Sonic Reverie

I can talk about this now - long past the statue of limitations. I had a friend, a scheming friend - always up to his knees in ways to earn money without making a living. His ideas went from burying his car in a pit to breaking his arm in a fall at some big-box store.  I would never allow myself to be included in his schemes until one time - I realized my role would be a large adrenaline rush better than any drug I had ever taken, so I could not say no. 

I wasn't sure how the glass would break - in big, smoothly sharp pieces or tiny safe crystals. Standing outside the window the burger flipper guy looks through, I swung the stolen axe with the angst of a rookie in his first big game. It bounced off. Twice now and the awe of my accomplishment was only vaguely dismissed by the sudden scream of the alarm. Like testing the bathtub water, I stuck out my gloved hand and filled my palm with the falling droplets. I ran as fast as I could - the heat of the rush buzzing around my head. 

My heart was pounding so hard I could hardly drive. But I did - I made it home and called him. The next day, he ordered his "number 1" with a root beer. He sat in dead silence and waited for his role in the scheme he devised - not easily visible to the burger flipper now behind a plywood barrier. He took  the burger home, cut his lip, got a thousand bucks. I don't even remember how I spent my portion. My biggest regret was tossing that smooth handled into a creek. That was a fine axe. 

These days, I wonder what ever happened to my friend. The last time I saw him, he stole a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet. 

Bus Memories

I went to Australia, for the first time, the summer after my Freshmen year of college. While there, I relearned how to have fun with a deck of cards, a game of charades, or playing musical chairs. I was with 6 Americans and 3 Brits in the middle of the desert, stationed with the Pitjantjatjara Aborigines. The nights were bone chilling, but they provided the clearest view of the stars I have ever seen. The Southern Hemisphere constellations are different than ours in the United States, and the pristine clarity helps me to remember those images better than those I see every night. The sweat-worthy days consisted of buffelgrass and sand of the purest red-orange color . My socks were stained red. I threw them all away. I regret doing that now, but at the time I did not know that color was so rare and beautiful.
I went back to Oz, which is the slang name I picked up from the locals while I was there, the summer after my Sophomore year of college. Although a return trip, it was a new experience. I did not work outside like I had the first time. I did not get to see the red sand again. Instead of being located in The Outback, I led tour groups up the Eastern Coast from Sydney to Cairns. The trip required about 60 American and European college students to cram into a Foster's Duplex Bus (similar, but more homey than our Greyhounds) and travel for days and nights at a time. I loved those trips. It was while on that bus that I introduced and was introduced to new music, I managed to curl into a ball and cover up with a hoodie while sleeping soundly, I realized how often every person really thinks "are we there yet," and I saw Australia. Of course, I had been there and done that before, and the view was constantly changing. But when the engine broke at 3:00am on one of the coldest nights in Australian history, and we took a pit stop in the middle of nowhere, I went searching in the darkness for a bathroom with fear of seeing a ravenous drop bear and a simultaneous urge to catch a glimpse of one. It was a pathetically fun journey to an extremely cold restroom.
When I thought of Oz, I imagined beautiful beaches and exotic animals. Although I do remember the Whitsundays' white sand, and the first time I rode my first wave, it was those unplanned, random excursions that made the experience. It's the details of what happened. I miss that bus.

What is an essay?

That's Montaigne. In 1580, he wrote Essais, giving the essay genre its name.

"Essay" derives from the French essayer and means, literally, "trial, attempt, or experiment." In the 1800s, miners brought the shiny rocks they found to Assay Offices, where experts tested the metal to see if it was true gold or fool's gold. As we've discussed in class, essayists engage in a similar process: they takes ordinary objects and issues and weigh and test ideas about them -- are the ideas true or foolish? A good essay welcomes its readers into complexity, into the center of a question or experience. It attempts to make sense of something, certainly, but it also acknowledges ambiguity. Essayists speak intimately to their readers as they try to untangle the snarly knots of human existence.

This blog is an opportunity to experiment on your own shiny objects and to read about others' experiments. What glitters under the surface of the streams you've seen and splashed around in? What winks at you from the walls of the cliff you're scaling?