Warmth.

It's dark out.

The quiet sizzle of the highway simmers outside the library's fifth floor doors.

The urban lights twinkle like distant stars, shimmering through the suspended vapor that hangs in the air.

A kick drum starts! Beats manifest themselves through your headphones, as you recollect the past day. People you've briefly met in passing have lost their coarse outer shell, and offered a concession for the betterment of the group. "There is good in this world" you say to yourself, unbelieving in a feeling of transcendence you haven't felt in a while.

The air turned brisk, the rain came. Winter is here.

But this time you haven't plummeted into the depths of the dark. Or at least not entirely.

Last year you clawed your way out of the pit. God, it took forever, but you did get there. The summer sun most likely had something to do with it as well.

That sun. It is what keeps you going. The direct sunlight felt only one week ago. This time you plan on keeping it held for a little longer, and refusing to let the time change get to you. We invented a way to capture electricity and keep it burning for light. You can use that to keep you going.








Everyone here seems to turn joyfully inward when the rain comes. Its actually kind of enduring. It must be the way people cope. The area grows on me more and more by the day, and maybe it isn't the geography.

I've been using place as an expression for lack of a personal network and support structure. I've been accusing the "local feel" as being the reason for my ills, but I believe it has been the fact that I simply have had to struggle through the first year of a new place. But why was I struggling?

The place does not foster the connections in the ways other places do. But I don't have a reference. I don't know if it is simply the fact that I am in a major urban area, or if it is a strange Northwest phenomenon? The South is never this cold. The Midwest is not this cluttered. The city has never been this awkward, nor the area so segmentunited.

I guess it is the people that make the place, but it is the place that makes the people. Its cyclical, with no discernible beginning or end, nor specific actors to blame. That is the ceaseless mystery of place.

It fascinates me so.

Manufacturing of Place, Identity, and Exploration

I know that "manufacturing" is a long word, but it makes the most sense to use in this context. Manufacturing is the process of creation of new material, whether it be physical, mental, or emotional. We manufacture things all the time. It is the constant pulses of our brains which write and re-write to lead us to think and create.

All I can do is smile. The time among old friends, reminiscing about the long concluded days, makes me think about all of the things that are going on, and how to make sure we recognize that our thoughts are manufactured. That we are aware of the constant bias our mind employs against us and our memories.

The songs we sing; the media we watch; the books we read. Many (if not all) of these include the descriptors and qualifiers to why we go to where we go. Place is a hugely important and essential piece of the human condition.

I once had a friend in High School who listened to the Augustana and got me into the band. They have this beautiful song called "Boston" and it got me thinking about how much of our world is manufactured.

The media constructs the environment of what we think about where. So many stereotypes and truths are formed by the simple images and presentations of what we are given on a daily basis. It is what our mind does with those is where it matters.

Our minds are such beautiful machines. While we may be fed images, sounds, and video of our world, but only we can interpret what it all means, and what we will do with it. We go out to explore, exhume, and experience. And how you go about doing that is exactly what matters.

There is no "right" or "wrong" way to experience a place. The only important aspect is to pay attention to "how" you experience it. Stop and realize exactly what it is you are seeing, what you may not be seeing, and how/if you'd like to see everything you can.

I was in Spartanburg, South Carolina to conduct a VISTA training for a friend and her VISTA team, and I felt exactly at home. I fell in love with the town then and there, and vowed I would live there. What is it that makes me lust after a new place the first time I see it? That didn't happen with Vancouver or Portland? Maybe it is because I knew I would stay?

Homecoming has become a special time for me. You do something again, it becomes tradition, right?

Visiting the college for the second time provided closure. The fact that I did not know anyone there. That I was not going back. It was a distant place to be recorded in the halls of memory that are my neurons and synapses.



So where do I belong? Am I going to be living segments of life upon the film of 80 odd years I'm supposed to live? Permanence is a terrifying thing, but I feel as though it is the only way I can be happy. I don't like living on bridges, but my introduction to the "real world" has been exhausting, and I don't know if I'm willing to give it another shot. It feels as though my roots have been stretched to their limit, and that two-thousand miles is simply too far for them to stretch.

Maybe I'll be a touring plant, visiting back to the only soil that can hold me from time to time to revitalize myself. Journeying drains people, and I guess now that we are out of the time span of months, we will move into the extended adventures of years.

A touring plant slowly putting the pieces into place to see what fits, and what doesn't. The bridges aren't quite in view yet, but I know they are coming, so maybe I should just enjoy the ride until they rise over the horizon, and work with them then.

Long Beach and Adventures

This is what my car was meant for. Riding down the country roads, out to the Pacific down some unknown highway.

The City of Astoria from the Astoria Column

Astoria & Where the Columbia Meets the Ocean

Meeting people is an art highly sought after, and rarely found. We have taken on a new housemate for a couple of months, and on Saturday she and I traveled out to the Pacific. I decided to go see the Long Beach peninsula this time round because it was an area I have never seen before.

