Yesterday I found myself sitting under a yellow tree. It's high autumn and this tiny tree, no more than fifteen feet high, trunk no thicker than a soda can, just an upright branch, was ablaze. As a small child, my bedroom was painted bright yellow but that color was dull, muted in retrospect. I've never before seen such a vibrant hue. It drew the eye from a block away, this radiant, electric, platonic yellow. Yellow had been, to my mind, a wimpy color but it is not so anylonger.
In the next few days, of course, the shade will darken, the leaves will fall to the ground and by this time next week that tree will be little more than a denuded twig but today, today it practically burned they eyes with its intensity. The neighboring trees with leaves of umber and vermilion must surely have been a jealous as trees can be.
More than the color of the tree though, I marvel at my own fascination. Why is it that we notice some things so distinctly on certain days when most of the world passes beneath our notice?
11/21/2008
Smells Musty in Here
Due to a catastrophic computer failure, badassbard.com is down and will continue to be so for some time.
I've come back here to pontificate in the mean time.
I've come back here to pontificate in the mean time.
8/05/2008
7/31/2008
Not Older. Just one Year Closer to Burial.
Happy Birthday to Me.
Happy Birthday to Me.
Happy Birthday to Me-ee.
Happy Birthday to Me.
Happy Birthday to Me.
Happy Birthday to Me-ee.
Happy Birthday to Me.
7/28/2008
You Can't Take the Sky From Me
Today my canopy opened with me dangling above a thin, gray, cloud. It was an ephemeral thing, translucent, still in the process of coalescing some three thousand feet above the ground, more a bank of mist than a cloud at all. I doubt anyone on the ground could even see it.
As I glided gently over this evanescent bit of atmospheric moisture I passed directly between it at the sun and there, for a few heartbeats I could see the shadow of myself, hanging in air, my canopy and my body sharply outlined against the miasma. Around my shadow I could see a halo of color, a perfect, round rainbow encircling the impression of my shape.
I am not yet skilled enough to be allowed a freefall camera so I have no memento save my own recollection. Perhaps it’s better this way, the memory of something so lovely and so rare can live as a motivation for excellence, the possibility of such a sight pushing me to jump and jump and jump.
For those who keep wondering why I insist on repeatedly “jumping out of a perfectly good airplane,” picture that and it’s not so hard to understand.
As I glided gently over this evanescent bit of atmospheric moisture I passed directly between it at the sun and there, for a few heartbeats I could see the shadow of myself, hanging in air, my canopy and my body sharply outlined against the miasma. Around my shadow I could see a halo of color, a perfect, round rainbow encircling the impression of my shape.
I am not yet skilled enough to be allowed a freefall camera so I have no memento save my own recollection. Perhaps it’s better this way, the memory of something so lovely and so rare can live as a motivation for excellence, the possibility of such a sight pushing me to jump and jump and jump.
For those who keep wondering why I insist on repeatedly “jumping out of a perfectly good airplane,” picture that and it’s not so hard to understand.
7/27/2008
A Reminder
This blog will be decommissioned next week. The whole of it's content as well as all future rantings are moving to Badass Bard Dot Com.
That site is already up and running if you want to go ahead and pop on over.
That site is already up and running if you want to go ahead and pop on over.
Get In My Belly
I once had a friend of great and unerring moral principal who refused to consume any product that was created through the perishment of another creature. While she would eat eggs and cheese, she would eat no flesh of any kind, terrestrial, aquatic, vertebrate or otherwise. She wore no leather and couldn't bring herself to string a tennis racket despite an overriding love of the sport.
When questioned on this conviction she would reply, "I don't believe in meat."
Not to defame someone that I love and admire but, excuse me, you don't believe in meat?
Meat is a fact. It cannot be denied. It's existence had been proven empirically.
You can disbelieve in Santa and you can disbelieve in the Easter bunny. You can choose not to believe in the fidelity of your lover, the promises of politicians, the potential for cold fusion and your teenager's explanation of late night tardiness but you can't choose not to believe in meat.
Meat is real. It's actually there. It's existence is confirmed by billions of individual reports. You can see it. You can touch it. You can pick it up. You can, if you are so inclined, eat it.
Yes, I understand that that's not what she meant but the English language is a semantic and semiotic tool of such power, efficacy and grace that we really should give some thought to it before we casually misuse it.
When questioned on this conviction she would reply, "I don't believe in meat."
Not to defame someone that I love and admire but, excuse me, you don't believe in meat?
Meat is a fact. It cannot be denied. It's existence had been proven empirically.
You can disbelieve in Santa and you can disbelieve in the Easter bunny. You can choose not to believe in the fidelity of your lover, the promises of politicians, the potential for cold fusion and your teenager's explanation of late night tardiness but you can't choose not to believe in meat.
Meat is real. It's actually there. It's existence is confirmed by billions of individual reports. You can see it. You can touch it. You can pick it up. You can, if you are so inclined, eat it.
Yes, I understand that that's not what she meant but the English language is a semantic and semiotic tool of such power, efficacy and grace that we really should give some thought to it before we casually misuse it.
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