make it a mystery.") and 
• getting a discount on skis for aspiring to work on the mountain.

And, in defense of the gnar-shredders, there is some fantastic dub-step out here. If Ecstatic Dance has left you wanting, you oughta check out the wOMp I've been exposed to in the last week.

Also, Point Break is an incredible piece of cinema. If you thought Hurt Locker was good, check out what Ms. Bigelow was doing 17 years earlier. And if you're rolling your eyes right now because you've seen it, watch it again (for the 3rd time like I just did) and get back to me.

Visualize

I've been wandering around CB for a week now and I've completely failed to capture the beauty with my camera, but here are few attempts. Click on 'em for big versions.

 Drinking at Noon? Well yeah, it's Saturday! I was dropping off resumes around the resort with one of the guys I'm staying with. When he saw that his favorite bar was open for the season, he dragged me in and ordered me an Avalanche Warning before I could protest. A variation on the Four Hoursemen, the Avalanche Warning is 5 kinds of alcohol poured over ice in a pint glass. There's a rumor you get cut off after two. Two hours and two pitchers later, I had a job interview set up with the guy in the blue shirt. Welcome to the Butte.

 There ain't no Craigslist up here. Folks use bulletin boards for everything.

 And I mean everything.

Faerie lights. How magical.

 The obligatory glamor shot of my new skis. Not that you care, but these skis were developed in the region of France depicted on the poster.

 The original fixie. The chains are frozen on.

 Does this look familiar to anyone?

There might be Cake

I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Crested Butte, CO. It's dark outside and I can just make out the snowstorm that's been dumping all day. I just got a text message from someone back in California: "All the dishes rattle in the cupboard when the elephants arrive." It made me smile and I'll tell you why.

I woke up one late-summer morning in the loft of a Dome. It was not the usual loft of the usual Dome. I had moved into this small space temporarily while folks in my community shuffled living spaces. It was a different bed, too, so the already disorienting experience of coming to was all the more odd.
Light fought its way from the windows downstairs up into the rounded "corner" (Domes have no corners, hence the quotations) where my head lay pressed into an orange pillow. As my consciousness swam into its recognizable pattern, a small noise croaked from beneath the sheets. It was my cell phone, mindlessly shoved out of sight after canceling the snooze alarm. This buzzing chirp was not the sound of the gizmo looking out for my best interests, despite my discouragement. Rather, it was the signal of a fresh text message, hot off the presses.
A bit of rummaging uncovered the phone and I flipped it open (not the easiest maneuver with my arm asleep). Pins and needles creeping down my fingers, I navigated the tiny menus and read the message.
Good morning this morning :)
The cheerfulness was almost offensive. I was, at the time, in the unfortunate position of being in love with someone I'd just met and I'd been trying to romantically entangle myself with this person for weeks. So far she had been maddeningly evasive. Dinner dates were delayed at the last minute and eventually changed to lunch dates. Calls were returned days later, but with just enough charm to keep me hooked. She was in bed by ten, so any spontaneous late-night antics were out of the question. The morning time, it seemed, was the right time.
I was peeved at the incredulity of the gesture. Apparently, I fit into her schedule the way laundry fit into mine: Put off for days as a low priority until waking up to realize that there are no responsibilities or diversions left to delay the inevitable. And of course I have a good attitude about it once I get going, but how do you think the last pair of boxers feels to be strung along for the ride? Hm? Well anyway, it's water under the bridge now. It turns out her life was legitimately cluttered and I was being selfish and radi radi ra.
But at the time, as you may have gleaned, I was miffed. My reply was something I hoped would be received with equal incredulity. Some bit of nonsense—a non-response, to baffle her and perhaps elicit an articulated acknowledgment of her flakiness in the face of my tireless advances. None of this "good morning" crap. At the same time, I was totally smitten. I wasn't about to undo all my hard work, so I chose a bit of nonsense that, if looked at later on, would carry a different message. Thus:
All the dishes rattle in the cupboard when the elephants arrive.
They're lyrics from a song that I had been practicing, lovestruck, for days. Sitting on the floor with my guitar, pouring my heart out to my roommates, the blank wall, the warm night air, and then finally to her. In the coming weeks, we would play it together in her living room, listen to it with her friends, and then by ourselves under cold, glittering stars.
And just now, sitting in an unfamiliar place, entrenched in snow and loneliness, and trying to think of something interesting to write, I received a text message. All the dishes rattle in the cupboard when the elephants arrive. That bright summer morning, hungover from heartache, I sent her a message:
Don't you realize how fucking in love with you I am?!
And now, months and miles from that moment, she replies:
Yes.

