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I loved this story today in a really sick, hilarious sort of way.

Late Night Walk

Just enjoyed a late night walk with Jaco. It is unseasonably warm tonight, with strong, cleansing gusts of wind. It felt cool but relaxing against my neck, like cold hands by a warm fire. I took the same route a past roommate and I took with both of our dogs everyday, winding through my complex and ending up on a walking bridge overlooking Foothills highway, and the north south of the Boulder foothills. Even half full, the moon was a natural flash light, illuminating my path with ease. Though I crave the onset of a cold winter, I still cherish these mild days and nights as I know what is to come. I'm off to shop for a new down coat, as I know these nights won't last. Soon the temperatures will start kissing single digits.

12.7.08

Dante

Dogs are amazing creatures. Most are very utilitarian, smart, respectful, and unconditionally loving. All their little weird quirks make them even more entertaining. The muted trumpet sound at the end of a big yawn, or the way just running in circles can put a smile on their's and everyone else's faces.

I recently got a puppy from the humane society here in Boulder. Although Dante's actual bloodline will remain a mystery, we're starting to believe he's a rare breed from Turkey called an Anatolian Shepherd. Anatolian's were bred to live with and guard livestock from predators, creating a smart, dominant, and independent mindset. If he is a true Anatolian his expected size is around 110-150 lb's, so he'll be no slouch. And it seems as if he's in a race to get there because everyday I notice something bigger on him. The best part is how un-uniform his growth is. One day I'll notice how short his tail is, then sure enough a couple days later it'll grow a couple inches to match the rest of his body. For a couple weeks I was convinced he would have a tiny head, but no, it just needed some more time to catch up to his massive stumps for legs and earth-shaking paws. In a couple months he'll really start to show his size, which I'm sure will provide hours of klutz comedy.

Some things I didn't predict having a dog would do. Now I find myself worrying like a nervous parent with a newborn. As much as everything is new to Dante, so is my reaction to his reaction. I'm constantly washed with feelings of paranoia, wonder, love, and joy. I've had him a month, and I wouldn't trade him for the world. I find his unconditional love admirable.

Tonight, on a quiet Tuesday evening, I found myself staring straight up at a nearly full moon with only the brightest stars able to match its pervasive glow. For no particular reason I started to ponder love. Unconditional love, lost love, old love, and lingering love. I realized that the most powerful is unconditional, because of nothing more than the fact that it is unconditional. Truly unconditional love has a power, a force in the universe. It inexorably guides people, animals, and the stars. As I was thinking, it dawned on me that there are only a few things I love unconditionally. My mom, my brother, and my dog. I think a big part of the reason that I do love them unconditionally, and only them, is because it is reciprocated back so naturally. I would do anything within my abilities for any or all three of these wonderful beings, and try to as much as I can.

Only after I had love and lost it could I understand love songs. Only after I experienced the betrayal of someone close could I understand truly what betrayal means. And only now, listening to the gentle rumble of a puppy in deep sleep, can I truly say that Dogs are absolutely Man's best friend, and Dante is mine.

Quick Guacamole

My newest hobby has become random food projects, and my most recent discovery was guacamole. My buddy Andrew works in produce at the Wild Oats I work at, and this is his recipe:

Start with 3 avocados, 1 lime, 10 sprigs of cilantro, 1 tomato, 1 jalapeno, 1 red onion, salt, pepper, and cumin (optional).



Slice the cilantro to preferred size (I like big chunks of everything).



Squeeze the juice of one lime



Add avocados by cutting them in half, then into squares within the skin. This makes it much easier to scoop out the meat.




Cut the tomato in half, squeezing just the juice of one half, and then cut as many chunks from the other (or both) into the mixture as preferred.



This recipe calls for 1/2 of one red onion, diced. I used the whole onion (and left the chunks big).


Dice the jalapeno into the bowl, as much as you're willing to take. I recommend the whole thing.

Using a fork, begin to mash all the ingredients together. Add salt and pepper to taste. I think its best when there are still chunks of avocado left. If all goes well you should get something like this.



And the final product. Enjoy!

The Monster

I’m sitting on the edge of a bank. A bank of knee-high, dry grass swaying in the twilight breeze. The moon is now the brightest object in the sky, an observation my eyes learned from photography. I stare at a sea of houses, all huge, walled-in conglomerates. Fear drives up fences and stone walls, street lights and motion sensors that give an alerting “beep” upon entry and exit. Fear drives the monster that is ‘comfortable’ living, or the misconception of it. Comfort is everywhere, in the woods, on an office chair, in a living room floor. It doesn’t discriminate, and doesn’t cost money. A feeling of equanimity, the passive ability to sit on the edge of a bank. More so the ability to feel the same on the edge of a bank as on the edge of a cliff. The edge of picnic table at a family reunion. The edge of sleep.

Comfort works like magnetism. My body seeks comfortable spots as my eyes seek bright spots. I occasionally find myself on a soft couch staring at a light bulb. The kind of couch that swallows you whole. Now that I have acquired this ability, the ability of comfort, the next step is to spread it. Like a wildfire on a bank of dry grass. Traveling down, stretching across the sea of houses, turning off televisions and turning on reading lights. Knocking over walls and planting flowers. Turning off street lights, and silencing beeps. The world sleeps better when it is dark and silent. When words are liberation, not a two-dimensional siege of sound and light. I sleep better when the world sleeps better.

Off in the distance the remains of an orchard can still be seen. Oranges, real fruit grown under watchful care, picked with delicious anticipation and eaten with a simple satisfaction. Fruitful trees are comfortable trees. No walls to stop the summer breeze, plenty of sun and just enough moon. The monster, fear-driven and misconceived, is hungry though. Orchards, large hills, dry grass. Nothing escapes it’s appetite. Even stars are a source of food for the monster; its eyes require space hitherto saved for the night sky. It devoured all the porches in front of houses. Porches inspire conversation, sharing, communion. A few rebels can be spotted sitting on the steps of their front door, but those few grow fewer fast.

Refrigerated cubicles of fear, far as the eye can see. I feel my brow wrinkle involuntarily at the sight, but I can’t look away. The monster has a disconcerting beauty at night. An accidental camouflage. During the day I feel better knowing its ugly head can’t hide under the cloak of darkness, and again my distaste has justification. I want to take all the monster’s victims camping. I want them to drink water from the ground, and sleep on a bed of pine needles. I want them to feel respect for the Earth they make their home on. I want this because it is what I have, and strive to improve upon. I search for a great respect for the bed I make at night, the stars that I muse upon, the mountains that frame the sky. Everyday the monster is stricken, a person sees something they haven’t seen before, a mountain top, a white cap on a lake, the look in a person’s eyes after you kiss them. As of late, the monster is winning and has won many battles, with a greater appetite after each victory. But I have faith in nature; in it’s inherent beauty and its passive triumph. The buildings of Japan’s islands claw at mountains, but the mountains laugh gleefully and without any effort trounce any insurrection. Maybe my born-in attraction to mountains is their invincibility. My comfort peaks at the top of a mountain, and my respect grows evermore when I can climb, be near, or take pictures of mountains. Of the monster’s enemy. Of life.

People who sleep with the lights on don’t want to remember their dreams.