Thursday, October 29, 2015
Saturday, October 3, 2015
We are all monkeys and it makes me happy
I am deeply afraid of the dark. I'm scared I'll be swallowed up by some sort of paranormal activity and the last time I was in the dark for a prolonged amount of time, our tent was attacked by a mountain lion -- which actually wasn't that bad because I had convinced myself it was a tribe of rabid squirrel and deer, joining forces against the human race.
Anyways, last weekend I ended up in the dark alone.
I decided to check out the Carrizo Plain to volunteer and see the super duper moon. Alone was not something I had really planned, but on my growing list of fears is asking people for things because asking for something means you want something and wanting things is the #1 cause of not getting the thing you want, so I try to limit this practice in my life. Also, I've still got a lease on this parasitic bird in my brain that repeatedly tells me that every action is an inconvenience on the lives of others, so I suggested that people can come with, but opted not to push the issue if there were no takers.
The Carrizo is 50miles of grassland, cut in half by the San Andreas fault. A fellow volunteer had written several books about the place and a common theme was the how time seems to stand still around the area. And it really is that -- still. In between the buzzing flies and occasional caw, there was nothing. No trees to hear the wind. No gentle laps of water or flowing creeks. No cars. It occurred to me that this area has the largest concentration of endangered animals in California because everything is dead. I sat and listened to the vibrations in my brain.
As night fell, I was alert. Audri warned I'd get torn apart by coyote and I was a tiny bit worried that I didn't even have a poop shovel to protect myself, but to be honest, I was a little more afraid of turning around to see a zombie-ghost with a shotgun. Or worse, a zombie-ghost with a kind heart that was looking for a friend because I'm not prepared for that type of responsibility (poop shovel or not). My ears perked to rustling bushes and I would stare into the darkness until everything was still again. I scurried like a rodent. I sang to the owls to earn their trust. I grew comfortable in the dark, but waited patiently for the light. I watched the sunrise and felt completely satiated by the world around me.
Back tracking a bit -- my consciousness has a way of tearing itself away from my physical body. A disconnect. I talk and it feels like I'm being fed a transcript. I look at friends I have known for years and they will suddenly feel alien. I know I am me, but it doesn't feel like me and everything slowly drifts out of place. My existence becomes a dream. (This is a terrifying experience and I don't recommend it.)
So miles away from civilization was the last place I thought I would regain a connection with anything. But in this desert grassland, I was connected to everything. I saw how animalistic my behavior had become as I sought shelter and shade like a frightened lizard. It reminded me of leaping across a river next to a family of elk in Yosemite or teetering back and forth like a chameleon on loose rocks in the Angeles National Forest. The commonalities we share with all living things on this earth became abundantly clear to me. We're all just animals. We are all these silly creatures flopping around trying to make do with what we have and I recognized the ridiculous notion that I have to be something. I already am something. I am human. I am an organism rooted to this planet and in 24 years, I have morphed from a sac of goo and bones into a thing with thoughts and consciousness and mobility. We all have. Just imagine the possibility for our brains to expand in the next 24 years -- the knowledge and experiences yet to be had! And I don't know if it's because all my oldest cells have begun to die out, leaving a fresh new human, but lately, every sunrise, I feel reborn.
I don't know if this resonates with anyone, if you too can grasp at the concept of connectedness with me. I wrote the bulk of this in snippets while laying naked in the middle of nowhere, so it seemed a lot more clairvoyant than it probably is, but if nothing else, life is meant to be shared. My last thoughts from this camping trip is more of a hope. A hope that even in this barren wasteland of space and oil mongering machines, we can find a sense of peace in the golden hills and drifting clouds. Too many hours are spent looking at the same four walls and it's easy to forget that there is a force in the world that can fill our bellies with good things. There are so many possibilities in our lives and I hope to continually be intertwined in this big ol' yarn ball of life with y'all. That's all.
Anyways, last weekend I ended up in the dark alone.
I decided to check out the Carrizo Plain to volunteer and see the super duper moon. Alone was not something I had really planned, but on my growing list of fears is asking people for things because asking for something means you want something and wanting things is the #1 cause of not getting the thing you want, so I try to limit this practice in my life. Also, I've still got a lease on this parasitic bird in my brain that repeatedly tells me that every action is an inconvenience on the lives of others, so I suggested that people can come with, but opted not to push the issue if there were no takers.
The Carrizo is 50miles of grassland, cut in half by the San Andreas fault. A fellow volunteer had written several books about the place and a common theme was the how time seems to stand still around the area. And it really is that -- still. In between the buzzing flies and occasional caw, there was nothing. No trees to hear the wind. No gentle laps of water or flowing creeks. No cars. It occurred to me that this area has the largest concentration of endangered animals in California because everything is dead. I sat and listened to the vibrations in my brain.
As night fell, I was alert. Audri warned I'd get torn apart by coyote and I was a tiny bit worried that I didn't even have a poop shovel to protect myself, but to be honest, I was a little more afraid of turning around to see a zombie-ghost with a shotgun. Or worse, a zombie-ghost with a kind heart that was looking for a friend because I'm not prepared for that type of responsibility (poop shovel or not). My ears perked to rustling bushes and I would stare into the darkness until everything was still again. I scurried like a rodent. I sang to the owls to earn their trust. I grew comfortable in the dark, but waited patiently for the light. I watched the sunrise and felt completely satiated by the world around me.
Back tracking a bit -- my consciousness has a way of tearing itself away from my physical body. A disconnect. I talk and it feels like I'm being fed a transcript. I look at friends I have known for years and they will suddenly feel alien. I know I am me, but it doesn't feel like me and everything slowly drifts out of place. My existence becomes a dream. (This is a terrifying experience and I don't recommend it.)
So miles away from civilization was the last place I thought I would regain a connection with anything. But in this desert grassland, I was connected to everything. I saw how animalistic my behavior had become as I sought shelter and shade like a frightened lizard. It reminded me of leaping across a river next to a family of elk in Yosemite or teetering back and forth like a chameleon on loose rocks in the Angeles National Forest. The commonalities we share with all living things on this earth became abundantly clear to me. We're all just animals. We are all these silly creatures flopping around trying to make do with what we have and I recognized the ridiculous notion that I have to be something. I already am something. I am human. I am an organism rooted to this planet and in 24 years, I have morphed from a sac of goo and bones into a thing with thoughts and consciousness and mobility. We all have. Just imagine the possibility for our brains to expand in the next 24 years -- the knowledge and experiences yet to be had! And I don't know if it's because all my oldest cells have begun to die out, leaving a fresh new human, but lately, every sunrise, I feel reborn.
I don't know if this resonates with anyone, if you too can grasp at the concept of connectedness with me. I wrote the bulk of this in snippets while laying naked in the middle of nowhere, so it seemed a lot more clairvoyant than it probably is, but if nothing else, life is meant to be shared. My last thoughts from this camping trip is more of a hope. A hope that even in this barren wasteland of space and oil mongering machines, we can find a sense of peace in the golden hills and drifting clouds. Too many hours are spent looking at the same four walls and it's easy to forget that there is a force in the world that can fill our bellies with good things. There are so many possibilities in our lives and I hope to continually be intertwined in this big ol' yarn ball of life with y'all. That's all.
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