Walking About

There is an art to boredom. More specifically, there is an art to doing nothing. As I shift into travel mode, I find myself adrift in a familiar limbo. I know where I'm sleeping tonight, I've eaten, and I can't make any more progress on job hunting for the day. I don't want to hang around my host's apartment/hostel and I can't kill more than a couple hours in any given restaurant or coffee shop.
So I walk.

 I walk around nice neighborhoods and through parks. I walk down main streets and across parking lots. If I see an interesting shop, I'll go in, walk around, and leave. I don't listen to music while I wander because that usually makes me walk faster, which gets me nowhere much sooner than I'd like. Occasionally, I stop for a photo-op or to admire the scenery (activities defined by scale: macro photography vs. panoramic vistas too big to fit in any frame), but there's never a true destination until enough time passes that my digestive system requires fresh input or output.
The walk has an interesting effect on my state of mind. As I slip deeper into my thoughts, doubts creep into my daydreams. What am I doing here? Did I make a good choice? Did I say the right thing? And as I watch my feet dutifully march on, I assure myself that I have, in fact, handled things well. Alone on a quiet corner with nobody's judgment but my own to consider, I find, almost invariably, that I'm on top of my shit. By the time I walk into the last shop of the day and gently ask if there's a bathroom I might use, I have a smile playing on my lips.
More than once, that smile has made me dinner plans.

16 Hours to Departure

I out ran a meter-maid in Berkeley today. The adrenaline rush opened up a valve that won't close and now I can't stop shaking. My stuff is organized and I'm on track to fly out tomorrow, but I can't help feeling nervous. I really want this to be a grand adventure and I keep reminding myself that it's supposed to be fun.
While I was out and about, I went skydiving over Wanaka, New Zealand. On the way up, I felt calm, but there was this needling thought that crept through the amusement: I'm not coming down in the plane. It's a bit like that now. So far, so good, but it's not a round trip. Hopefully, like the dive, I'll forget that I'm falling after a bit and settle in to the surreality.

Why oh why?

I hate getting stuck on Why. Why am I this way? Why does the world work that way? Now, I'm not talking about arbitrary trivia like "Why is the sky blue?" I mean existential angst.
There have been periods of my life marked by bliss in the face of meaninglessness. I've been set free, trapped, and freed again by Emptiness. Non-self. The Infinite Everything. ...but it's hard to sustain that sort of ethereal worldview. I savor the special brand of logic that's required to embrace the "No peg, no hole" scenario, but my human nature gets the best of me.
There's no point (and no fun) in denying emotion, but the nature of emotion is to demand attention. I compulsively want to take myself seriously despite my best efforts to let go. (This is probably why I enjoy certain mind altering experiences) Then there's the issue of compulsive curiosity. Who am I? What is This? Where did I put my keys? All valid questions and worth the inquiry, but how about "Why am I?" Ughhh. Gag me with a pitchfork.  
The question "Why?" is pure arrogance because it presumes that I know "What."
Why are the dishes so hard to do? Well, what do I mean by "dishes"? As I lay on my bed, nowhere near the kitchen, I am able to conceive of "doing the dishes", but is that concept an accurate representation of reality? Hell no. All the (negative) emotions and memories associated with doing the dishes swirl together and congeal into a thought: Blecch. It's reflexive.
Warm water: pleasant. Soap suds: kinda fun. Accomplishment: satisfying. And yet... Dishes: Blecch.
If I can't even get a grip on warm soapy water, how on Earth am I gonna process something like my sense of self.

One Bite at a Time

I lived in a community of progressive neo-hippies in Davis, CA. “Neo-hippies” you ask? After living with this crowd, vegans become vegetarians become freegans, feminists get drunk and hook up with misogynists, and “normal” starts to look pretty fucking weird.

We ate communally, as is the tradition, and opened our community up to whoever wanted to take the plunge. This past summer, an Argentine(inian) visiting post-doc  started coming around. A delightful woman, she was continuing her research on hummingbirds and most of her English was related to her field.  She was also a stellar cook and brought bomber desserts to dinner.

One evening, she came to dinner with a dish that I identified at the time as flan. She assured me, however, that it was definitely not flan. When asked for the English name for the browned, glistening custard in her hands, she only shook her head. Several people offered variations on the Mexican treat, but she rejected them all. We changed tack. What do you call something that is richly, custardy, syrupy sweet, but has no familiar analogue?

“It is… good for hummingbirds.”