They come in all shapes and sizes: princes and princesses; ghouls, goblins, and ghosts; witches, wizards, and warlocks. They arrive in droves, wave after wave washing over laws and up stoops, doorbells buzzing frantically in sugar-coated want. They appear in pairs, trios, alone or with an entourage. They’re hawkishly watched by shadowy figures hovering close like a bodyguard or distantly on the sidewalk like evil overlords.
For the few twilight hours when costumed children rule the streets, as teens and youthful adults preen and primp in preparation for the coming nightfall, and as adults carefully dole out treats, smiling and praising all comers, Halloween follows its perfect little script. But outside those hours strange things happen.
You find a wallet. In it are IDs, few credit cards, and a small wad of cash. Instantly, you’re torn. On the one hand, turning it in is the right thing to do. On the other, that money would feel really good in your pocket. The context of your life–whether your rich or poor; a one percenter, a ninety-nine percenter or a forty-seven percenter; a child or an adult; sick or healthy–doesn’t matter. The owner’s life doesn’t matter either. In that instant, no matter the context, those two options rest at the polar extremes of your options. What do you do?
Yesterday was perhaps the last warm, sunny, Indian Summer day of the year, the forecast calling for cold, rain, and snow over the next few. It was a bittersweet joy that my roommate and I collected our things and wound our way Westward to the South Boulder Rec Center for a couple rounds of disc golf.
The two of us, as well as several other friends, have been making regular pilgrimages to wide open fields beside Fairview High School, flying our slender discs in relaxed and friendly competition. My roommate calls it exercise. I call it a good excuse for social time outside. After a mediocre first round, I decided I would turn it into a work out, punishing myself with push ups for every errant toss; and there were many errant tosses. With each forceful thrust away from the ground, my weary arms grew more tired, which in turn meant more poor throws and more push ups.
The web is atwitter with the sound of politics this morning, and while I’m loathe to add my voice to flood of information, let me assure you that I will not be spending any time discussing the candidates or their campaigns. Instead, I want to draw attention to failure of the media in providing any real coverage during the debate.
The fact is that debates are not truly interesting to watch. Unless, of course, you’re one of the people who prefers to watch with the sound muted to get a sense of victory through optics without being mired by the words spewing forth from the candidates, cause, you know, visuals matter. It’s pretty apparent that the visual distracts from what’s being said and encourages candidates to care more about image than message. No one wants an uncharismatic leader, but it’s relatively absurd to weigh the visual equally or more heavily than the policies.
That being said, in this era of big screen TVs and multiple media I see no reason the debates shouldn’t feature real-time information side-by-side with the candidates.
My fingertips blush deep velvet, imbued with an inky essence that seeps into the dark depths of my wrinkled skin. There’s a sunset painted across my cuticles, plums fade into indigo, stretching upward into the aching heavens that are my hands.
It seems for eons that I’ve plucked, pruned, cleaved and cut, pitted, peeled, skinned, and crushed the tiny balls so elegantly looped and dangling from vines twined about themselves. Gone is the picturesque reverie, that urban ideal of country life, so often offered as a distant dirt-filled retirement. These unrealistic dreams have been replaced with loathing, a fear that pure physical labor can be quantified in such minimal produce. Three days of toil result in the proper preparation of a mere 20 lbs of amethyst-hued mash at a cost of aching joints, raw flesh, and a shivering timbre that echoes through me.
Only in the moments of respite, as the music held taught to my head fades and my twisted spine relaxes upright once more, do I notice the worn drip of fatigue settle. The toil itself is mindless, allowing my thoughts to bounce and flit exploring well-worn territory that seems novel in my ignorance. The rhythm of the work wraps around me like a warm blanket, shirking the cold damp that engulfs my icy tentacles as I pop and cull our recently plucked crop. It’s a saving grace, a means of ignorance and avoidance that only work can bring. Yet in those times between, it’s the work itself I desire to leave behind.
My friend Gina, with whom I traveled in India, runs a slick music blog. This month is Guest Month, and for the next five days, I’ll be filling in, starting with two Boston bands I’ve been listening to for ages. Gina’s got a great ear and tries to stay up on some of the best new stuff. She’s introduced me to many bands and has been one of my go-to music sources since leaving Radio 1190, quitting my music sales job, and having to rely on word of mouth from friends to find new stuff.
If you’re like me and rarely have time to go find new music, picking out a few good music blogs is key to finding joy in dissonance and resonance. Definitely go back and check out Boulder-local Paper Bird and Colorado-native Elephant Revival (posted last week by guest blogger Josh), Ladyhawke and Ladytron (posted by guest blogger and traveling companion Emilie), Dale Earnhardt Jr Jr (posted by guest blogger Dan Kuester), and many of the other sweet songs she’s linked.