Worry, worry, super-scurry...

What inspires me today...

New Heights.

I hate surprises.

I usually find that the joy and rush of adrenaline most feel coursing through their veins when faced with a good 'ol surprise is replaced with a bone-chilling dread.  A sort of hybrid of anxiety and terror. 

Surprise parties are the worst.
Generally I become very quiet.  Happy, but fully unable to interact.  Sometimes I cry.

Number 8 on my bucket list was satisfied Saturday morning by a complete and utter surprise at 2:30 in the morning.   After a four hour drive and instant confusion when faced with a white van with the tinted windows bearing worn and peeling lettering reading, "Magical Adventures," a giant wicker basket in tow, I still had no idea what was going on.  The tarps were laid out, and finally giant colorful bundles were unrolled...

Mixing a fear of heights with a hatred for surprises made for a shockingly delightful birthday.

Mike, the pilot, and I wore matching denim shirts.  I think we hit it off pretty well.  He was in his late fifties, a retired air force pilot who has been flying balloons for over 20 years.  Clearly he wanted a photo of he and I on his iPhone after the champagne toast prior to the completion of our aviation feat.  Clearly I obliged.

Excuse me, I misspoke earlier.  You cannot "fly" a hot air balloon.  You simply float, at the mercy of the wind.  Interestingly, this seemingly terrifying concept made for a very calm and peaceful experience.  There wind simply carried us.  No turbulence in fight, none of the worry or fear you may find in a plane (where you supposedly have full control).  Landing spots aren't planned ahead of time, just found.   Maybe life is flight, and maybe the ride would be more enjoyable if we all just learned to float.

Or maybe we should all wear more denim and drink more champagne.

Either way, both options would drastically improve the state of the world.

(I have truly amazing friends.)

Tertiary Tributary

What inspires me today...

Coincidence vs Chaos 

A few things of note from the past week: 

1. They (scientists) recently found 50-million-year-old bugs encased in amber in the Indian rainforest. 
2. Friday October 22nd was the actor Jeff Goldblum's birthday.  This year he turned a whopping 58 years of age. 

These two seemingly unrelated facts may seem uninteresting and useless... to the untrained eye.

Let me teach you a lesson, dear readers, in critical thinking about things that really don't matter or make much sense.

Not only were they (scientists) able to extract perfectly preserved 50-million-year-old bugs using toluene and chloroform due to the unique soft nature of the Indian amber, dating the rainforest back before the Miocene as originally speculated, placing it as over 60-million-years-old, and Jeff Goldblum has now grown one year closer to the obscurity we have all been anticipating since his small-screen debut on Law and Order: Criminal Intent...

BUT 

these two strands of information are actually more closely circulating then we could ever imagine.

I saw these at first as completely coincidental, but looking closely at the teachings of chaos theory, nothing is random.  It is all deterministic, yet completely unpredictable.

True fans may have predicted by now the juncture where chaos theory has brought Jeff Goldblum to insects encased in amber....

 boom...boom...

...a 1990 novel written by Michael Chriton adopted in 1993 into the Steven Spielberg motion picture "Jurassic Park." 

We all know what this means.

A wealthy billionaire and dinosaur enthusiast will clone the dinosaur DNA found within a mosquito from the amberand create an island theme park on an island near Cosa Rica, with the main attraction being, you guessed it, dinosaurs (all female, of course) where a couple anthropologists, their bratty kids, and a researcher will get stuck while the gates are opened as a bumbling research tech tries to steal embryos for [insert generic rival corporation name] and make a couple bucks. 
They will survive, barely, just in time to make a sequel and eventually a trilogy. 

Let's hope this doesn't happen again (and again, and again, and again).

 

I'm not saying that I'm not curious to see what it would be like to ride around on a triceratops, obviously that is an ideal situation.  I'm just stating that although it would seem to be a hilarious and thoughtful gesture to create dinosaurs for Jeff's birthday, it would be ill-conceived and a little insensitive. We all (no one) saw Jurassic Park III.  Goldblum doesn't make an appearance. 

A world with dinosaurs but without Jeff Goldblum is a world I want no part it.

But, as the ever insightful Dr. Ian Malcolm says, "I'm simply saying that life, uh... finds a way."

Land of Milk and...

What inspires me today...

Bee attitudes. 

Remember a few years back when you couldn't turn on the news without hearing about the mysterious disappearance of the honey bee, but didn't hear another word about it in the media because someone was assassinated/a war started/some oil spilled in Mexico?

I will play the part of news provider by filling all of you out there, chomping at the bit, in to know what happened in the honey bee saga.

The name of the problem:
Colony Collapse Disorder.

There are many theories and factors thought to cause CCD, but clearly my favorite (quickly proven false) theory would have to be: 

Cell phone radiation interfering with their homing techniques.

"Why should I care about half the honey bee population dying suddenly and in mass quantities?"  
You may, but probably won't, ask.
How does $15 million in crop value sound? 
You have no idea what that means or why that is the case.
It's not good.  And pollination.

The factors thought by most to be causing this phenomenon: a spreading harmful pathogen and pesticides.  These cause an immune-deficiency disorder.

Bee AIDS is real.

Think about that the next time you're sucking honey straight from the bear.

Plots thickening.

What inspires me today...

Toothpaste.

Why I thought it was a good/socially acceptable/within all the societal norms I've been socialized into/normal situation to answer the door this morning in my pj's mid-brushing of my teeth, I will never know.