I've been on the inside of Willapa Bay and seen the Long Beach peninsula from the east, but the lure of the Pacific ocean lay right across that small ridge I always had in the distance.

The View from North of Raymond

The peninsula  has some of the strangest landscapes I have seen in a while. It acts like the mountains until you are well onto the narrow stretch of land. Then, the mountains fall away, and all that is left is open sky, dunes, and beach grass. If you deviate to the west at any point of the departing journey, you tend to hit the ocean quite quickly:

They say Long Beach gets its name because it is the "longest continuous stretch of beach" in the US. There is also a part called "Waikiki Beach" because its sands resemble those found in Hawaii. And the towns themselves remind me of the small beach villages in Florida. They dot the landscape with silly tourist shops and the best seafood places you can find. Fresh catch right that day.

The contrast of the landscapes here is even more dramatic than in Central Oregon. The cliffs intersect with many more beaches, and the water is surprisingly not that cold for this time of year.

The cliffs led to many more spots to swim, if you could get over the surf.

We stopped and had lunch/dinner at a local grille, and thankfully they had boca burgers for myself. Their sauce was to die for, and really made the whole thing "pop" in a certain way.


The drive back was uneventful, other than the fact that we took US 30 back to Longview, and along the way we were able to see the summit of Mount Rainier over the looming Cascade Mountains. After returning, I set out to play a bit of D&D, and came home at 11 PM exhausted. I'm enjoying writing this blog post for everyone, but I figure it is time for dinner and bed. We are moving into a new office tomorrow, and I'm going to need all the rest I can get to setup my new space.

Foo Fighters and Rain

The rain has come once again.

Its been cloudy and rainy for the last three days, and I am awaiting winter's onset once again.

This time around, I am prepared. Well. Not really. But I can sure as hell try.

I find myself listening to "Wake Me Up When September Ends" by Green Day. I don't know why. Just feels like the right mood.

That would be the view from the library where I am writing this right now. The camera's auto-enhance makes it look brighter than it actually is.

September has taken forever. It has literally been one of the longest months I have experienced, and I'm just dreading that it gets over with soon.

Right on key autumn hit. It got cold one night, and it hasn't gotten above 75° since. I kind of enjoyed the beginning of the rain. It was like the cold gray blanket had descended back on our moderately sized valley.

"Our"

I've started identifying with this place.

I wonder if this is what comes with the year end of the cycle. Did it take me that long to get here? It's a tough love. Traveling the path has been less like a smoothly paved North Carolina highway, and more like trudging up one of the taller Cascades on an unimproved gravel road in a four cylinder car. The journey takes forever, and it busts up different parts of your car, but you do get there.

So what is next? Do I want to stay here? I know I still have a year left, but it weighs on me. I don't want to pursue connections if I'm not going to stay here. But I want connections. I can't keep still. I don't want to just "go on" here. I want to explore.

See.

Experience.

Return.

I entice you to ponder the definition of "Home". What does it mean for you?

I can't decide on a definition. Does fate dictate that I will need to settle down eventually? Can a living be made place-hopping? I don't want to be that jerk though.

My reservations are large, but my aspirations are larger. So many things to contemplate. And I have so much to consider. One one hand, I don't like being alone, but on the other hand, I love to travel. I want to see places and become acquainted with them. But I want to see everywhere.

Ohio was the starting place. New England was the taste. Warren Wilson was the honeymoon. Ireland and Barcelona were the extravagant spending. Vancouver is... The doldrums? Painful reflections and life lessons?

Whatever it may be, with the turn of the clouds and the cold I come upon another year here. Lets make the best of it.

Windy Ridge

So if you were to ask me which of the three sides of Mount Saint Helens I liked the most... Well I'd say I like all of them the best for different reasons.

The North side it's for the "easy tourist/learn about the mountain itself" experience. The road is the nicest, the drive is the clearest, but the crowds are the biggest. But the facilities are also really educational, with lots to do for families.

The South side is for the adventurers. The ones who want to get out and play around the mountain in nature. The roads here are half the time gravel, but the experiences are twice the fun. You get to descend into an old lava tube cave with nothing but a gas powered lamp, hike in a basalt valley with a one person width swinging suspension bridge as the end reward, or even climb the mountain itself.

Finally, there is the East side. This is the side for awe and inspiration. It is by far the farthest out, but gets you the closest to the mountain. When you pull up to the final overlook, Windy Ridge, you and your car are literally three miles from the start of the crater. Each lava dome is clearly visible, and you can see where the volcano has started to rebuild itself.

On the way up, you get great views of Mount Adams to the east, and Mount Hood to the south. The road is a mix between pavement and rubble, but it makes the journey that much more valuable. The forests are old growth, interrupted by the sudden decimation of the 1980 eruption.

You get to drive into the pumice plain, and your car sails among the sticks of seared trees and the sea of downed timber.

The half barren mountaintops are like two sides of the same coin, the west facing slopes gone to bedrock, the east facing slopes, spared from 1300 degree mudslides.

You can even see and visit the famous Spirit Lake, once home to the Mount Saint Helens Lodge, which is now under 250 feet of earth and rock. The lake itself still has the log mat, still floating about from the 1980 explosion.

I sat and thought (call it meditated?) for a while at the top of Windy Ridge. I sat in the pumice and ash, and took in the marvel of being so close to something of such immeasurable power. And being surrounded by others which are much older, and contain much more than the geological youngster of Mount Saint Helens.

I even saw the colossal Rainier off in the distance, holding the title of grandest of them all. Rising 14,411 feet in the air, it is plainly visible between two mountain peaks.

So here I am. Sitting among giants. I still can't fathom it to this day.

What more can I say? Pixels cannot capture the amount of beauty in this world.

Contradictory Landscapes

So, what about a landscape that isn't supposed to be there? What do you do then?

Let me explain.

I'll wrap up a little of my recent experiences through examination of landscapes:

So there are landscapes that exist which are meant to exist. I've visited a couple of those in the last couple of weeks:

The drive from Aberdeen along the Pacific Coast.

The pacific coast.

A panorama from a lookout at Gray's Harbor

Alder's Flat in Mt. Hood National Forest. (Auto-Awesome Photo, just giving full disclaimer)

More of Alder's Flat

Entrance to Willamete National Forest

Sunset in Salem

And of course, the catalyst, in the Steigerwald National Wildlife Refuge

So what makes these "correct" landscapes? is it because of their pretty scenery? Their forested hills around them? How about their inclusion of nature?

Well all of those help a landscape, but none of them really make or break a landscape in the grand scheme of things. It is really the fact that the areas of the landscapes in the pictures "fit". They run together with what is around them, with most things flowing well into and out of the scene.

This weekend, I discovered Yakima. A lonely valley in the middle of the high desert, turned Garden of Eden by the modern power of irrigation.

Its strange. You are driving through the high desert in central Washington. You've seen it all before, the endless plains of scrub brush and tender dry grass, resisting the massive wind the best in can. Just waiting under a Red Flag warning to eradicate all before its hellish fire.

So far, so good.

The plains turn into mountains, the mountains into barren hills. Then, as soon as you round a corner:

BAM!

Fields of green, yellow, and brown stretch out throughout the valley below. It is a valley, full of the richest vegetables, fruits, and buildings you can imagine. The valley stretches out beyond what the mind can imagine. Off in the distance are faint, hazy hills, yellow and brown as the previous ones you were just driving through. But halfway up the sides, a dark green is visible. Those are fruit trees and they stretch up just as far as the water can go.

The valley is built on this source. Water. It needs it. It feeds off of it. It produces with it. Without it, it would be just another desert valley, with a river running through it.

But why? That is my ever present question. Why is it that this valley, and this river, gave rise to one of Washington's greatest food producing regions? Why is it that this place was settled on as that place? I don't really know. How much water does it use? This land, I don't think it was meant to be food production, I think it was meant to be a subtle little pocket of high desert river life. So what have we made/gained/lost with this development?

Its weird. I've never been in a place that isn't meant to belong there. All of my landscapes have flowed, fit together, and transitioned into different settings quite well. This place comes upon you as the perfectly created wonderland of local food. But was it supposed to be that way?

Homesickness

I really need to stop longing for a culture I am content with. I need to embrace the low points of the journey, and enjoy the luscious crops of the fertile valleys.

I thought that my life was built upon adventure, and seeking out the more to see. The irresistible drive to continue onward until I've circled around full. I guess that isn't the way it is supposed to be.

I do not want to fall into the conservative mindset of "conserve what you have, it always works", and if it hasn't been conserved, go back to it. That must be the stubborn Midwestern kicking back in.

I miss my home.

I do have a home. My base of operations is Thurston, Ohio. While my family may not live there anymore, it is the town I identify with the most. I grew up there. I learned there. I experienced the first threshes of life there. Identified my loves, explored my passions, and got the hell out, only to discover it again once I had left, and once they had left.

I do have a home. My lyrical muse lies in the fields adorning the mountains of the Swannanoa Valley. The sweltering humid heat of the morning fog makes me pine to live those experiences again. Marching through the forest every morning to greet the academic rigor of the day, only to end the week in a celebration of Mario Kart and Magic the Gathering.

My method of travel is the Catalyst. She travels with me between all points known and unknown. She is my temporary home, gracious enough to host me on the long journeys through the desert, over the tallest mountains on the continent, and between those two points where I am solidly anchored.

Out here though, there is no home. There is only a drift of the shells of a community. It's too big to have a cohesive whole, but too small to have specific individual parts. There is no definition here, it's just like an impressionist painting that has been rained on.

All the natural area cannot fix this place. No amount of rare summer storms, humid warm nights, nor fields of far off crops can bring me back enough to want to stay. The noise is too precise, the hum of the highway too close, and the entrapment of the houses too focused.

The only thing that comforts me tonight is the far off sound of the port, with its clattering rails slowly moving towards cargo ships, and the soft chirps of few lone crickets somewhere in the neighborhood. But even that is sometimes lost in the chatter of cars and wavering voices and settlements around me.