I was too excited to have a visitor, there was no time to spit and set my toothbrush on the side of the sink.

The Fedex man seemed unfazed.  Time to step up my game.

(Note: my pj's this particular morning consisted of over-sized drawstring red shorts and an old cut up shirt.  Hair in a VERY high bun.  I was looking about 40%.)

Magnets, how do they work?

What inspires me today...

Miracles.

Juggalos.
Jugalettes.

These are the names given to and worn proudly by fans/followers/henchmen/apostles of the Michigan-based hip hop group Insane Clown Posse (ICP for short).

Helpful and Necessary Visual Aid

Why do they all dress like gothic clowns?  Why would anyone listen to something dubbed as "horrorcore"? How would one go about getting involved in Juggalo Championship Wrestling?  What brand of face paint is best for Juggalo/ette impersonation?  Is that what love looks like?

These are all questions.

Maybe you have been faced with Jugalo culture recently while reading the Twitter posts of myspace icon and reality television celebrity, Tila Tequila.  If not, there is hope for humanity.

So, what is the first thought when trying to launch you and your friends' new indie-pop band via youtube?  

Indie-pop band name: Taken by Trees (could've guess that one.)

Answer: Acoustic cover of the ICP song Miracles.  Clearly.

Normal Situation.

My favorite gems from this song: 

"We don't have to be high to look in the sky"

"The Milky Way and f***ing shooting stars"

"Look at the mountains, trees, the seven seas and everything chilling underwater, please"

"There's enough miracles here to blow your brains"

"F***ing magnets, how do they work?"

"I fed a fish to a pelican at Frisco bay, it tried to eat my cell phone, he ran away"

Pure poetry.

Obviously I prefer the original, but that's just because Faygo tastes so much sweeter in baggy pants and face paint.

The slow luxury of reeling one another in.

What inspires me later in the night...

Poems (read every word.)

In the story my aunt tells, this is how they met.
It's September, the war just over,
the air crisp as the creases in my father's khaki pants,
bright as his Bronze Star,
pungent as the marigold my mother tucks behind one ear,
the night they both sign up
for dance lessons "the Arthur Murray way"
at the Statler Hotel in downtown Philly.

He's there to meet girls,
of that I am certain,
and she's there for romance,
though I don't think that's what she would say,
both of them looking for something as intangible as the cigarette smoke
that rises in old, deckle-edged photos—
everyone tough, glamorous, vampy.

Perhaps there are dance cards?
Or maybe partners are assigned?
The truth is, no one really knows
about the moment when their glance
catches and snags across the room,
a fishline pulling taut as they place their feet
on Murray's famous "magic footsteps,"
and start the slow luxury of reeling one another in.
Music spills from a scratchy Victrola
as she places her hand on his shoulder,
feels the slight pressure of his palm against her back,
and they begin to move together,
her hesitant steps following
his over-enthusiastic swings,
until they are both lost in "The More I See You"
or "I Don't Want to Walk Without You Baby,"
the future stretching out before them
like a polished oak dance floor.

I don't know if they went back for more lessons,
or how they learned to dip and twirl and slide together,
though I once saw my father spin my mother completely around—
her skirt flaring out around her like the bell of a silk lamp shade—
just months before she died.
It's their story
after all,
the one with a secret hidden deep inside it
like all love stories—
bigger than we are or will ever be—
music from a Big Band coming up in the background,
playing "You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To,"
while our parents swoop and glide
in the spotlight, keeping back
just enough of the story to make us wonder.

[My Parents' Dance Lessons 1945 - Alison Townsend]

I'm sorry I was late.
I was pulled over by a cop
for driving blindfolded
with a raspberry-scented candle
flickering in my mouth.
I'm sorry I was late.
I was on my way
when I felt a plot
thickening in my arm.
I have a fear of heights.
Luckily the Earth
is on the second floor
of the universe.
I am not the egg man.
I am the owl
who just witnessed
another tree fall over
in the forest of your life.
I am your father
shaking his head
at the thought of you.
I am his words dissolving
in your mind like footprints
in a rainstorm.
I am a long-legged martini.
I am feeding olives
to the bull inside you.
I am decorating
your labyrinth,
tacking up snapshots
of all the people
who've gotten lost
in your corridors.

[Compulsively Allergic to the Truth - Jeffrey McDaniel]

On button.

What inspires me today...

Power.

It's true.  I haven't blogged in quite a while.  I've probably lost both of my readers.  Oh well, you two probably had better things to do anyway.

The truth is, school leaves little time for meandering thoughts and rants about nothingness.  Instead, all of my otherwise misdirected energy has to be molded and shaped for the future of this great country/world.  I have to actually support my arguments "logically" and "be reasonable."  It's throwing off my entire vibe.

So, to not completely abandon the internet, which has entertained me so well these past few years, I offer this fleeting thought from stone sculpture (ironically the one class that allows for little to no thought):

I love power tools.

We had our test on safety gear, grinders, and pneumatic hammers, picked out our stones at the yard where middle-aged people gather in outside makeshift stalls to "create," and finally, it was time to carve.

At first I was intimidated by their awesome ability, speed, and soul-splitting noises, but now that I have fully realized and harnessed that sheer power, I can't stop thinking about them.  In comparison, everything else leaves something to be desired.  And that something is a motor and need for oil.